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Updated: June 26, 2025
Brewster followed her husband, and in order to be experienced when that trip east was to be taken, Sary dragged Jeb after the Brewsters. "Wall, suh!" breathed Sary, when Eleanor demonstrated where the beds were hidden, and what the push buttons were for, and how the window shades ran up or down on springs!
The Brewsters eyed Norman Lloyd's Russian coat with the wide sable collar turned up around his proud, clear-cut face, the fur-gauntleted hands which held the lines and the whip, for Mr. Lloyd preferred to drive his own blooded pair, both from a love of horseflesh and a greater confidence in his own guidance than in that of other people. Mr.
"But why didn't you tell me what to expect?" demanded the angry girl. "Simply because I was asked not to mention any particulars that might prejudice you; and besides, you never asked me anything!" retorted Anne, feeling impatient with Barbara. "What's more, Bob, I can't see any justice in making the poor Brewsters suffer for what your own father did!
She's a lovely person, and her husband is a very nice man. I visited them once after they were married." We soon arrived at the Brewster place. It was a trim, white-washed little log house in a grove of poplars. But all the blinds were down and we discovered the door was locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home.
I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way, taken for granted my own superiority. "All this may be true," I remarked, after a pause, "but it is not the common way of viewing things." "Perhaps not," she answered. "My mother was not like other people.
She felt that she ought to go. She had only needed some such impetus to send her straight to Waring. The town marshal's telegram had stunned her. She knew that her husband had followed the Brewsters, but she had not anticipated the awful result of his quest. In former times he had always come back to her, taking up the routine of their home life quietly. But this time he had not come back.
Have we not all known the Winthrops and Brewsters, the Saltonstalls and Sewalls, of old times, in gubernatorial chairs, in legislative halls, around winter camp-fires, in the slow martyrdoms of prison and hospital?
"The Brewsters are by far the wealthiest family in that whole section of country, and I have heard that the ranch and house are the finest in the state. You met young John Brewster at the College Prom and you can tell what you think of him." "Ye-es, young Brewster is all right. Every one seemed to think he is exceptionally nice," remarked Barbara. Mrs.
The Hosea C. Brewsters, of Winnebago, Wisconsin, were the people you've met on the veranda of the Moana Hotel at Honolulu, or at the top of Pike's Peak, or peering into the restless heart of Vesuvius. They were the prosperous Middle-Western type of citizen who runs down to Chicago to see the new plays and buy a hat, and to order a dozen Wedgwood salad plates at Field's. Mrs.
Have we not all known the Winthrops and Brewsters, the Saltonstalls and Sewalls, of old times, in gubernatorial chairs, in legislative halls, around winter camp-fires, in the slow martyrdoms of prison and hospital?
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