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Updated: May 1, 2025
Hillyard stood reflecting upon the stupendous fact. Never had he so bitterly regretted that physical disqualification which banned him from their company. Never had he so envied Luttrell. He was in the uttermost depression when a small, brown-gloved hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Joan Whitworth at his side, her lovely face alive with excitement, her eyes most friendly.
"We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening," she said, trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk. "Are you at liberty?" "No. I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with him." "If that is all, bring him along. I like his face." We passed out of the file room. "Phyllis, we must be going, dear," said Ethel. I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs.
Then she leaned far over the table, her face close above the book, and, tracing the outline of an uncertain lily with her small, brown-gloved forefinger, as though she were consulting me on the drawing, "I wasn't afraid to come through the woods alone," she said, in a very low voice, "because I wasn't alone. Louise came with me." "What?" I gasped. "Where is she?"
"I suppose Pendlemere's over there?" said Diana, pointing a brown-gloved finger in the direction of the fells. "Yes; you can see the road we came by in the 'bus," explained Stuart. "It winds round by Athelton. There's a much shorter way back, though, if we were walking. Do you see that white farm-house on the hill above the park?
At the bottom of the hill was the station, a small low-roofed structure of wood. Some score of commuters were clustered about it, and I perceived, seated sedately upon a hand-truck, his feet crossed, his corn-cob drawing serenely, and his brown-gloved hands holding a copy of the New York Daily News, none other than Mr. Carville. He raised his hand in salute as I came up.
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