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Updated: June 21, 2025
"Bob Belcher," said Miss Butterworth, the tears springing to her eyes in spite of herself, and forgetting all the proprieties she had determined to observe, "you are a brute. You know you are a brute. He is in a little cell, no larger than than a pig-pen. There isn't a bit of furniture in it.
He hath had many a long one out of me. An offer of three thousand from little Dicky Chichester. No, no, Dicky, it won't do. A gentleman can't live upon his friends. None the less grateful. How now? From Mrs. Butterworth! No money for three weeks! Bailiffs in the house! Now, curse me, if this is not too bad! 'What is the matter? I asked, glancing up from my own letters.
"It's part of his ideals it is really that that makes him sometimes seem " "Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet. "Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!" "Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over."
Of course, all strangers wanted to see the indefatigable Randall, the economical Holman, the free- trader Morrison, the Greenback Weaver and the argentive Bland, the eloquent McKinley, the sarcastic Reed, the sluggish Hiscock, and the caustic-tongued Butterworth.
Butterworth lifted her hand in silent protest. She looked at Winifred reproachfully, and settled her lips as one who should say nothing of the new singer in contrast with her favorite. She shook her head resignedly, and at this moment they were joined by someone else who proffered greetings.
Well, this cushion, this sacred cushion which none of us dared touch, was found by us on a little table by the door, with the ribbon hanging from it by which it had been tied to the bureau. Some one had pulled it off, and very roughly too, for the ribbon was all ragged and torn. But there is nothing in a little thing like that to interest you, is there, Miss Butterworth?"
"Taken there, and hung there by your maid! By the girl Lena, who has so evidently been working in your interests! What sort of a confession are you making, Miss Butterworth?" "Ah, Mr. Gryce," I gently remonstrated, for I actually pitied the old man in his hour of humiliation, "other girls wear gray besides Lena. It was the woman of the Hotel D who played this trick in Mr. Van Burnam's office.
"But I think I can excuse myself to Mrs. Butterworth so that she will not be offended. My chief regret will be if it disappoints you, mother." "But what can be your reasons?" said Mrs. Gray. "They must be very good if you would decline the invitation at this late day. It will be very rude unless you are positively hindered." "I know it," said Winifred humbly.
I am likely to have charge of this matter, and would be pleased to hear all you may have to say concerning it." "My name is Butterworth," I politely intimated. "And my name is Gryce." "A detective?" "The same." "You must think this matter very serious," I ventured. "Death by violence is always serious." "You must regard this death as something more than an accident, I mean."
He knew about old Tilden, for Buffum had told him; and he did not doubt that Jim had exhibited to Yates the old man's bones. He believed that Benedict was dead, but he did not know. It would be necessary, therefore, to prepare a document that would be good in any event. If the reader remembers the opening chapter of this story, he will recall the statement of Miss Butterworth, that Mr.
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