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The rector shifted as if in physical distress. "Chichester constrains me to them even now," he replied, like a man bitterly ashamed. "He constrains me to them. And is that goodness, righteousness? I said he was a saint; but now! Is it saintliness to torture a fellow-creature?" Malling remembered how he had once, and not long ago, asked himself whether Chichester's mouth and eyes looked good.
Henry Chichester's fleshly envelop, on the other hand, cherubic, fair, and delicate, his blue eyes, small bones, the shape of forehead and chin, the line of the lips, hinted at surely more than that, surely stated mildly the existence within it of a nature retiring, meek, and ready to be ruled by others.
Chichester's voice was low, yet each incisive, quick-spoken word reached Barnabas, while upon Barrymaine their effect was demoniac. Dropping his pistol-case, he threw up wild arms and shook his clenched fists in the air. "Damn him!" he cried, "damn him! B-bury me in a debtor's prison, will he? Foul my sister's honor w-will he? Never! never! I tell you I'll kill him first!" "Murder him, Ronald?"
Besides, you haven't been killed on the underground yet." A curious expression that seemed mingled of disappointment and of contempt passed across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and told himself, "No hysteria." "Possibly the reason may be a more intellectual one," observed the professor. "I hear you have been preaching some very remarkable sermons. I haven't heard them.
You mean that he has forced your hand, sir, and now you would make the best of it " "I mean that he has opened my eyes, madam." "And to-morrow you will tell Cleone?" "Yes." "And, of course, she will scorn you for an impudent impostor?" Now at this Barnabas flinched, for these were Chichester's own words, and they bore a double sting. "And yet I must tell her!" he groaned.
Now, as Barnabas listened to the soft, deliberate words, as he noted Mr. Chichester's assured air, his firm hand, his glowing eye and quivering nostrils, a sudden deadly nausea came over him, and he leaned heavily upon the table. "Sirs," said he, uncertainly, and speaking with an effort, "I have never used a pistol in my life." "One could tell as much from his boots," murmured Mr.
"Perhaps you know Sir Miles's present address?" At this point-blank question Mr. Chichester's face grew very red indeed. He had brought it on himself. Denial was useless. "Perhaps I do," he answered. "But you were going to ask Miss Sally for it, and we will leave it to her." "Quite right," the stranger assented. "Here is my own card, though it will convey nothing to you."
At an early hour this morning Mrs. Croyle, one of Sir Chichester's guests, died under strange circumstances." Miranda uttered a little scream. "Died!" she exclaimed. "Yes, listen to this," said Sir Chichester. "Mrs. Croyle was discovered lying upon her side with her face bent above a glass of chloroform. The glass was supported between her pillows and Mrs.
More than once a desire came to him to make an effort for the release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street and to hammer brutally at the green door. He recalled Henry Chichester's strange sermon, and he felt as if he assisted at the torture of the double, which he himself had imaginatively suggested to the two clergymen in Lady Sophia's drawing-room. Ought he not to interrupt such a torture?
But of course if it's anything important, he wouldn't for all the world say no." "It is important." "Then I was to ask you to walk in, sir, please." Chichester's sitting-room was empty when Malling came into it, and the folding-doors between it and the bedroom were shut. Ellen went away, and Malling heard a faint murmur of voices, and then Ellen's footstep retreating down the stairs.
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