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I had great pleasure in acting the piece with her, she did her business so thoroughly well and was so amiable and agreeable a fellow-worker. In my last letter to Miss S I have spoken of a party at the Countess of Cork's, to which I went. She was one of the most curious figures in the London society of my girlish days.

He wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; the letter went to Mrs Cork's, and was returned to him. He saw that the Hopgoods had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, he determined at any cost to go home.

Miss Cork's house stands right by the dam, and you can't hear yourself speak there hardly, so it wuz what you might expect, to have her object specially to noise. Miss Cork kinder tosted her head and drawed down her upper lip in a real contemptious way, and Arvilly went on and resoomed: "And electricity keeps on somewhere a-actin' and behavin'; it don't stop Sundays.

Lady Cork's memory seemed to me to stretch beyond the limits of what everybody had forgotten. She was quite a young woman at the time of the youth of George III., and spoke of Frederick, Prince of Wales, to whose wife she, then the Honorable Mary Monckton, was maid of honor.

Hope the cork's in." "No harm if it isn't," said Puffin, beginning on his third most fiery glass. The strength of it rather astonished him. "You don't mean to say it's empty?" asked Major Flint. "Why just now there was close on a quarter of a bottle left." "As much as that?" asked Puffin. "Glad to hear it." "Not a drop less.

Though the Jews are supposed to hold what was Crowley's stock-in-trade in abomination, the two old ladies Mrs. Crowley, who used to say she was of "Cork's own town and God's own people," and Mrs. Hyman, who came from Cork, too, though, needless to say, without a drop of Irish blood in her veins were great cronies.

They drove on again and then the snow began to come down and that in earnest, so that he began to be afraid they would never cover the ground. But just after nightfall they got in, and he was content to leave unharnessing the horses and baiting them to Simon, Mrs. Cork's son. His vixen was tired by then, as well as he, and they slept together, he in the bed and she under it, very contentedly.

Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring, could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table to table. "All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise! Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll take care of you all." Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered.

Please, Eddie, come!" Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long. Another cop how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the wing! came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you doing with that girl?" he called gruffly. "She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork.

Patrick, in Dublin, in the Earl of Cork's tomb, where she now lies." The writer now professes his disbelief in any spiritual presence, and explains his theory that Lady Beresford's anxiety about Lord Tyrone deluded her by a vivid dream, during which she hurt her wrist. Of all ghost stories the Tyrone, or Beresford Ghost, has most variants.