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Updated: June 6, 2025
If I had some support! if it were the sense of secretly doing wrong, it might help me through. I am in a web. I cannot do right, whatever I do. There is only the thought of saving Crossjay. Yes, and sparing papa. Good-bye, Mr. Whitford. I shall remember your kindness gratefully. I cannot go back." "You will not?" said he, tempting her to hesitate. "No." "But if you are seen by Mrs.
Montague, the housekeeper, with reference to the bath for Crossjay, and stepped off the grass. He bowed, watched her a moment, and for parallel reasons, running close enough to hit one mark, he commiserated his friend Willoughby. The winning or the losing of that young lady struck him as equally lamentable for Willoughby.
He went into the ball to look into the well for the pair of malefactors; on fire with what he could not reveal to a soul. De Craye was in the housekeeper's room, talking to young Crossjay, and Mrs. Montague just come up to breakfast. He had heard the boy chattering, and as the door was ajar he peeped in, and was invited to enter. Mrs.
You shall make me pay any forfeit you like. Remember, I am deep, deep in your debt. And now let me see you run fast. You shall come in to dessert this evening." Crossjay did not run. He touched her hand. "You said something?" "What did I say, Crossjay?" "You promised." "What did I promise?" "Something." "Name it, my dear boy." He mumbled, ". . . kiss me."
He divined that they were off to talk over their one object of common interest, Crossjay. Saluting his aunts, he took up the rug, to celebrate their diligence and taste; and that he might make Dr. Middleton impatient for bed, he provoked him to admire it, held it out and laid it out, and caused the courteous old gentleman some confusion in hitting on fresh terms of commendation.
"Oh, there's English gibberish as well as Irish, we know!" "And a deal foolisher when they do go at it; for it won't bear squeezing, we think, like Irish." "Where!" exclaimed the ladies, "where can she be! The storm is terrible." Laetitia suggested the boathouse. "For Crossjay hadn't a swim this morning!" said De Craye.
Clara stood pledged to the fib; packed, scaled and posted; and he had only to ask to have it, supposing that he asked with a voice not exactly peremptory. She said in her heart, "It is your fault: you are relentless and you would ruin Crossjay to punish him for devoting himself to me, like the poor thoughtless boy he is! and so I am bound in honour to do my utmost for him."
The consolation she arrived at was to feel maternal. She wished to hug the boy. Trot and stride, Crossjay and Vernon entered the park, careless about wet grass, not once looking at the house. Crossjay ranged ahead and picked flowers, bounding back to show them. Clara's heart beat at a fancy that her name was mentioned. If those flowers were for her she would prize them.
Boys of spirit commonly turn into solid men, and the solider the men the more surely do they vote for Busby. For me, I pray he may be immortal in Great Britain. Sea-air nor mountain-air is half so bracing. I venture to say that the power to take a licking is better worth having than the power to administer one. Horse him and birch him if Crossjay runs from his books."
How mother-wit was to second truth she did not inquire, and as she did not happen to be thinking of Crossjay, she was not troubled by having to consider how truth and his tale of the morning would be likely to harmonize.
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