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Updated: May 19, 2025
The landlord did not forget the reckoning for the wine-skins and all the other things whose loss he could attribute to Don Quixote, for he had witnessed the curate's paying off the debt for the barber's helmet. Don Fernando paid all the innkeeper's demands generously, after the curate had decided the claims were just.
"Let me see. Dear me, it's quite escaped my memory. Ah, I have it. It was the mother of the poor little boy, but I forget her name. You will know, Mrs Hurst; you have such a memory!" "It was Constance," said the curate's wife. "Mrs Palmer didn't do justice to the part. It was rather too much for her. Indeed, I don't consider that they arranged the parts well last time.
Kendal, putting the whip into the curate's hand, and striding towards the nucleus of the fray, through the throng who were driven backwards. 'O'More, he called, 'what's all this? Give over! Are you mad? and then catching up, and setting on his legs, a little fallen boy, 'Go home; get out of all this mischief. What are you doing? Take home that child, to a gaping girl with a baby.
The tenderness of the curate's service, the heart that showed itself in everything he did, even in the turn and expression of the ministering hand, was a kind of revelation to Helen.
Courtenay, "would you take Mrs. Milton-Cleave to have an ice?" Now Mrs. Milton-Cleave had always been one of the curate's great friends. She was a very pleasant, talkative woman of six-and-thirty, and a general favourite. Her popularity was well deserved, for she was always ready to do a kind action, and often went out of her way to help people who had not the slightest claim upon her.
She was an honest, sensible, comely young woman, but she had no pretensions to be a lady, and no more inclination to enter the society of the Redcross upper class than the upper class had a mind to receive her as an equal. Charles Robinson's first wife had been all very well, though she was penniless. She had been a curate's daughter, educated to fill the post of governess in high families.
Had not Helen so plainly spoken of her brother, however, he would have thought he saw before him a woman. The worn, troubled, appealing light that overflowed rather than shone from his eyes, went straight to the curate's heart.
The curate's heart trembled a little as he waited for her. He was not quite sure that it was his business to tell her her duty yet something seemed to drive him to it: he could not bear the idea of her going on in the path of crookedness.
And let me tell you " he struck the tea-table with his lean hand till the curate's cups jumped "that scarcely ever have I heard a sermon in which was not to be found somewhere the preacher's contempt for reason, the bread of the intellect of man." "The soul is not the intellect." "Don't you think it higher?" "I do." "And so you put it on slops!"
He read the note over again without any attempt to console her, till she had struggled back into composure; but even then there was nothing sympathetic in the Curate's voice. "And I think you told me you did not know anything about the will?" he said, with some abruptness, making no account whatever of the suggestion she had made.
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