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Updated: May 31, 2025
Miss Lincoln seemed chagrined. "You must be very much attached to him, then, Mr. Dacre." "Yes, of course I am; and I have not seen him for some years. He has not changed much." "If he is Geoffrey Ripon, Earl of Brompton, it is to him that this estate used to belong, then?" "Yes, Miss Lincoln, in his father's day it was a beautiful place; there were none of these modern gewgaws here.
Good friends and all that, but somehow the things he always wanted, Dacre Wynne had invariably come by just beforehand. There was much more than friendly rivalry in their acquaintanceship. And once, as mere youngsters of seventeen and eighteen, there had been a girl, his girl, until Dacre came and took her with that masterful way of his.
It was no courtship, no wooing, only a meeting, for a brief space, of two human beings who had been made for each other, but whom fate separated by a rift which could not be bridged. Mary Lincoln knew this, John Dacre did not; but as he had bade her good-night just before, he felt a sadness steal over his heart, and his voice had trembled as he spoke.
Something 'fishy' there, if you like." "I should think so," replied Mr. Narkom. "Why, the chap would have died instantly. Then you think Borkins himself is guilty?" "On the contrary, I do not," returned Cleek, emphatically. "If my theory's correct, Borkins is not the murderer of Dacre Wynne. Much more likely to be Nigel Merriton, for that matter.
I would sooner live in a cottage with May Dacre, and work for our daily bread, than be worshipped by all the beauty of this Babylon. Gloomy, yet sedate, he returned home. His letters announced two extraordinary events. M. de Whiskerburg had galloped off with Lady Aphrodite, and Count Frill had flown away with the Bird of Paradise. 'Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly.
The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels' wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death. From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford Street, Park Lane. YACHT "MARIE," SOUTHAMPTON. July 15th, 1901. Dearest Amy, Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather is perfect, and I am having a very good time.
He raised his glass of port over a carafe of water. "The King," he said. All three drank, and Dacre whispered, "No more of this, Featherstone. I shall see Geoffrey this evening; he is not one of us yet." "What an attractive woman Mrs. Oswald Carey is!" exclaimed Featherstone. "You knew her before, did you not, Geoffrey?" "I was her father's pupil before I went to Oxford."
"The King is dead," said Dacre, so clearly that all the people in the street heard him, but no one made a sound. Then he threw back his coat, as if to bare his breast to the levelled muskets; and as he did so the withered rose dropped out and fell into his hand. It was Mary Lincoln's rose that he had thrust there on the day before.
The fellow has paid a compliment to my honour or my simplicity: I fear the last, and really I feel rather proud. But away with these feelings! Have I not seen her in his arms? Pah! Thank God! I spoke. At least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does not think me quite a fool. O, May Dacre, May Dacre! if you were but mine, I should be the happiest fellow that ever breathed!
"If the universal suffrage of the people be virtue in America, how can it be vice in England?" "As the food of one life may be the poison of another," answered Dacre. "Human society has many forms, and all may be good, but each must be specially protected by its own public morality. England was reared into greatness and flourished in greatness for twenty hundred years on one unvarying order.
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