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"I haven't," said Daintree, "except the kind of wooden box in which the gardener goes out to clear away the duck-weed. However, Pat Singleton comes into the Simcox story in the end. It's really about him that my wife wants your advice." "No one," I said, "can give advice about Pat Singleton."
"I knew; he'd been wounded, but I didn't hear he'd been sent to your place." "Pat Singleton's always everywhere," said Daintree. "I've never come across a place where he wasn't, and he's a devil for mischief. Remind me afterwards to tell you about the trick he played on the principal nurse, a Scotchwoman with a perfectly terrific sense of her own dignity," Daintree chuckled.
Daintree mère became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, and the doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing short of death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongst them. For the future her son's house became her home. But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was a soft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman.
Anyhow, he seems to have been a bit morose, but he did his job all right in the regiment and was recommended for the M.C.. He got knocked out in the Somme push and jolly nearly lost a leg. They saved it in the end and sent him down to my place to convalesce." Daintree owns a very nice place in the Midlands. In the old days it was one of the pleasantest houses I know to stay in.
A gleam of sunshine fell upon her hair, and a bird sang loud and shrill in the lime trees overhead. Often and often, in the after days, Eustace Daintree thought of her thus, and remembered with a pang the sole sad gift that she had craved at Heaven's hands.
Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of their married life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home to themselves, and right well had they enjoyed it.
"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely to do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to leave it entirely in your hands." "Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?" "Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. Daintree; I can't wait just now."
Many years ago in 1878, to speak precisely a ship laden with fragrant cedar logs from the valley of the Daintree River 140 miles to the north touched on Kennedy Shoal, 20 miles to the south-east of Dunk Island. Crippled though she was she managed to make Cardwell, where she was temporarily patched up, and whence she set sail for Melbourne.
If there's any other part less harrowing, I wish you'd hurry up and get to it." "All right," said Daintree. "I'll cut out the rest of his experiences in that shell hole, though, mind you, they're rather interesting and frightfully poetic the way my wife tells them. After two days our fellows got back into the wood and kept it.
"You see," said Daintree, "his leg was pretty stiff and he couldn't get about much, even if he'd wanted to. There was nothing for him to do except sit in a deck-chair. My wife felt it her duty to talk to him a good deal." Daintree seemed to be making excuses for Mrs. Daintree and Simcox. They were unnecessary. Mrs.
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