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"I was heading for home about eight, with two big dreeners full of clams, and had just climbed the bluff and swung over the fence into the path, when somebody remarks: 'Here, you! I jumped and turned round, and there, beating across the field in my direction, was an exhibit which, it turned out later, was ticketed with the name of Alpheus Vandergraff Parker Davidson 'Allie' for short.
Very soon he got for her a two-wheeled trap and a Burmah pony, and she used to drive down of an evening to pick up Davidson, on the quay. When Davidson, beaming, got into the trap, it would become very full all at once. "We used to admire Mrs. Davidson from a distance. It was a girlish head out of a keepsake. From a distance.
With a sudden movement he turned round and strode out of the room. They heard him go downstairs again. "What is he going to do?" asked Mrs Macphail. "I don't know." Mrs Davidson took off her pince-nez and wiped them. "When he is on the Lord's work I never ask him questions." She sighed a little. "What is the matter?" "He'll wear himself out. He doesn't know what it is to spare himself."
John Davidson feels an irritation against ordinary morality, and therefore he invokes will will to anything. He only wants humanity to want something. But humanity does want something. It wants ordinary morality. He rebels against the law and tells us to will something or anything. But we have willed something. We have willed the law against which he rebels.
It was as exciting, for the mere wonder of it, as trying to converse with a mechanism. A smile played about the fat features of Davidson; the smile of a man making an amusing experiment. He spoke again to her: "But the other members of that orchestra were real Italians, were they not?" Of course, he didn't care. He wanted to see whether the mechanism would work again. It did.
The ambassador, or merchant, who now-a-days gets an audience with the Sultan, is allowed to see little of the country, arising from the jealousy of the government or native merchants. Davidson was probably murdered by the jealousy of the Fez merchants.
She had not troubled to dress herself, but wore a dirty dressing-gown, and her hair was tied in a sluttish knot. She had given her face a dab with a wet towel, but it was all swollen and creased with crying. She looked a drab. She raised her eyes dully when the doctor came in. She was cowed and broken. "Where's Mr Davidson?" she asked.
A lady upon whom she called, in Boston, afterward told me that at one time when Miss Davidson called her to see and send up her card the lady was detained a little before she could see Miss Davidson, and when she entered the parlour she found Miss Davidson so exhausted that she had fallen asleep. While putting up our first building, which was named Porter Hall, after Mr.
Davidson made no remark, but he looked at his watch. "Are you ready?" he asked his wife. She got up and folded her work. "Yes, I guess I am," she answered. "It's early to go to bed yet, isn't it?" said the doctor. "We have a good deal of reading to do," explained Mrs Davidson.
He would not take an extensive leave of absence from the office of Clegg, Groll & Davidson at this stage of his career. The morning after his visit to the abode of Elias Droom, Eddie Deever strolled into the office of Bobby Rigby. He looked as though he had spent a sleepless night. Mr. Rigby was out, but Miss Keating was "at home." She was scathingly polite to her delinquent admirer.
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