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Updated: June 28, 2025
Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour every Sunday night, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time are Sinking? I ain't never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn." Joscelyn rose and went to the window.
"Tonbridge, hey, dearie?" she mumbled, stuffing the meat into her mouth until I wondered she did not choke to death outright. "'T is a goodish step from 'ere, dearie," she gasped, when at last she could speak, "a goodish bit an' love may ketch ye afore ye get there eh, dearie, eh? I 'ope's it do, for love's a pretty thing when you're young I know, for I was young once aye an' 'ansome too, I was "
"Cause I want you to. Don't you love me 't all any more, Aunt Kate?" That was too much. He was suddenly just a baby who had been made to suffer for her grown-up disturbances. "But, dearie, what will you do when we land?" "I want to look for something. I've got to get something. I want to show you something. 'Twon't take but a minute." "What do you want to show me, dear?"
But all combined have never produced an orator; no, dearie, they never have, and never can. You might as well have a school for poets, or a college for saints, or give medals for proficiency in the gentle art of wooing, as to expect to make an orator by telling how. Once upon a day, Sir Walter Besant was to give a lecture upon "The Art of the Novelist."
and as he sang, he would fling his arms around Mysie's mother and turn her round upon the floor, in an awkward dance, to the tune of the song, and finally stopping her flow of words with a hug and a kiss, as he repeated the chorus: Ca' the yowes tae the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My kind dearie, O!
What's the use of talkin' rubbish? I've GOT to marry her, ain't I? She's got that paper I was fool enough to sign. Oh, let me alone, Hannah! I won't go over there till I have to. I'd ruther stay to home enough sight." Hannah put her arms about his neck. "There, there, Kenelm, dearie," she said soothingly, "you eat your breakfast like a nice brother. I'LL be good to you, if nobody else ain't.
Janet was cold again with anger. She hated old Granny Thomas. She would never come near her again. "I'd rather pay you its worth," she said coldly. "You couldn't, dearie. What money could be eno' for such a treasure? But that's the Sparhallow pride. Well, go, see if the Sparhallow pride and the Sparhallow money will buy you your lad's love."
"Hand me the shoe-buttoner, Phonzie. The doctor says stooping is bad for my hair-pins." Their laughter, light as foam, met and mingled. "Oh, you nervy Gertie!" "What's your hurry, Phonzie dearie?" "I don't see you stopping me." "Fine chance, with her crouching over there, ready to spring." "Hang around, sweetness.
I said inquiringly as she hesitated. She bent forward and hissed rather than whispered: "They've found out where the boy is!" "Are you certain?" I asked in sudden alarm. "Pretty sure," she said, "pretty sure. Now you won't go near the place, will ye, dearie?" she continued anxiously. "You forget that I haven't the first idea where the boy is hidden," I returned. "Oh, Lord, yes!
When the door closed behind the two detectives Lupin tottered across the room, dropped on to the couch with a groan of exhaustion, and closed his eyes. Presently the door opened, Victoire came in, saw his attitude of exhaustion, and with a startled cry ran to his side. "Oh, dearie! dearie!" she cried. "Pull yourself together! Oh, do try to pull yourself together."
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