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Updated: May 14, 2025
A beautiful woman cannot help having objectionable lovers any more than a king can help a cat looking at him. This man a most well-meaning, good-hearted, useful little underbred person, typical of so large a class in the Colonial Church was Deb's pet aversion, and did not know it. He was not made to see his own deficiencies as she saw them.
Deb's guilty face flamed scarlet. "Or on her father," Rose continued, with soft but firm persistence. "She must have a father too, Deb, and Peter would not give his job away any more than I would give mine. He thinks the world of them all. He is just as good a father as he is a husband," with a lift of head and lighting of eye. "Come to me, my precious!" as the baby whimpered.
To Deb's 'Darling! darling! and smothering embrace of furs, the slim woman responded with a grip and pressure that represented all her strength. Deb, although not the eldest, was the mother of the family, as well as the second mother of Bob. "Where is he?" were Mary's first words and Deb smiled inwardly to see her as absurd in her mother's vanity and preoccupation as Rose herself.
His clothes might have been woven by fairies, and he smelt like a violet bed in spring. Strange thrills sharper than those that Nannie had set going shook Deb's big heart as she cuddled and kissed him. "The older I get," she confessed, "the greater fool I am about a baby. And you do have such nice babies, Rose." "Yes," simpered Rose. "They ARE nicer than most, certainly I'm sure I don't know why."
Mrs Peter was almost as broad as she was long. But what health in the sunny face! What opulent well-being in the full curves of her figure, gowned in a fashion to satisfy even Deb's exigent taste. They did not tell her it was good of her to come to see them, but they told her in all the languages of courtesy that they were mighty glad she had come.
And he pinched his daughter's ear. "Talk to Deb, father," said Mary. "I have not had a new frock for a great many weeks." "Aye, Deb's the one! That girl's got to marry a millionaire, or I don't know where she'll be." Almost Mrs Urquhart's words! And, like hers, they pricked sharply into the feelings of our young man.
"Deb, I have come to stay," were Olivia's first words, as the woman met her on the top of the stairs; but Deborah's only answer was to lift her hands in dumb protest and lead the way into the kitchen. Deb's strong, hard-featured face was haggard and drawn with fatigue and anxiety, and she looked more gaunt and angular than ever: her reddened, swollen eyelids told their own tale.
Galvaston House is a big place, and when the neighbours see him going in and out, it will be a sort of testimonial; besides, I shall quote Deb's favourite proverb, 'Every mickle makes a muckle. Now I really must go, for I want to cut out Dot's pelisse." "And the dinner, Olive; are you sure it will go round to-day?" Then Olivia laughed in a shamefaced way.
He lived in Solesbury. He was supposed to have rambled in the mountains, and to have lost his way, or to have met with some mischance. It was three days since he had disappeared, but had been seen by some one, the last night, at Deb's hut. What and where was Deb's hut? It was a hut in the wilderness, occupied by an old Indian woman, known among her neighbours by the name of Old Deb.
And and it's Christmas, and we aren't going to decorate, or have a party, or people staying!" Deb's chin trembled. "I don't like houses in mourning." "Neither do I, Deb." The colour streamed into his companion's small face. "I didn't mean I didn't mean I forgot! Oh, Mr. Fairfax, " "Dear Deb, don't mind. I wish you were going to have a Christmas as bright as bright!
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