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Updated: June 15, 2025
Then, standing with his left foot wrapped about his right ankle and his face full of suppressed eagerness, he felt in each pocket of his waistcoat, and produced first a knife, then a tape measure, a pincushion, a bunch of keys, and last a large, worn copper cent. It was smooth with age, but its almost obliterated date still showed that it had been struck the year of Mr. Denner's birth.
Dale began in her positive way to say how he ought to talk to "this man," Mr. Dale came in. "I thought I heard your voice," he said to his brother-in-law, "and I came up" he looked deprecatingly at his wife "to ask you to step down and have a pipe. I want to speak to you about Denner's books." But before Dr. Howe could answer, Mrs.
Some ivy grew about the western windows of the library, but on the north and east sides it had stretched across the closed white shutters, for these rooms had scarcely been entered since little Willie Denner's mother died, five years ago.
But while he was still lingering on the last word, disappointment overtook him. Coming arm in arm down the road were two small figures. Mr. Denner's sight was not what it once was; he fumbled in the breast of his bottle-green overcoat for his glasses, as a suspicion of the truth dawned upon him.
Denner's funeral, Gifford thought this all over, and tried to see what his life offered him for the future, now that the last faint hope of winning Lois's love had died. Mr. Denner's will had been read that morning in his dining-room, with only Dr.
Indeed, I feel it a sacred duty." Miss Deborah moved her hands nervously. Mr. Denner's death was too recent for it to be possible to speak of him without agitation. "Well," said Miss Ruth, "perhaps, after all, you are right, in a way. The miniature is childish. Of course a portrait of himself has a far deeper meaning." "Ruth Woodhouse," cried the other, "I'm ashamed of you!
Howe said, when, the business over, he rose to go, "this den of yours is cold!" He stooped to shake the logs in the small stove, hoping to start a blaze. The rector would have resented any man's meddling with his fire, but all Mr. Denner's friends felt a sort of responsibility for him, which he accepted as a matter of course. "Ah, yes," replied Mr. Denner, "it is chilly here.
It used to take him four years to make one portrait. He would omit nothing, neither the bluish lines made by the veins under the skin, nor the little black points scattered over the nose, nor the bright spots in the eye where neighbouring objects are reflected; the head seems to start out from the canvas, it is so like flesh and blood. Yet who cares for Denner's portraits?
Denner in such horrified astonishment, that the little gentleman stumbled over any words, simply for the relief of speaking. "Yes," he said, "just so, Henry, just so. I have been thinking of it lately, perhaps for the last year; yes I have been thinking of it." Mr. Dale, still looking at him, made an inarticulate noise in his throat. Mr. Denner's face began to show a faint dull red to his temples.
Denner's singing, and what good things Miss Deborah cooked, and how much his aunts must miss Gifford; so that she did not even hear the front door open, or know that Dick Forsythe had entered, until she heard Max snarl, and some one said in a tone which lacked its usual assurance, "I I hope I'm not disturbing you, Miss Lois?"
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