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Updated: June 10, 2025
The refuge of the convent appealed to her as the one remaining avenue by which she might escape from her youth and its recollections. It is impossible for Trueman and Martha Densmore to ever again be lovers; the inexorable ban of the church is between them. Yet they can be friends. And Trueman feels that in Martha he has found his firmest friend and advisor.
Oh, what airs 'Lina did put on, offering the tips of her fingers to good Aunt Eunice, trying to patronize Alice herself, and only noticing Densie Densmore with a haughty stare. Old Densie had for the last few days been much in 'Lina's mind. She had disliked her at Saratoga, and somehow it made her feel uncomfortable every time she thought of finding her at Spring Bank.
"Yes; in a way," returned Banneker, gaining command of himself. "Officially, you might say. She was in a railroad wreck that I stage-managed out West. I was the local agent." "Then I've heard about you," replied Densmore with interest, though he had heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable that he should know. "You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe you something for that."
And this man had not only shown an iron nerve, but afterward, in the investigation, which Densmore had followed, he had borne himself with the modesty, discretion, and good taste of the instinctive gentleman. The poloist was almost pathetically at a loss. When he spoke again his whole tone and manner had undergone a vital transformation.
This was the keenest pang of the whole, for as Densie Densmore had moaned the previous night, "I loved him once," so he now, rocking to and fro on his narrow bed, with that handkerchief pressed to his throbbing heart, murmured hoarsely: "I loved Eliza once, though she would not believe it."
Toys and school-books strewed the floor, a sewing-bag and apron lay across the sofa, and in one corner was a roll-topped desk of varnished oak. The seats of the chairs were comfortably depressed. So this was where Mr. Wood lived! Mr. Wood, instructor in Latin and Greek at Densmore Academy.
"We could afford to let Mr. Bundercombe come in a little way with us, I think?" Mr. Densmore nodded. "Not more than five," he said warningly. "Remember what you promised the Rothschild people." Mr. Harding nodded and crossed his knees. He lit a cigar from the box Mr. Bundercombe passed round. "This sounds interesting!" the latter remarked. "I dare say Mr.
The private school I attended in the company of other boys with whom I was brought up was called Densmore Academy, a large, square building of a then hideous modernity, built of smooth, orange-red bricks with threads of black mortar between them.
"That is authoritative?" "You can quote me, if you like, though I'd rather nothing were published, of course. And I give you my personal word that it's true." "That's quite enough." "So much for publication. What follows is private: just between you and me." Banneker nodded. After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abrupt question. "You found my sister after the wreck, didn't you?"
It interests me. You bought those Chilean bonds all right, I see. They are up an eighth to-night." "A good purchase, Mr. Bundercombe," Mr. Harding assured him; "a very good purchase! After all, though, there's not much money to be made out of those government things. Now we've a little affair of our own what do you say, Densmore?" he broke off, looking toward his partner.
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