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Updated: July 11, 2025
So they tried, and utterly failed, of course. Morning came at last. Dull and dreary it came, drenched in rain, the wind wailing desolately over the dark, complaining sea. All was confusion, not only at the Court, but throughout the whole village. The terrible news had flown like wild-fire, electrifying all. My lady was murdered! Who had done the deed?
"All all seem to be weeping to-day," he said. "Oh, you wretch! you brute! you brute!" cried Grace. At length he desisted; and Grace, looking out and seeing his keen, handsome profile staring out so desolately, came down from the hammock. She shivered a little; drunken men were horrid, even dangerous. She came up heroically and put her hand on his sleeve.
At last he had to speak. "I have packed the things you will need most and will send the rest. It is getting light, dearest; you have to change your dress, you know." She roused herself and sat up, looking desolately about her. "Forever!" she whispered. "No! No!" cried Gethryn. "Ah! oui, mon ami!" Gethryn went and stood by the window. The bedroom door was closed. Day was breaking.
Even in our mortal strife I marked the eternal harmony of the scene. Truly death had never stage more fitting whereon to play its last stern drama of dissolution. Hemmed in by four massive walls of granite, ghastly grim and desolately gray, we wrestled in a stifling stillness, while hell stood umpire at the game.
On the 10th of February, 1840, Prince Albert, always tenderly thoughtful of the dear old Dowager of Saxe-Gotha, his "liebe grosmama" who, when he had parted from her last, had stood at her window, weeping, stretching out her arms and so desolately calling after him, "Albert!
He informed her that she would never see her sweetheart again; for, in order to escape the conscription, he had married a rich old woman, Madame Lehoussais, of Toucques. The poor girl's sorrow was frightful. She threw herself on the ground, she cried and called on the Lord, and wandered around desolately until sunrise.
There was one in here yesterday afternoon said she was married in this church and her husband had promised to meet her here. Perhaps you were married here?" "No," said Mrs. Wilton, desolately. "I was married in India." It might have been two or three days after that, when she went into a small Italian restaurant in the Bayswater district.
Her father was silent, a misty figure in a lap-robe. The rain streaked the mica lights in the side-curtains. A distant train whistled desolately across the sodden fields. The inside of the car smelled musty. The quiet was like a blanket over the ears. Claire was in a hazy drowse. She felt that she could never drive again. Claire Boltwood lived on the Heights, Brooklyn.
The mist hung around the house; the wet leaves fluttered and fell upon their cheeks; the water lapped desolately against the pier. Philip found a carriage and sent her back to Mrs. Meredith's, where she was staying during the brief absence of John Lambert. These concealed meetings, once begun, became an absorbing excitement. She came several times, staying half an hour, an hour, two hours.
Fenn desolately, "Rumsey positively refuses to imagine he's got a pain anywhere, and the baby's tonsils are disgustingly healthy." "Old Templeton Thorpe's in a critical condition, I hear," put in Rumsey Fenn. "There'll be a choice widow in the market before long, I pledge you." "Can't they operate?" inquired his wife. "Not for malignant widows," said Mr. Fenn. "Oh, don't be silly.
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