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Updated: May 13, 2025
Later on, Diggs returned from the kitchen and approached Mr. Bingle, who was sitting beside the stove with his back to the door, holding Rosemary and Rutherford on his knees. "Dinner is served, sir," said Diggs in his most formal, dignified manner. Mr. Bingle looked up, surprised by a voice that came resounding down from the past.
She runs off and hides in her room, shivering with dread lest this spectre out of her dark past " "Rubbish!" said Mr. Diggs. "Sure," said Melissa. "That's what most novels are. It's my opinion that that young lady's been on the stage, Mr. Diggs. She acts just like an actress. I've noticed that in her from the beginning. And the other day she had a letter from a theatrical manager.
It is very much the case in this world: we often do things, whether good ones or bad ones, just at the wrong moment. Diggs arrived at home, stupid. His old mother called him to her room, and told him what she had heard; but she could make little impression upon him.
"Beg pardon, Miss, but as this is your first Christmas Eve 'ere, you'll excuse me for saying that the entire 'ousehold is expected to be present for the reading. It is a rule, Miss. Even the cook comes up." "Thank you, Diggs. Please give my message to Mrs. Bingle." "Very good, Miss." "By the way, is this Mr.
The agents came at eight o'clock, a gloomy man in uniform and two kind-looking, sweet-faced women in brown. Mr. Bingle's voice broke occasionally as he read "The Christmas Carol" to a silent, attentive audience made up of Kathleen and Sydney Force, Melissa, Diggs and the two Watsons. Fortunately, he knew the story so well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible.
"Farmer Thompson," said Holmes, warning off Willum and the prong with his stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers like pistol-shots, "now listen to reason. The boys haven't been after your fowls, that's plain." "Tells 'ee I see'd'em. Who be you, I should like to know?" "Never you mind, farmer," answered Holmes.
Tra-la-la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everybody's hands. My name is David Diggs. I am a surgeon, living at No. 9 Tottenham Court. On the 15th of June, 1854, I was called to see an elderly gentleman lodging on the Kent Road. Found him highly excited, with strong febrile symptoms, pulse 120, increasing. Repeated incoherently what I judged to be the popular form of a conundrum.
Diggs caught a glimpse of a step ladder, which he immediately lowered through the trap, and drawing a murderous looking revolver from his pocket, commanded Bunch to come up or be shot. Bunch decided to come up. I didn't hold the watch on him, but I figure it took him about seven-sixteenths of a second to make the decision.
A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression of bedlam. "Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet. "Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but but I really can't delay the er Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders.
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