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He rang the bell for Porter his body-servant since Dobson's death directed him to see that the council room was lighted, that pens, ink, paper and cigars were in place, as a meeting of his staff was slated for nine, and sought his sanctum. It was long past midnight on the morning of Tuesday, October 13th, 1812, when Brock dismissed his advisory council of staff officers.
Dobson's was long and slender but had hair on the back of it he ought to do something about that; but even as she thought this, the hand was enclosing hers in a clasp beautifully warm and strong; and a voice, wonderfully deep and pleasant and vibrant, was heard saying: "Your daughter? you're a man to be envied, sir." Then Missy forced her eyes upward; Mr.
Ah! upon my word, the Lord has been too good to me." Thereupon he began to enumerate all his blessings. Sidonie was the best of women, a little love of a wife, who conferred much honor upon him. They had a charming home. They went into society, very select society. The little one sang like a nightingale, thanks to Madame Dobson's expressive method.
She might do worse. Dobson's got a tidy little purse put by. There aren't many in the market as does better than him. He's brought up twenty head o' cattle from his farm at Romford an' he'll sell 'em all afore night money down on the nail, mind ye. That'll buy Mistress Fenton a few fallals if she's a mind for 'em." "An' if she's fool enough.
"It was very bad," he said, "except the old Frenchman. That woman had no business to sing in public, and as for those youths who call themselves artists why aren't they in the trenches?" And hastily touching Mrs. Dobson's hand, he slipped away: the expression in her rubicund face was pained as she gazed after him.
"Then please mount this to him at once," said Melisande, holding out the letter. "It is from Miss Dobson's part. Very express. I wait response." "You are very ugly," Katie signalled with her eyes. "I am very pretty. I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano." With her lips she said merely, "His Grace is not called before nine o'clock."
Dobson's own original work are a sufficient guarantee of the taste and discrimination we may look for in a collection like this, in which the random lightnings of the first of the essayists are grouped under certain heads "Character Sketches," "Tales and Incidents," "Manners and Fashions," and the like so as to diminish, for the general reader, the scattered effect of short essays on a hundred various subjects, and give a connected, book-like character to the specimens.
Can it be that when the poet renounces fame, we must concur with Austin Dobson's paraphrase of his meaning, Perhaps the poet is saved from inconsistency by his touching confidence that in other times and places human nature is less stupid and unappreciative than it proves itself in his immediate audience.
But when Sylvia drew near the men fell back; and the women moved aside as though to allow her to pass, all looking upon her with a certain amount of sympathy, but perhaps with rather more of antagonistic wonder as to how she was taking it she who had been living in ease and comfort while her husband's shelter was little better than a hovel, her husband's daily life a struggle with starvation; for so much of the lodger at widow Dobson's was popularly known; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp was quite forgotten now.
Them, however, the Duke cursed as he fell; them again as he raised himself on one elbow, giddy and sore; and when he found that the woman bending over him was not she whom he dreaded, but her innocent maid, it was against them that he almost foamed at the mouth. "Monsieur le Duc has done himself harm no?" panted Melisande. "Here is a letter from Miss Dobson's part.
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