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Updated: June 8, 2025
Don Ricardo, I should explain, was our old friend Richard Duffield; and Senor Miguel was Mr Michael Laffan, our tutor. "She is not my cousin, though we are both half British, and our fathers are old friends. But confess, Juan, that you have another object in going to Egido.
"Ah!" ejaculated Mr. Duffield, in the tone of one who did not care to pursue the subject further. "You remember our agreement are you still willing to make our success in that time a test of the truth of our respective principles?" "It may afford a more conclusive proof of your better judgment in the selection of an associate." "Sprague stands very high in his profession."
The fifth was the Centurion of Master Cordal: the sixt the Violet: the seuenth the Samuel; the eight the Crescent: the ninth the Elizabeth: and the 10. was the Richard belonging to M. Duffield.
He went to dinner, but stayed to tea, and long after, and as Mary was his companion for much, if not all of this time, we presume that her displeasure could not have been manifested in any very serious manner. It was about six weeks after this renewal of his visits that Mr. Duffield meeting his friend Mr.
The realities are greedy trade, base profit seeking, bold advertisement; and kingship and chivalry, spite of this wearing of treasured robes, are as dead among it all as that crusader my uncle championed against the nettles outside the Duffield church. I have thought much of that bright afternoon's panorama.
John Heathcoat was the youngest son of a respectable small farmer at Duffield, Derbyshire, where he was born in 1783. When at school he made steady and rapid progress, but was early removed from it to be apprenticed to a frame-smith near Loughborough.
After all Tono-Bungay it's not like a turf commission agent or anything like that!... There have of course been some very gentlemanly commission agents. It isn't like a fool of a scientific man who can't make money!" My uncle grunted; we'd differed on that issue before. A malignant humour took possession of me. "What would they call you?" I speculated. "The vicar would like Duffield.
Admiral Sampson replied: “There is not a Spaniard left in the rifle-pits.” Later General Duffield signalled that his scouts thought reinforcements were marching to the battered old fort, and Admiral Sampson wigwagged him: “There is no Spaniard left there. If any come the Gloucester will take care of them.”
There may have been more of them in the concealment of the woods; but my impression is that their force was very small, and that General Duffield, with the aid and support of the war-ships, should have been able to clear the ravine and take possession not only of the abandoned fort but of the commanding heights above it.
Her father, looking at Duffield with murder in his eye, said: "What's the matter, Cinthy?" "The cat scratched my foot." The old man looked under the table for confirmation; and there sat the old, black cat, looking as innocent as a Madonna. And the family resumed the meal. That afternoon, as they were running one of the lines, Cornwall said to Duffield: "That cat saved your life." "Heck!
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