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Updated: May 17, 2025
The commissionaire would direct him a few yards only." "Much obliged to you," Duncombe answered, turning on his heel. "I may look in there presently." He seated himself at a small round table and ordered a drink. The people here were of a slightly different class from those who had the entrée to the supper-room and were mostly crowded round the bar itself.
"Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired." "Very good of you I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to stay say another couple of days with you?" Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not immediate.
One beautiful piece of sculpture has been preserved, and is now in the possession of Lord Feversham at Duncombe Hall. It is said to represent the favourite dog of Alcibiades, and to have been the production of Myson, one of the most skillful artists of ancient times. It differs but little from the Newfoundland dog of the present day.
He cared little or nothing about it it was time enough to be married ten years hence; and so he was dawdling through some months of his life sometimes flirting with the nothing-loath Miss Duncombe, sometimes plaguing, and sometimes delighting his mother, at all times taking care to please himself when he first saw Ruth Hilton, and a new, passionate, hearty feeling shot through his whole being.
Duncombe turned hastily away. "I must let them in," he said. "I will come back to you." She pointed to the window. "He is coming back," she said, "at twelve o'clock." "Do you wish me to give up the paper?" he asked. "No." "Very well. I will be with you when he comes before then. I must get rid of these men first." He closed the door softly, and drew the curtain which concealed it.
She was used to victims, and his imperturbability annoyed her. "I trust," she said, "that you will remember, Monsieur, that I am breaking a pledged word. If Monsieur the Director here knew that I was telling you of Mademoiselle Poynton there would be much trouble for all of us." Duncombe nodded. "Go on," he said. "Mademoiselle came here first about a month or perhaps six weeks ago," she said.
We fight against forces that are too many for us. I told you so at the start." "Yet I," Duncombe answered, "have not suffered." "My friend," Spencer answered, "it is because I am the more dangerous." "You have discovered something?" Duncombe exclaimed. "I came near discovering a great deal," Spencer answered. "Perhaps it would have been better for my system if I had discovered a little less.
"It was a lie, of course, but was Miss Poynton anything of an artist?" "To the best of my belief," Andrew answered, "she has never touched a brush or a pencil since she left school." Duncombe looked out into the gathering twilight. "It is a devil's riddle, this!" he said slowly. "Why did she go to that place at all?" "God only knows!" Andrew murmured. Duncombe's teeth were hard set.
Duncombe seated himself to watch the operations with eyes of keen appreciation. "By Jove," he said admiringly at length, "you are a mighty specimen! I believe you'll live for ever." "Not on this plaguey little planet, let us trust!" said Hone, speaking through his teeth by reason of his exertions. "You ought to marry," said Duncombe, still intently observant.
So far as a man can be said to have lost his heart without rhyme or reason, I've lost mine to the girl of that picture." Andrew drew a quick breath. "Rubbish, George!" he exclaimed. "Why, you never saw her. You don't know her!" "It is quite true," Duncombe answered. "And yet I have seen her picture." His friend laughed queerly. "You, George Duncombe, in love with a picture.
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