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At times, Sister Serena's hand forsook the knitting, to lay a soft, caressing touch of encouragement and sympathy on the girl's shoulder; and Dyce's burning indignation vented itself in frequent audible grating of her strong white teeth.
Indeed, he followed it so closely, as every reader can see for himself, by reading the play in Dyce's edition, and comparing it with the notes under the text, that sometimes whole scenes are copied, and even whole speeches, as, for instance, that of the Emperor Charles V. The coarse buffoonery, in particular, of which the work is full, is retained word for word.
Don't you think it might be well?" "We have spoken of that, you know," was Dyce's careless reply. "I prefer oral teaching." "Still, a solid book, such a one as you could easily write, would do you a great deal of good. Do think about it, will you?" Her voice had an unusual quality; it was persuasive, and almost gentle.
Iris was in the extremity of nervousness; she looked as if she had not slept for two or three nights; often she hid her face against Dyce's shoulder, and shook as if sobbing, but no tears followed. "Do you love me?" she asked, again and again. "Do you really, really love me?" "But you know I do," Dyce answered, at length irritably. "How many times must I tell you?
Dyce managed to talk, but he heard not a word from his own lips, and his eyes, fixed on Lady Ogram's features, noted the indubitable fact that her complexion was artificial. This astounding old woman, at the age of four score, had begun to paint? So confused was Dyce's state of mind, that, on perceiving the truth of the matter, he all but uttered an exclamation.
But Evadne did not die. The fever spent itself at last and there followed long days of utter prostration both of mind and body. Dyce's cheery patience never failed.
"The Woolstan boy has a cold," Dyce replied, "and I found myself free for a few days. I'm sorry to put you out." "Not at all. I say that it might have done." Dyce's bearing to his mother was decently respectful, but in no way affectionate. The knowledge that she counted for little or nothing with him was an annoyance, rather than a distress, to Mrs. Lashmar.
"I'm very sorry I can't," Constance answered, pleasantly. "The exercise is necessary for me." "But just this once " "Impossible! The morning is too fine and the roads too good." She sprang into the saddle, and was off much to Dyce's mortification. He had not dreamt that she could refuse his request.
Just look straight at me, like you was facing your accusers before the bar of God, and tell me you didn't kill your grandpa. Tell me you never dipped your pretty hands in ole Marster's blood." Tears were streaming down Dyce's cheeks. "If you knew my mother, how can you think it possible her child could commit an awful crime?" "Oh, God knows I don't know what to think!
It cannot even be safely presumed, for instance, that George Wilkins, the author of the law-besprinkled passage just above quoted from the "Miseries of Enforced Marriage," was not a practising attorney or barrister before or even at the time when he wrote that play. We are not without contemporary evidence upon this point. Dyce's indisputable authority. Greene's Works. Vol.
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