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Updated: June 15, 2025
But for her constant habit of depreciation, she could almost have forgotten that her husband was only a ship-owner, and a ship-owner who had gone into a horrible partnership with Lawson Hannay. It appeased her to belittle him by comparisons. He had no spiritual fineness and fire like Canon Wharton, no intellectual interests like Mr. Eliott and Dr. Gardner.
There had come a long pause in their talk, however, and not knowing how to begin again, he growled out soberly, "We old fellows ought to take a rest now." "The best thing for some of us would be to die at the oar," Captain Whalley said negligently. "Come, now. Aren't you a bit tired by this time of the whole show?" muttered the other sullenly. "Are you?" Captain Eliott was. Infernally tired.
He was the man of the world for Miss Proctor; the fine epicure of books for Mrs. Eliott; for Mr. Eliott and Dr. Gardner, the broad-minded searcher and enthusiast, the humble camp-follower of the conquering sciences. "You are the pioneers," said he; "you go before us on the march. But we keep up, we keep up. We can step out cassock and all." But he spread out all his spiritual lures for Mrs.
On the further side of it she discerned, dimly, the undesirable. It was a murky region, haunted by still murkier presences, by Lady Cayley and her kind. She persisted with a magnificent irrelevance. "You must know her. You would like her." He didn't in the least want to know Mrs. Eliott, he didn't think that he would like her.
From the Davenport Brothers and Herrmann, on down through the line of lesser lights in the conjuring business even our own Houdini we know there is a trick somewhere; the fun is in finding it. Hanlon's is a new one and a gem I don't even begin to see through it yet." "Neither do I," agreed Mason Eliott.
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth. "Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg soberly. "Take it all.
The same little procession filed through her drawing-room as before. Mrs. Pooley, Miss Proctor, the Gardners, and Canon Wharton. Mrs. Eliott was more than ever haggard and pursuing; she had more than ever the air of clinging, desperate and exhausted, on her precipitous intellectual heights. But Mrs.
He hadn't any opinions of his own. They were too expensive. He borrowed other people's when he wanted them. "But," said Mr. Eliott, "it is very seldom that I do want an opinion. If you have any facts to give me well and good." For he knew that, at the mention of facts, Mrs. Pooley's intellect would retreat behind a cloud and that his wife would pursue it there. "I suppose," said Mrs.
The latter part of that 100 years saw the dawn of that system of free government which has grown and flourished, and which, if the men of the present day be the worthy descendants of Eliott and Pym, and Hampden and Milton, will go on growing as long as this realm lasts.
His social self was amused with her enthusiasms, but the real Dr. Gardner accounted for them compassionately. It was no wonder, he considered, that poor Mrs. Eliott wondered. She had so little else to do. Her nursery upstairs was empty, it always had been, always would be empty. Did she wonder at that too, at the transcendental carelessness that had left her thus frustrated, thus incomplete? Mrs.
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