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Updated: June 17, 2025
Escott had stabbed himself to the heart, and had fallen weltering in his blood at Miss Brookes's feet. Dr Dickinson walked across the green, watched with palpitating anxiety from the corner of the Southdown Road. The General spoke to the farmer, and the farmer's pupil nudged the general dealer. Mrs.
He passed in the name of George Escott. Do you remember?" "Very well indeed." "Suppose he were taken prisoner again?" "I should try him." "And shoot him, if guilty?" "Or hang him." "His name was not Escott. It was Gering Captain George Gering." The governor looked hard at Iberville for a moment, and a grim smile played upon his lips. "H'm! How do you guess that?"
When the Sunday School campaign was finished, Babbitt suggested to Kenneth Escott, "Say, how about doing a little boosting for Doc Drew personally?" Escott grinned. "You trust the doc to do a little boosting for himself, Mr. Babbitt!
Into the history of Mr Francis Beveridge, as supplied by the obliging candour of the Baron von Blitzenberg and the notes of Dr Escott, Dr Twiddel and his friend Robert Welsh make a kind of explanatory entry. They most effectually set the ball a-rolling, and so the story starts in a small room looking out on a very uninteresting London street.
"Yes, sir, just come in, about five minutes," said the man as he opened the door. Willy waited until the train had stopped dead, he got out carefully, and, looking through the confusion of luggage and bookstall trade, he saw Escott questioning a porter and hailing a carriage. "By Jove! I shall miss him," cried Willy, and he hastened his steps and broke into a sharp trot. "Frank! Frank!" he cried.
"Mike spoke to me of a pessimistic poem he has in mind; did he ever speak to you about it, Escott?" "I think he said something once, but he did not tell me what it was about. He can speak of nothing now but a nun whom he has persuaded to leave her convent. I had thought of having some articles written about convents, and we went to Roehampton.
Escott had a glimpse of him vanishing round the corner of the island, and then the ice broke again, and down he went. Four, five, six times he made a desperate effort to get out, and every time the thin ice tore under his hands, and he slipped back again.
“No more there is,” replied Escott. “His memory seems to me to have suffered from something, and he simply supplies its place in conversation from his imagination, and in action from the inspiration of the moment. The methods of society are too orthodox for such an aberration, and as his friends doubtless pay a handsome fee to keep him here, old Congers labels him mad and locks the door on him.”
"To Milverton's housemaid." "Good heavens, Holmes!" "I wanted information, Watson." "Surely you have gone too far?" "It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business, Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have talked with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I wanted. I know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand."
Escott has an instructive chapter on this in his excellent book on England. He notices that the English character is losing its insularity, is more accessible to foreign influences, and is adopting foreign, especially French, modes of living.
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