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Updated: May 23, 2025
Therefore we turned, slowly retracing our steps back to the quaint old bridge with the houses upon it the Ponte Vecchio. Just before we reached it my companion stopped, and grasping my hand suddenly, said in a choking voice "You have been my only friend since my downfall, Ewart. Without you, I should have starved. These very clothes I wear were bought with money you have so generously given me.
As Quarles says, she is a genius, and it would be a thousand pities if she were in prison. The Queen's Square affair seemed to have exhausted Quarles's enthusiasm. I tried to interest him in several cases without success, and I began to think we really had done our last work together, when on his own initiative he mentioned Ewart Wilkinson to me.
I wrote with some frequency to Ewart, self-conscious, but, as I remember them, not intelligent letters, dated in Latin and with lapses into Latin quotation that roused Ewart to parody. There was something about me in those days more than a little priggish. But it was, to do myself justice, something more than the petty pride of learning.
Fail and Ewart I went across country towards Bucquoy as the light was beginning to break. We noticed that the large trees on the road to Hannescamps had been prepared by the R.E.'s for felling with gun cotton the charges being ready and tied to the trunks so as to throw them across the road. The roads were already full, mostly horse transport pouring rapidly through Bienvillers towards Souastre.
One main source of excitement for us was "cheeking" people in vans and carts upon the Goudhurst road; and getting myself into a monstrous white mess in the chalk pits beyond the village, and catching yellow jaundice as a sequel to bathing stark naked with three other Adamites, old Ewart leading that function, in the rivulet across Hickson's meadows, are among my memorabilia.
And each woman will have this; she will have a little silken ladder she can let down if she chooses if she wants to talk closer..." "The men would still be competing." "There perhaps yes. But they'd have to abide by the women's decisions." I raised one or two difficulties, and for a while we played with this idea. "Ewart," I said, "this is like Doll's Island.
Gladstone is congenial in any part of Scotland. But in this Scottish city, teeming with eager workers, endowed with a great University, a center of industry, commerce, and thought, a statue of William Ewart Gladstone is at home. But you in Glasgow have more personal claims to a share in the inheritance of Mr. Gladstone's fame.
The introduction, written by and signed "William Ewart Gladstone" for this magazine, contained the following interesting and singular passage, which probably fairly sets forth the hopes and fears that beset statesmen in maturer years, as well as Eton boys of only seventeen years of age: "In my present undertaking there is one gulf in which I fear to sink, and that gulf is Lethe.
"I don't suppose you do, just yet." "It's a risky proceeding, isn't it?" I queried. "Risky! What risk is there in gulling hotel people?" he asked. "If you don't intend to pay the bill it would be quite another matter." "But why is the lady to pass as my wife? Why am I the Count de Bourbriac? Why, indeed, are we here at all?" "That's our business, my dear Ewart. Leave matters to us.
But I wish to come to the defense of the Sunday-school story-books and show that their very prominent moral is right after all: it pays to be "good." William Ewart Gladstone was sent to Eton when twelve years of age. From the first, his conduct was a model of propriety.
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