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Updated: June 22, 2025
That's what he wants, and I don't expect he'll settle down contentedly unless he finds a few." "Sure you know well enough, doctor, that there's no fairies in these parts. I don't say there mightn't have been some in times past, but any there was is now gone." "I know that," said Dr. Farelly, "and I'm not asking you to go beating thorn bushes in the hopes of catching one.
"It would be a pity now if something was to interfere with you, and you wanting to be off massacring the Germans. If the half of what's in the papers is true, its massacring or worse them fellows want." "The trouble is," said Dr. Farelly, "that the man I've got may not stay." "Why wouldn't he stay? Isn't Dunailin as good a place to be in as any other? Any sensible man " "That's just it," said Dr.
Farelly strolled down to the post office, seeking, but scarcely hoping for, a letter in reply to his advertisements. He was surprised and very greatly pleased when the postmistress handed him a large envelope, fat and bulging, bearing a Manchester postmark. The moment he opened it Dr. Farelly knew that he had got what he wanted, an application for the post he had to offer.
Farelly, "I'll trust you about that. The next point is his health. You heard what he said about his heart and his lungs and his stomach." "He might die on us," said Flanagan, "and that's a fact." "Oh, he'll not die. That sort of man never does die, not till he's about ninety, anyhow. But it won't do to let him fancy this place doesn't agree with him.
Farelly. "I'm not at all sure that this is a sensible man. Just listen to this." He read aloud the greater part of the letter. "Now what do you think of the man who wrote that?" he asked; "what kind of fellow would you say he was?" "I'd say," said Flanagan, "that he's a simple, innocent kind of man; but I wouldn't say there was any great harm in him." "I'm very much afraid," said Dr.
He described at some length what he thought that spirit was. "Tuned to the spiritual" was one of the phrases he used. "Desire-compelling, with the elusiveness of the rainbow's end," was another. Dr. Farelly grew despondent. If Theophilus expected life in Dunailin to be in the least like one of Mr.
Farelly was painfully conscious of the fact was not a very attractive one. Dunailin is a small town in Western Con-naught, seven miles from the nearest railway station. It possesses a single street, straggling and very dirty, a police barrack, a chapel, which seems disproportionately large, and seven shops. One of the shops is also the post office. Another belongs to John Conerney, the butcher.
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