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Updated: June 25, 2025
Eben grabbed forward with such precipitate haste that Farquaharson looked up in astonishment and for the first time recognized something of the agitation which shook the other: the spasmodic panting of his breath and the outstanding arteries on his temples. "Why, you are ill, man!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter with you?" Tollman made a supreme effort to rally his powers of self-control.
Farquaharson might be interested to know that you hired me once to try to frame him. Your wife might be interested to know that you hired me to send her those scandal magazines that roasted him. They both might be interested to know where you got your money from. Now it's just a question of who I do business with, but before I leave here I do business with somebody." As Mr.
For him there was an empty future: for her marriage with a coldly selfish sensualist who called his greed piety. Stuart Farquaharson sat in a chilled inertia of despair while the ship's bells recorded the passing of hours. From the decks above drifted little fragments of human talk and human laughter, but to him they were meaningless.
Perhaps because Louis Wayne desperately needed to succeed, while Stuart Farquaharson wrote only as an anodyne to his thoughts, Wayne vainly peddled his manuscripts and almost from the first Stuart sold his at excellent rates. Mrs.
"Maybe it isn't the story itself that's funny," she deigned to admit. "When your father told it, I cried but when you tell it your face is so furious that that you seem about to begin the war between the states all over again." "Of course that makes it perfectly clear." Into the manner of young Mr. Stuart Farquaharson came now the hauteur of dignified rebuke.
Farquaharson lightly crossed the terrace at Shepheard's Hotel and traversed the length of the hall to the office at its back where mail is distributed. For him there was a great budget and he carried it out to one of the tables on the awninged terrace which overlooks the street. Yes, here was the publisher's note. He tore the envelope. "You have become famous," began his enthusiastic sponsor.
"Oh, no," he hastily demurred. "It may be from friendship, too." But his companion shook her head. "With her it was love. She told me so." "Told you so!" Farquaharson echoed the words in tones of almost militant incredulity, and Conscience went on thoughtfully: "I was wondering if, after all, she might not make you very happy and might not be very happy herself in doing it."
Stuart Farquaharson caught her impulsively in his arms and his words came in tumultuous fervor. "What I said wasn't criticism," he declared. "God knows I couldn't criticize you. You ought to know that. This is the nearest we've ever come to a quarrel, dear, since the Barbara Freitchie days, and it's closer than I want to come. Besides, it's not just your laughter that I love.
She came to a stop and sat looking out at the phosphorescent sea and the star-filled skies. Farquaharson leaned forward, his words coming brokenly and in a heavy misery of embarrassment. "Marian, I have recognized the new you: I've seen the splendid development and fulfilment of you. It's only that ... that " He broke off and began over impetuously.
He wants you in the way a glutton wants a peach which he has deliberately watched ripen until finally he says to himself, 'It's about ready to pick now." A more intimate view of Eben Tollman failed to remove the initial dislike, and yet Farquaharson acknowledged that nothing concrete was added to the evidence of sheer prejudice.
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