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Updated: May 11, 2025
By his side, fighting bravely, fell the lords of Teffia and Ferrard, two of his nephews, and others of his personal attendants and companions. The Dublin Danes had in their turn a day of rejoicing and of revenge for the defeats they had suffered at Congal's hands.
England, in all its Istra-ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenn a better thrill for his collection than the thrill he received on the November evening when he saw the white doorway of Mrs. R. T. Ferrard, in a decorous row of houses on Thirtieth Street near Lexington Avenue. It is a block where the citizens have civic pride.
Her mouth was small, arched, and quivering in a grin. "This is Mr. Wrenn, isn't it?" she gurgled, and leaned against the doorpost, merry, apparently indolent. "I'm Mrs. Ferrard. Mr. Poppins told me you were coming, and he said you were a terribly nice man, and I was to be sure and welcome you. Come right in."
By his side, fighting bravely, fell the lords of Teffia and Ferrard, two of his nephews, and others of his personal attendants and companions. The Dublin Danes had in their turn a day of rejoicing and of revenge for the defeats they had suffered at Congal's hands.
We had not been long here before the Duke, attended by a number of his black gentlemen, and followed by Captain Cumings, of the Kent, came on board to have a grand palaver with Lieutenant Badgeley, concerning the attempted assassination of Captain Cumings' mate, on the preceding day. The Frenchman's name was Ferrard, and this monster was no less than the Captain of a slave-vessel.
Ferrard, but would you mind letting me have my breakfast in my room to-morrow? About nine? Just something simple a canteloupe and some shirred eggs and chocolate?" "Oh no; why, yes, certainly, "mumbled Mrs. Arty, while the table held its breaths and underneath them gasped: "Chocolate!" "A canteloupe!" "Shirred eggs!" "In her room at nine!" All this was very terrible to Mr. Wrenn.
At this language, which was not without a sort of bold natural eloquence, Jacques Ferrard shuddered, at the savage and almost ferocious expression of the face of Cecily, who, with heaving bosom, expanded nostril, haughty mouth, fixed on him her large black and burning eyes. Never had she appeared so lovely. "Speak, speak again!" cried he, passionately; "you speak seriously this time.
Arty's, a boarding-house "where all the folks likes each other." "You've never fed at a boarding-house, eh?" said Tom. "Well, I guess most of 'em are pretty poor feed. And pretty sad bunch. But Mrs. Arty's is about as near like home as most of us poor bachelors ever gets. Nice crowd there. If Mrs. Arty Mrs. R. T. Ferrard is her name, but we always call her Mrs.
Then the talk stopped dead as Istra Nash stood agaze in the doorway pale and intolerant, her red hair twisted high on her head, tall and slim and uncorseted in a gray tight-fitting gown. Every head turned as on a pivot, first to Istra, then to Mr. Wrenn. He blushed and bowed as if he had been called on for a speech, stumblingly arose, and said: "Uh uh uh you met Mrs. Ferrard, didn't you, Istra?
Wrenn was too much absorbed in wondering whether Miss Proudfoot would make some of her celebrated and justly celebrated minced-ham sandwiches for the picnic to be much interested. He was not much more interested when she said, "Mrs. Ferrard's got a letter or something for you." Then, as dinner began, Mrs. Ferrard rushed in dramatically and said, "There's a telegram for you, Mr. Wrenn!"
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