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Updated: June 22, 2025
"If he'd a-rolled agen the stove we couldn't done nothin'. We was hard put to it to save the wessel and ourselves." "I see now. Steward, my case. This must be sewn up." Ferrier had hardly drawn three stitches through, when one of the seamen fainted away, and this complication, added to the inexorable roll of the yacht, made Ferrier's task a hard one; but the indomitable Scot was on his mettle.
Oliver's ways were irritating; he had more than one of the intriguer's gifts; and several times during the preceding weeks Ferrier's mind had recurred with disquiet to the letters in his hands. But, after all, things had worked out better than could possibly have been expected. The Herald, in particular, had done splendid service, to himself personally, and to the moderates in general.
Ferrier uncomfortably remembered one or two instances during the preceding year, in which it had occurred to him as the merest fleeting impression that Oliver had repeated a saying or had twisted an opinion of his unfairly puzzling instances, in which, had it been any one else, Ferrier would have seen the desire to snatch a personal advantage at his, Ferrier's, expense.
His cousin's wife, in spite of her ambitious conventionalities, was really the child of Nature to a refreshing degree. One does not see these types, he said to himself, in the cultivated monotony of Oxford or London. She was like a bit of a bygone world Miss Austen's or Miss Ferrier's unearthed for his amusement.
But when you went to France, I blocked your way with all the ingenuity I could bring." "I would like to ask you, Bellenger, what a man is called who attempts the life of his king?" "Sire, the tricks of royalists pitted us against each other." "That's enough, Bellenger. I don't believe a word you say, excepting that part of your story agreeing with Madame de Ferrier's.
Ferrier's talk of them showed his intimate knowledge both of Varleys and Marshams, the knowledge rather of a kinsman than a friend. Diana perceived, indeed, how great must be the affection, the intimacy, between him and them.
THREE weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope and his comrades had departed from Salt Lake City. John Ferrier's heart was sore within him when he thought of the young man's return, and of the impending loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and happy face reconciled him to the arrangement more than any argument could have done.
Sir Walter Scott addressed verses to him. Professor Porson wrote emendations for him in his favorite copy of Athenæus. To him was inscribed Dr. Ferrier's poetical epistle on Bibliomania. His virtues were celebrated by Dibdin and by Burton.
Bobbie, divining her, gave her the latest and most authentic gossip of the clubs; as to the various incidents and gradations of the now open revolt of the Left Wing; the current estimates of Ferrier's strength in the country; and the prospects of the coming election. Presently he even ventured on Marsham's name, feeling instinctively that she waited for it.
For light locks seem to fray out to nothing, and waste to air instead of fitly binding a lovely countenance. Madame de Ferrier's hair was of exactly the right color. Her eyebrows were distinct dark lines, and the lashes were so dense that you noticed the curling rim they made around her gray eyes. Whether the gift of looking to your core is beauty or not, I can only say she had it.
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