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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Miss Graves was going to buy one of Flackerman's pictures, and heaven knows he needs the money; and Fenton, who has always pretended to be Flack's friend, talked her into taking one of his instead; or rather he got Calvin to go to her and do it. It was a stunning Flackerman, too; and we were all rejoicing over his luck." "I would not be too ready to believe that story," Grant Herman said.
Flack's designs: a certain mystery still hung about her own, which, as she intimated, had much more to recommend them. Delia's vision of the danger as well as the advantage of being a pretty girl was closely connected, as was natural, with the idea of an "engagement": this idea was in a manner complete in itself her imagination failed in the oddest way to carry it into the next stage.
That's MY diagnosis if you want to know." "Oh how can you say such a thing?" Francie returned with a tremor in her voice that struck her sister. Her eyes met Delia's at the same moment, and this young woman's heart bounded with the sense that she was safe. Mr. Flack's power to hustle presumed too far though Mr. "What does it matter what he says, my dear?" she interposed.
They were ever so much too busy at the last and were going to see their correspondents in a few days anyway. The only missives that came to Francie were a copy of the Reverberator, addressed in Mr. Flack's hand and with a great inkmark on the margin of the fatal letter, and three intense pages from Mme. de Brecourt, received forty-eight hours after the scene at her house.
At the time of the death of Mr Ira Nutcombe, the only all-the-year-round inhabitants were the butcher, the grocer, the chemist, the other customary fauna of villages, and Miss Elizabeth Boyd, who rented the ramshackle farm known locally as Flack's and eked out a precarious livelihood by keeping bees. These things, however, are by the way.
It appeared to meet with George Flack's approval he also had a big undertaking on that side and it might require years, so that it would be pleasant to have his friends right there. He knew his way round in Paris or any place like that much better than round Boston; if they had been poked away in one of those clever suburbs they would have been lost to him.
She looked up and met that sunny eyeglass. 'This is Flack's, she said. 'Thank you, said the young man. The automobile, a stout, silent man at the helm, throbbed in the nervous way automobiles have when standing still, suggesting somehow that it were best to talk quick, as they can give you only a few minutes before dashing on to keep some other appointment.
Why do you talk to me of 'them'? I'm not engaged to 'them'!" she said with a shrill little laugh. "Oh Francie I am! And it's they who are buried beneath that filthy rubbish!" She flushed at this characterisation of Mr. Flack's epistle, but returned as with more gravity: "I'm very sorry very sorry indeed. But evidently I'm not delicate." He looked at her, helpless and bitter.
In spite if it however she professed an interest in Mr. Flack's announced undertaking an interest springing apparently from an interest in the personage himself. The man of wonderments and measurements we have smuggled into the scene would have gathered that Miss Dosson's attention was founded on a conception of Mr. Flack's intrinsic brilliancy.
The man who had run away met them full tilt he had dropped his gun. "Hullo," said Cossar, and caught him in his arms. "What's this?" "They came out together," said the man. "The rats?" "Yes, six of them." "Where's Flack?" "Down." "What's he say?" panted Bensington, coming up, unheeded. "Flack's down?" "He fell down." "They came out one after the other." "What?" "Made a rush.
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