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Updated: June 13, 2025
"I saw your brother I saw your brother," he said, nodding his head, as Archer lagged past him, trailing his spade, and scowling at the old gentleman in spectacles. "Over there by the rock," Steele muttered, with his brush between his teeth, squeezing out raw sienna, and keeping his eyes fixed on Betty Flanders's back. "Ja cob! Ja cob!" shouted Archer, lagging on after a second.
Too preoccupied by the imminent danger from England, they did not realize that, owing to its geographical position, this country could never threaten Flanders's independence in the same way as France, which had, besides, the right to interfere in its internal affairs.
Flanders would fall musing about Morty, her brother, lost all these years had the natives got him, was his ship sunk would the Admiralty tell her? the Captain knocking his pipe out, as Jacob knew, rising to go, stiffly stretching to pick up Mrs. Flanders's wool which had rolled beneath the chair.
"Yes," said Captain Barfoot, knocking out his pipe on Betty Flanders's hob, and buttoning his coat. "It doubles the work, but I don't mind that." He was now town councillor. They looked at the night, which was the same as the London night, only a good deal more transparent. Church bells down in the town were striking eleven o'clock. The wind was off the sea. The flames had fairly caught.
Tell him to come at once." "...but mercifully," she scribbled, ignoring the full stop, "everything seems satisfactorily arranged, packed though we are like herrings in a barrel, and forced to stand the perambulator which the landlady quite naturally won't allow...." Such were Betty Flanders's letters to Captain Barfoot many-paged, tear- stained.
Betty Flanders's darning needles are safe too and her garnet brooch. And sometimes at midday, in the sunshine, the moor seems to hoard these little treasures, like a nurse. But at midnight when no one speaks or gallops, and the thorn tree is perfectly still, it would be foolish to vex the moor with questions what? and why? The church clock, however, strikes twelve.
She formed a sort of Coat of Arms, grouped with a smelling-bottle, a handkerchief, an orange, a bottle of vinegar, Flanders's sister, her own sister, Flanders's brother's wife, and two neighbouring gossips all in mourning, and all ready to hold her whenever she fainted.
Meanwhile, poor Betty Flanders's letter, having caught the second post, lay on the hall table poor Betty Flanders writing her son's name, Jacob Alan Flanders, Esq., as mothers do, and the ink pale, profuse, suggesting how mothers down at Scarborough scribble over the fire with their feet on the fender, when tea's cleared away, and can never, never say, whatever it may be probably this Don't go with bad women, do be a good boy; wear your thick shirts; and come back, come back, come back to me.
It made me feel uncomfortable and hypocritical besides. I was not sure but that it might be manners in ME to faint next, and I resolved to keep my eye on Flanders's uncle, and if I saw any signs of his going in that direction, to go too, politely. There was a young nephew of Flanders's present, to whom Flanders, it was rumoured, had left nineteen guineas.
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