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As he fastened his tie he thought to himself sadly that this would be his last dinner with Stella Fregelius, and as he brushed his hair he determined that unless she had other wishes, it should be as happy as it could be made.
"You can tell her what you like, Eliza," he replied, for his self-control was utterly gone; "but it won't be much use, for she'll know what you mean. She'll know that you are jealous of Miss Fregelius because she's so good looking; just as you are jealous of her, and of Mary Porson, and of anybody else who dares to be pretty and," with crushing meaning, "to look at Morris Monk."
There is nothing to thank me for." "Then, sir, I thank God, who inspired you with that impulse, and may every blessing reward your bravery." Stella looked up as though to speak, but changed her mind and returned to her seat by the fire. "What is there to reward?" said Morris impatiently; "that your daughter is still alive is my reward. How are you to-night, Mr. Fregelius?" Mr.
He answered that, being unable to sleep that night on account of the storm, he had gone into his workshop when his attention was suddenly attracted by the bell of the aerophone, by means of which he learned that Miss Fregelius had been cut off from the shore in the church.
"What a beautiful singing voice she has, hasn't she?" "Who?" asked Eliza, pretending not to understand. "Why, Miss Fregelius, of course." "Oh, well, that is a matter of opinion." "Hang it all, Eliza!" said her brother, "there can't be two opinions about it, she sings like an angel." "Do you think so, Stephen? I should have said she sings like an opera dancer."
Fregelius had sunk into sleep or stupor, doubtless beneath the influence of the second draught which he had administered to him in obedience to the doctor's orders. On his account, therefore, Morris had no anxiety, since the cook, a steady, middle-aged woman, could watch by him for the present.
"Do you mean Stella Fregelius?" he asked. The man turned his flushed face and opened his dark eyes. "Of course, Stella Fregelius who else? There is only one Stella," and again he became incoherent. For a while Morris plied him with further questions; but as he could obtain no coherent answer, he gave him his medicine and left him quiet.
This fresh factor was the infatuation, which possibly the reader may have foreseen, of the susceptible, impulsive little man, Stephen Layard, for Stella Fregelius, the lady whose singing he had admired, and who had been a cause of war between him and his sister.
This became apparent, or put itself in the way of becoming apparent, when on a certain evening Morris found Mr. Fregelius seated in the rectory dining-room, and by his side a little pile of manuscript volumes bound in shabby cloth. "What are those?" asked Morris. "Her translation of the Saga of the Cave Outlaws?" "No, Morris," answered Mr.
You see, when people sit up singing to each other alone till two in the morning I don't mean that Morris sings, he has no more voice than a crow; he does the appreciative audience well, other people will talk, won't they?" "I suppose so, the world being what it is," sighed Mr. Fregelius.
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