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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Not more than others I deserve, but God has given me more," she thought, with a swelling heart, as she made her thanksgiving that night. In spite of outside weather, there was plenty of life and movement in the corner house at Galvaston Terrace. The next day Mr. Barton began his sketch of Dot, and he soon became so absorbed in it that he seemed to forget his weakness and lassitude.
Greta's afternoon visits were then a real boon; she could leave them together while she went out and did her business. Olivia's healthy, robust constitution always needed fresh air and regular exercise. Confinement to the house tried her, and the small rooms and low ceilings at No. 1, Galvaston Terrace, were certainly rather cramping.
While Alwyn superintended the decorations of the new rooms at Galvaston House, and brought his artistic taste to bear on every petty detail for the use of his lady-love, and while Greta busied herself over her trousseau, Dr. Luttrell was engaged from morning to night among his patients. With the damp, foggy days of November had come the dreaded epidemic, influenza.
"Not much," he reiterated; but Olivia shook her head at him to inculcate silence, and carried away the empty cup. When Marcus came home at dinner-time, she proposed sending a note across to Galvaston House to tell Mr. Gaythorne that she could not leave home that afternoon, but to her surprise Dr. Luttrell objected to this. "You know how crotchety Mr.
Olivia watched the progress of the picture with intense delight, and carried a favourable report of it on her next visit to Galvaston House. "It is a striking likeness of my little girl," she said. "Even my husband, who is not easy to please in such matters, allows that. He owned yesterday that Mr. Barton is certainly a good artist, and understands his business.
Marcus certainly carried his head a little higher than usual that evening; as for Olivia, she trod on air. As she sat at her needlework later on, waiting until Marcus returned from his second visit to Galvaston House, her thoughts were busy about the future.
Marcus Luttrell was young, but he was no coward. For two years he had waited patiently until the tide should turn. "Wait till the clouds roll by," he used to say, cheerily, but only his wife guessed how he was really losing heart, as day after day and month after month passed and no paying patients presented themselves at the corner house at Galvaston Terrace.
"By-the-bye," observed Olivia, suddenly, "what have you decided to do with this house and furniture?" but Greta had evidently not taken these matters into consideration. "All the best things will go to Galvaston House, I suppose," she replied, looking round her, "but most of the furniture is old-fashioned and not up-to-date.
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