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Updated: May 15, 2025
His work of conquest was completed by his son. Geoffry Martel wrested Tours from the Count of Blois, and by the seizure of Le Mans brought his border to the Norman frontier. Here however his advance was checked by the genius of William the Conqueror, and with his death the greatness of Anjou came for a while to an end.
Her father was Geoffry, the third and youngest son of Mr. Fairfax of Abbotsmead in Woldshire. Her mother was Elizabeth, only child of the Reverend Thomas Bulmer, vicar of Kirkham. Their marriage was a love-match, concluded when they had something less than the experience of forty years between them. The gentleman had his university debts besides to begin life with, the lady had nothing.
Pauline caught her breath, and the blood raced through her veins. She was startled, she assured herself, by the suddenness of the flash. When she spoke, her voice was tranquil as ever, yet curiously shot through with feeling. "If Geoffry Daymond told you that," she said, "I think you may feel satisfied."
His soul was made for the noblest society; he had in a short life exhausted the capabilities of this world; wherever there is knowledge, wherever there is virtue, wherever there is beauty, he will find a home. Ravenshoe. By HENRY KINGSLEY, Author of "Geoffry Hamlyn." Boston: Ticknor & Fields.
Christopher gave a sigh of relief and she went on in the same deliberate way. "And I shall never marry at all. I can't face it again. I'll tell Renata about Geoffry, and may I also tell her you will explain to the others if she can't satisfy them?" "I will do anything you wish." Then he suddenly claimed for himself a little latitude and spoke from his heart.
"I wish I could see whether they were coming," she added, with outspoken solicitude. "It's so much more fun to be a flotilla!" "I think they will find us," said Pauline, smiling to herself, as if she had pleasant thoughts. She would trust Geoffry Daymond to overtake them.
She sank into a reverie in which, despite her own determination, Geoffry played a long part. It was characteristic of her exact attitude towards her accepted lover that it was the immediate future in which he figured most clearly. Her thoughts hovered round the pleasant summer to come with the distant excitement of a wedding to crown it.
He was eight years old, and his name was Geoffry. But everyone called him Jeff. The gentle lady who was his mother had no other children, and she loved him more than words can say; not because he was a good or pretty child for he was neither but because he was her one little child. Jeff had big wide-awake, brown eyes, that seemed as if they never could look sleepy.
He answered her appeal now with quite other words than those she perhaps sought, and it was the hardest pang of all to know it and recognise the vague discomfort in her eyes. "You mustn't be unfair to Geoffry, Patricia. You haven't any right to say that. He will want to do his best for you when he understands." "He went away." "I sent him. I I was afraid you were going to cry." Had he done wrong?
And just about this time, I, Geoffry Hamlyn, having finished my last consignment of novels from England, and having nothing to do, determined to ride over, and spend a day or two with Major Buckley. But when I rode up to the door at Baroona, having pulled my shirt collar up, and rapped at the door with my whip, out came the housekeeper to inform me there was not a soul at home.
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