Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 3, 2025
Woodseer, when the plate was pushed aside and the pipe appeared. So Gower's recital of his wanderings began, more puffs than speech at the commencement. He was alternately picturesque and sententious until he reached Baden; there he became involved, from thinking of a revelation of beauty in woman. Mr. Woodseer rapped the leather on his block.
But his eyes were as somber as the storm-blackened winter sky. En Famille Horace Gower's town house straddled the low crest of a narrow peninsula which juts westward into the Gulf from the heart of the business section of Vancouver. The tip of this peninsula ends in the green forest of Stanley Park, which is like no other park in all North America, either in its nature or its situation.
Stubby could fight Horace Gower, for instance, tooth and toenail, for an advantage in the salmon trade, and stretch his legs under Gower's dining table with no sense of incongruity, no matter what shifts the competitive struggle had taken or what weapons either had used. That was business; and a man left his business at the office. A curious thing, MacRae thought.
Gower's cannery foreman and fish collectors gave him profane accounts of MacRae's indefatigable raiding, as it suited them to regard his operations. What Gower did not know he made it his business to find out. He sat now in his grass chair, a short, compact body of a man, with a heavy-jawed, powerful face frowning in abstraction. Gower looked younger than his fifty-six years.
Gower was finished as an exploiter. There was no question about that. When a man as big as he went down the crash set tongues wagging. All the current talk reached MacRae through Stubby. That price-war had been Gower's last kick, an incomprehensible, ill-judged effort to reëstablish his hold on the Squitty grounds, so it was said.
N.B. It is the first and only ball which has been given this season a sign the times are pinching. February 10. I got a present of Lord Francis Gower's printed but unpublished Tale of the Mill. It is a fine tale of terror in itself, and very happily brought out. He has certainly a true taste for poetry.
I don't like anything to make you cry, mia Dolores. I'd wring Norman Gower's chubby neck with great pleasure if I thought he could do that. I didn't even know you knew him." Dolly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "There are lots of things you don't know, Jack MacRae," she murmured. "Besides, why shouldn't I know Norman?" MacRae threw out his hands helplessly.
Down in Whitechapel, it was known to the Winch girls and the Woodseers that Captain Kirby and his wife had spent the bitterest of hours in vainly striving to break their immoveable sister's will to remain there. At the tea-time of simple people, who make it a meal, Gower's appetite for the home-made bread of Mary Jones was checked by the bearer of a short note from Lord Fleetwood.
His round stomach less round by far than it had been two months earlier shook with silent laughter. His eyes twinkled. His thick, stubby fingers drummed on the chair arm. MacRae's face grew hot. He recognized the unfinished sentence as one of his own, words he had flung in Gower's face not so long since. If that was the way of it he could save his breath. He turned silently. "Wait."
Whatever the case, Owain Wythan, riding down off Croridge, big with news of her brother for the countess, dined at her table, and walking up the lane to the Esslemont Arms on a moonless night, to mount his horse, pitched against an active and, as it was deemed by Gower's observation of his eyes, a scientific fist.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking