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Updated: June 19, 2025
She was the girl who had run away from home to live with a dubious step-mother; and she was the sister of that awful Mrs. Greatorex, who well, everybody knew what Mrs. Greatorex was. Gwenda Cartaret, like her younger sister, had been talked about. Not so much in the big houses of the Dale. The queer facts had been tossed up and down a smokeroom for one season and then dropped.
He doesn't believe what they say. Papa says I'm a shameful girl, and Mary says I took Jim Greatorex from Essy. And they think " "Never mind what they think, darling." "I must protest " The Vicar would have burst out again but that his son-in-law restrained him. "Better leave her to Gwenda," he said. He opened the door of the study. "Really, sir, I think you'd better. And you, too, Mary."
Had the picking been done years ago, the canvas would have assumed a uniform tinge, or nearly so." "Of course it would, I can see that for myself. Oh, dear! Well, Mr. Greatorex, don't say anything about this, will you?" "Certainly not. But that's a good sampler, as it stands, I mean as a specimen of 1836 work." "Yes, I know it is. And yet, oughtn't the stitches to be put back?"
And then Jim Greatorex, though unseen, had burst out at them with his big voice. It came booming from the mistal at the back. Alice told the truth when she said she had never heard anything like it; and even in the dale, so critical of strangers, it was admitted that she knew. The village had a new schoolmaster who was no musician, and hopeless with the choir.
Gale looked dark and tightened up her face. She knew perfectly well why Jim Greatorex had left. It was because he wasn't going to have that little milk-faced lass learning him to sing. His pride wouldn't stomach it. But not for worlds would Mrs. Gale have been the one to let Miss Alice know that. Her eyes sought for inspiration in a crack on the stone floor. "I can't rightly tall yo', Miss Olice.
A smell of dust, of pine wood, of pomade, of burning oil, of an iron stove fiercely heated, a thin, bitter smell of ivy and holly; that wonderful, that overpowering, inspiring and revolting smell, of elements strangely fused, of flying vapors, of breathing, burning, palpitating things. Greatorex, conspicuous in his front seat on the platform, drew it in with great heavings of his chest.
"That is so," he said, with a grateful glance at her. "You see, the governor is crazy wild over this matter. It was only Sunday night he heard of it. A friend of young Greatorex wrote him that he'd heard your banns put up, and Greatorex congratulated the governor after church, and the governor nearly had a fit.
This doesn't get put in with my bunch of wares! Mr. Greatorex may come this afternoon. He's an expert on these things. He'll know just what it's worth." "Oh, Elise," Azalea looked troubled, "don't take it so seriously. It's just an old thing. You've others here that are far handsomer." "As I told you, Zaly, it's the age that counts, not the beauty. Run along to your own booth.
"You'll not get mooch out o' Ally as long as t' kids are about. Yo'd best coom wi' mae into t' garden and see t' loopins." She went with him. He was silent as they threaded the garden path together. She thought, "I know why I like him." They came to a standstill at the south wall where the tall blue lupins rose between them, vivid in the tender air and very still. Greatorex also was still.
Greatorex illustrated the "Homes of Ober-Ammergau" with etchings, published in Munich in 1871; also "Summer Etchings in Colorado," published in 1874; and "Old New York from the Battery to Bloomingdale," published in 1875. Eighteen of the drawings for the "Old New York" were at the Philadelphia Exhibition, 1876.
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