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Updated: May 11, 2025
He stamped about the house, clattering his spurs, and muttering to himself, as was his custom, when anything out of the usual course occupied his mind. At last, going to Surly Grind's kennel, he loosed the dog, and entering his skiff, crossed the voe, as if about to proceed to the mainland.
Lionel Verner's interrupted sentence and question of surprise were caused by the appearance of some singular-looking forms who were stalking into the grounds. Poor, stooping, miserable, travel-soiled objects, looking fit for nothing but the tramp-house. A murmer of astonishment burst from all present when they were recognised. It was Grind's lot.
Jasper, that is true enough," replied Grind; "but the mischief is, your men of nicer honour are too squeamish for the kind of work in which we employed him. This is the defect in all such operations. Men cannot be thoroughly trusted." The merchant sighed. He felt too deeply the force of Grind's remark. "You know," said he, "this Martin better than I do. What is his character?
But that Grind's eye had caught his, Lionel might have hesitated to enter so uncomfortable a place. His natural kindness of heart nay, his innate regard for the feelings of others, let them be ever so inferior in station prevented his turning back when the man had seen him. "Grind, don't move, don't get off the bed," Lionel said hastily. But Grind was already up.
About fifteen had gone off, exclusive of children. Grind's lot, as it was called, meaning Grind, his wife, and their young ones; Davies had gone, Mary Green had gone, Nancy from Verner's Pride had gone, and sundry others whom it is not necessary to enumerate. It was said that Dinah Roy made preparations to go, but her heart failed her at the last.
"It's an awful shame," cried a civil, quiet woman, Sarah Grind, one of a very numerous family, commonly called "Grind's lot," "that we should be beat down to have our victuals and other things at such a place as Peckaby's! Sometimes, sir, I'm almost inclined to ask, is it Christians as rules over us?" Lionel felt the shaft levelled at his family, though not personally at himself.
"Don't let him tease you, Miss Meiggs," put in Mrs. Perkins, frowning mildly at Pellams because of Professor Grind's sphinx-like smile; "he's making it all up out of his inner consciousness, like the German philosopher and the elephant, wasn't it, Professor Grind?" "Yes?" answered Miss Meiggs, with a world of irony packed into the syllable; "your inner consciousness, then, Mr.
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