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Her "Sleeping Faun," which was exhibited at the Dublin Exhibition in 1865, was sold on the day of opening for five thousand dollars, to Sir Benjamin Guinness. Some discussion having arisen about the sale, he offered ten thousand, saying, that if money could buy it, he would possess it. Miss Hosmer, however, would receive only the five thousand.
Do what he would, he could not shake off her eyes: they wrenched the truth from him, "I knew this man Guinness once," he said. She nodded: "Yes, I know you did." "Sit down beside me here, and I will tell you what kind of man he was." But she did not sit down. An unaccountable terror or timidity seemed to have paralyzed her.
"And yet " coming a step nearer, "yet if Guinness were in his grave now, I fancy he would think my business of more importance to him than life itself would be." He was talking against time, she saw talking while he inspected her to see whether she were willfully lying or believed what she said. He was a man who by rule believed the worst: the disagreeable, incredulous smile came back.
They know all about Fanny's property; they can draw out the settlements, and Grogram can bring them here, and we can execute them: that'll be the simplest way." "I'll write to Mr Cummings, then, and tell him to wait on Messrs. Green and Grogram. Cummings is a very proper man: he was recommended to me by Guinness." "Oh, ah yes; your attorney, you mean?" said the earl.
Oliver took a nap and walked down to Deweys for more Guinness and congratulations. He went to bed feeling as though he had made it through a one-way turnstile. Things were different on this side; there was a lot to do. The next day he brought Jennifer and Emma home from Mercy Hospital. Verdi had gotten used to Jennifer.
I never do, or ask, a favour; that is, for whatever I do, I expect a return; and for whatever I get, I intend to make one." "I'll get the money from Guinness. After all, that'll be the best, and as you say, the cheapest." "There you're right.
An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer. And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind. Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water.
A thick lock of hair had fallen over her face: he put out his hand to remove it, but drew back quickly. "We have talked too long, Miss Vogdes," in a brisk, cheerful tone. "Some other time, perhaps, we can return to this question of Hugh Guinness. That is," with a certain significance of manner, "if it be one in which Mr. Muller wishes you to take an interest."
No rhetoric is needed to adorn that simple record. There were thirty-two gunners round the guns, and twenty-nine fell where they stood. Major Guinness was mortally wounded while endeavouring with his own hands to fire a round of case. There were sixty-two casualties out of eighty among the Scottish Horse, and the Yorkshires were practically annihilated.
Old Peter Guinness used to sit on the doorstep every hot summer evening, smoking his cigar, and watching the hens go clucking up to roost in the lower branches and the cattle gathered underneath. "What a godsend the trees are to those poor beasts!" he said a dozen times every summer. "Yes. We risk dampness and neuralgia and ague to oblige the town cows," Mrs. Guinness would reply calmly.
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