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Hacket fainting on the sofa, and the servants all leaving their work to listen, and look out of the verandah, provoked us extremely: we administered sal volatile and a good scolding, and sent everybody off to their business again. But those scenes were very trying to the nerves.
Hacket, says I, as I was airing my fingers at the fire, 'I dare say you haven't another goose like this about the house? Now, tell me, like an honest woman, have you any of the same kidney? I only ask for information. "Mrs.
Hacket decided to leave the mission, not being strong enough to stand such alarms. They went to Malacca, where he became Government chaplain, and died there of consumption, after some years' service. The heat of Sarawak climate was so injurious to our child Mab, who had frequent attacks of fever, that as soon as the place was quiet again, we resolved to pay another visit to England.
I should have said it was herself, if it had not been impossible. Why she was with you at Rockstone, and it was a pouring, dripping day, said the colonel. 'No, she was not. She begged to spend the day with Constance Hacket, and we picked her up as we came home. Poor child, what has she been doing? I have not looked after her properly.
How often I read those words so like all the careless words of the young! Three times that winter I had seen Benjamin Grimshaw followed by the Silent Woman clothed in rags and pointing with her finger. Mr. Hacket said that she probably watched for him out of her little window above the blacksmith shop that overlooked the south road. When he came to town she followed.
'I do not mean to interfere with your pleasure, 'but I had rather our discussions were not entirely selfish. Suppose, Gillian, we walked down to Casement Cottages, and consulted Miss Hacket. This was done, in the company of all the little girls, for Miss Hacket's cats, doves, and gingerbread were highly popular; moreover, Dolores was glad of a chance sight of Constance.
The untimely candle-light breakfast was only a fresh element of delight, and so was the paling gas at the station, the round, red sun peeping out through a yellow break between grey sky and greyer woods; the meeting Miss Hacket in her fur cloak, the taking of the tickets, the coughing of the train, the tumbling into one of the many empty carriages, the triumphant start, all seemed as fresh and delicious as if the young people had never taken a journey before in all their lives.
She is decently dressed; her hair is neatly combed; the wild look has left her eyes. She looks like one whose back is relieved of a heavy burden. She scatters little red squares of paper into the grave, her lips moving silently. These are her last curses. Barton Baynes and his schoolmaster, Mr. Hacket, are standing by.
When a durian fell to the ground with a great thud, they all jumped up to look for it, as the fallen fruit belongs to the finder, and they loved it so that they willingly sacrificed their sleep for it. Woe be to the man, however, on whose head the fruit falls, for it is so hard and heavy it may kill him. In February three new missionaries came from England Mr. Hacket, Mr. Glover, and Mr. Chalmers.
He then brought Hacket into a little out-shot behind the room in which the scales were, and shutting the door, thus proceeded in a sweet, confidential kind of whisper "You see, Harry, what I'm goin' to say to you is what I'd not say to e'er another in the parish, the divil a one God pardon me for swearin' amin a Chiernah!
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