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Updated: June 2, 2025
Harland's former uneasiness and embarrassment seemed now at an end, and he gave himself up to the pleasure of renewing association with one who had known him as a young man, and they began talking easily together of their days at college, of the men they had both been acquainted with, some of whom were dead, some settled abroad and some lost to sight in the vistas of uncertain fate.
Harland, will you all come over to the yacht to- morrow? There may be some excursion we could do together and you might remain and dine with me afterwards." Mr. Harland's face was a study. Doubt and fear struggled for the mastery in his expression and he did not at once answer. Then he seemed to conquer his hesitation and to recover himself.
Harland's brows knitted perplexedly. "He says he could cure me of my illness," he went on, "and Brayle declares that a cure is impossible." "You prefer to believe Brayle, of course?" I queried. "Brayle is a physician of note," he replied, "A man who has taken his degree in medicine and knows what he is talking about. Santoris is merely a mystic." I smiled a little sadly. "I see!"
Harland's shoulder he looked the very embodiment of active, powerful manhood. Morton Harland stared at him in amazement and something of terror. "Rafel Santoris!" he repeated "You are his living image, but you cannot be himself you are too young!" A gleam of amusement sparkled in the stranger's eyes. "Don't let us talk of age or youth for the moment" he said.
And close by our Allahakbarries, Henry Harland's Mademoiselle Miss meets in the old friendly companionship Steevens's Land of the Dollar and Graham Tomson's Poems and Bob Stevenson's Velasquez and Harold Frédéric's Return of the O'Mahoney and Bernard Shaw's Cashel Byron's Profession in its rare paper cover, and George Moore's Strike at Arlingford, and Marriott Watson's Diogenes of London, and but of what use to go through the list, the long catalogue, to the end?
"So the electric man has not quite made away with you," he said, carelessly "Miss Harland and I had our doubts as to whether we should ever see you again!" Mr. Harland's fuzzy eyebrows drew together in a marked frown of displeasure. "Indeed!" he ejaculated, drily "Well, you need have had no fears on that score. The 'electric man, as you call Mr.
We watched him with strained attention as he carefully allowed two small drops of liquid, bright and clear as dew to fall one after the other into Mr. Harland's glass. "Now," he continued "drink without fear, and say good-bye to all pain for at least forty-eight hours." With a docility quite unusual to him Mr. Harland obeyed. "May I go on smoking?" he asked. "You may." A minute passed, and Mr.
Harland's kind," Nick explained; "nor Falconer's, though he's too big a man to care for what people call 'social distinctions. They'd be kind to me if I went, and wouldn't let me feel any difference they could help. But there'd be a house-party, maybe, and I wouldn't know any one. I'd be 'out of it. I couldn't stand for that, Mrs. May." "You're sensitive," Angela said.
To this day they will quote Phil May while I wonder how it is that while for me Henley's talk has not lost its thunder, nor Bob Stevenson's its brilliant flashes of imbecility, nor Harland's its whimsical twist, nor Beardsley's its fresh gaiety, nothing of Phil May's remains save the familiar refrain "Have a cigar!" "Have a whiskey-and-soda!" "Have a drawing!"
Dauvray's household under very doubtful circumstances. By methods still more doubtful she acquired an extraordinary ascendency over Mme. Dauvray's mind. If proof were needed how complete that ascendency was, a glance at Celia Harland's wardrobe would suffice; for she wore the most expensive clothes.
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