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Updated: May 16, 2025
"If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?" he inquired. "I don't take the first that comes," said his wife. "I'll pay a week in advance," said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his pocket. "Of course, if you're afraid of having me here afraid o' giving way to tenderness, I mean " "Afraid?" choked Mrs. Hatchard. "Tenderness!
The hemlock garland she was wearing fell to her knees and she sat in a kind of trance. It was so manifestly absurd that Miss Hatchard should talk of Harney in that familiar possessive way, as if she had any claim on him, or knew anything about him.
Hatchard, raising his hand with great solemnity. "If I go, I never come back again." "I'll take care of that," said his wife, equably. "You are far more likely to ask to come back than I am." Mr.
She looked about the pale walls of her sitting-room, seeking counsel of ancestral daguerreotypes and didactic samplers; but they seemed to make utterance more difficult. "The fact is, it's not only not only because of the advantages. There are other reasons. You're too young to understand " "Oh, no, I ain't," said Charity harshly; and Miss Hatchard blushed to the roots of her blonde cap.
When Miss Hatchard had been called to Springfield by the illness of a widowed sister, and young Harney, by that time seriously embarked on his task of drawing and measuring all the old houses between Nettleton and the New Hampshire border, had suggested the possibility of boarding at the red house in his cousin's absence, Charity had trembled lest Mr. Royall should refuse.
"You can go, as I said before," said his wife. "I'd go this minute," said Mr. Hatchard, "but I know what it 'ud be: in three or four days you'd be coming and begging me to take you back again." "You try me," said Mrs. Hatchard, with a hard laugh. "I can keep myself. You leave me the furniture most of it is mine and I sha'n't worry you again." "Mind!" said Mr.
"And what if I'm not comfortable here?" he inquired, as his wife hastily pocketed the money. "It'll be your own fault," was the reply. Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked downstairs and let himself out.
Crabbe acquiesced in his wife's decision, and the novels were cremated without a murmur. A somewhat similar fate attended a set of Tales in Verse which, in the year 1799, Crabbe was about to offer to Mr. Hatchard, the publisher, when he wisely took the opinion of his rector at Sweffling, then resident at Yarmouth, the Rev.
He wrote again, referring to them in laudatory terms, and got a brief reply to the effect that they had been exchanged in part payment on a pair of valuable pink vases, the pieces of which he could have by paying the carriage. In six weeks Mr. Hatchard changed his lodgings twice.
She forced herself to look away from her guardian, and became aware that the oratory of the Hatchard cousin had ceased, and that Mr. Miles was again flapping his wings.
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