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A mixture of passions was excited in Fred a mad desire to thrash Horrock's opinion into utterance, restrained by anxiety to retain the advantage of his friendship. There was always the chance that Horrock might say something quite invaluable at the right moment. Mr. Bambridge had more open manners, and appeared to give forth his ideas without economy.
Fred gave up the fallacious hope of getting a genuine opinion; but on reflection he saw that Bambridge's depreciation and Horrock's silence were both virtually encouraging, and indicated that they thought better of the horse than they chose to say.
She was loath to let me be going in and out of that room even in the day time, let alone for any Christian to spend the night in it; for sure she says it was his own bedroom." "Whose own bedroom?" we asked, in a breath. "Why, his the ould Judge's Judge Horrock's, to be sure, God rest his sowl"; and she looked fearfully round. "Amen!" I muttered. "But did he die there?" "Die there!
Native servants beat the air around them with bamboo fans to keep off the insects, and the air was faint almost to noxiousness with the perfume of some sickly, exotic shrub. "Why, you're Devinter!" he exclaimed suddenly, "Sigismund Devinter! You were at Eton with me Horrock's House semi-final in the racquets." "And Magdalen afterwards, number five in the boat."
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