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Updated: May 10, 2025
She was altered in some subtle way. The expression of her eyes, the hard upward stare, the set of the lips, was new to me. She drew back her hands. "What do you mean?" she said. "Gladys!" I cried. "What is the matter? You are my Gladys, are you not little Gladys Hungerton?" "No," said she, "I am Gladys Potts. Let me introduce you to my husband." How absurd life is!
The Lost World "There Are Heroisms All Round Us" Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person upon earth, a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man, perfectly good-natured, but absolutely centered upon his own silly self. If anything could have driven me from Gladys, it would have been the thought of such a father-in-law.
The pack then drew Hungerton foxhole blank, drew Carver's spinnies without a whimper; and lastly, drawing the old familiar Billesden Coplow, had a short, quick burst with a brace of cubs, and returning, settled themselves to a fine dog fox that was raced an hour-and-half, hunted slowly for fifty minutes, raced again another hour-and-quarter, sending all the field to their "second horses"; and after a clipping chase through the cream of the grass country, nearly saved his brush in the twilight when the scent was lost in a rushing hailstorm, but had the "little ladies" laid on again like wildfire, and was killed with the "who-whoop!" ringing far and away over Glenn Gorse, after a glorious run thirty miles in and out with pace that tired the best of them.
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