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Huntley's voice was heard, calling him into the breakfast-room. "Harry," said he, "I don't think that I need enjoin you not to suffer your manner to show triumph towards Tom Channing, should you be promoted over him to-day." "I shan't be, papa. Channing will have the seniorship." "How do you know that?" "Oh, from something Pye let drop. We look upon it that Channing is as good as senior." Mr.
Huntley's heart that he would fathom it, for private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an interview with Roland Yorke's bete noire, Mr. Butterby. But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon.
"To Zéphine Huntley's?" repeat I, my fingers suddenly breaking off in the middle of their tune, as I turn quickly round to face him; the smile disappearing from my face, and my jaw lengthening; "you do not mean to say that you are going there again?" "Yes, again!" he answers, laughing a little, and slightly mimicking my tragic tone; "why not, Nancy?" I make no answer.
He took her hand, released it, and then returned to the fire to Mr. Huntley. Ellen stood by the table, and had grown suddenly timid. "You will soon be receiving a visit from my mother and Constance," observed Hamish, looking at her. "I heard certain arrangements being discussed, in which Miss Ellen Huntley's name bore a part. We are soon to lose Constance." Ellen blushed rosy red. Mr.
"My dear Rachael," he answered, "in the first place, there is not a thread of evidence to connect you or me with any one of these places, or with Huntley's office. In the second place, I am not letting Lois slip out of my fingers.
Your brother has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr.
Gil Huntley's part it was always to die a violent death, or to be captured spectacularly, because he was the villain whose horrible example must bear a moral to youthful brains. Since Jean had become one of the company, he nearly always died at her hands or was captured by her.
Under the delusive idea that it is warm, or at least not cold, I have protected my face with no veil, my hands with no mittens; so that, long before I reach the shelter of the Portugal laurels that warmly hem in and border Mrs. Huntley's little graveled sweep, the end of my nose feels like an icy promontory at a great distance from me, and my hands do not feel at all. Mrs. Huntley is at home.
"You are late," I say presently, in a voice of low constraint, "are not you? everybody went some time ago." "I know," he answers, with a slight accent of irritation; "it is Algy's fault! I do not know what has come to that boy; he hardly seems in his right mind to-night; he has been trying to pick a quarrel with Parker, because he lit Mrs. Huntley's candle for her."
Weak as any little tottering child white as the sheets he lies on; with prominent cheek-bones, and great and languid eyes, he is given back to us. Life, worsted daily in a thousand cruel fights, has gained one little victory. To-day, for the first time, we all three at once leave him leave him coolly and quietly asleep, and dine together in Mrs. Huntley's little dusk-shaded dining-room.
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