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The lane was still again, save for the unwonted sounds coming from the groups which had gathered round the two women, and were now moving beside them along the village street a hundred yards ahead. Marcella stood in a horror of memory seeing Hurd's figure cross the moonlit avenue from dark to dark. Where was he? Had he escaped?
Brunt, departed a minute or two after the mother and daughter, and Marcella was left an instant with Mrs. Hurd. "Oh, thank you, thank you kindly, miss," said Mrs. Hurd, raising her apron to her eyes to staunch some irrepressible tears, as Marcella showed her the advertisement which it might possibly be worth Hurd's while to answer. "He'll try, you may be sure.
Hurd's great hands now fixing the pegs that held the nets, now dealing death to the entangled rabbit, whose neck he broke in an instant by a turn of the thumb, now winding up the line that held the ferret seemed to be everywhere.
Will I write to my sister Tilly, as I don't love Mr. Beecot, and arsk if she knowed master when he wos in that there place, which she can't 'ave, seeing she's bin there but ten year, and he away twenty?" "No, Deborah, you'd better say nothing. The case is in Hurd's hands. I'll tell him what you say, and leave the matter to him. But you must be deceived about Miss Krill's age."
So that she played her part to-night very fairly; pinched Betty's arm to silence the elf's tongue; and held herself up as she was told, that Betty's handiwork might look its best. But inwardly the girl's mood was very tired and flat. She was pining for her work; pining even for Minta Hurd's peevish look, and the children to whom she was so easily an earthly providence.
Up to the night of Hurd's death sentence she had still existed in some sort, with her obligations, qualms, remorses. But since then every day, every hour had been grinding, scorching her away fashioning in flame and fever this new Marcella who sat here, looking impatiently into another life, which should know nothing of the bonds of the old.
Hurd's husband John M. Hurd, in short, is the President of the most important trolley system in this vicinity, the Massachusetts Light, Heat, and Traction Company. He is also, ex-officio, chairman of the board of directors, and except for some dynamos, cars, conductors, tracks, and other equipment, he is the trolley system." "That sounds like Mr. Hurd," the girl acknowledged.
Hurd, the book reviewer of the Transcript. For him I began to write an occasional critical article or poem just to try my hand. One of my regular "beats" was up the three long flights of stairs which led to Hurd's little den above Washington Street, for there I felt myself a little more of the literary man, a little nearer the current of American fiction.
Hurd's or any one else's roof seemed a curious and somewhat inappropriate place for a marriage ceremony, anyway, and he didn't think the prospect of himself and his ushers being obliged to reach the altar by crawling out of a scuttle would lend to the occasion a dignity strictly in accordance with his well-known reputation for always doing things in correct form.
She found herself exulting in his powers of tyranny, in the naked thrust of his words, so nervous, so pitiless. And then by a sudden flash she thought of him by Mrs. Hurd's fire, the dying child on his knee, against his breast. "Here," she thought, while her pulses leapt, "is the leader for me for these. Let him call, I will follow."
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