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Within a wealth of palms and smilax was used. The reception took place between eight and ten and was attended by the Brooklyn delegation, Exposition officials, State and national representatives and many invited guests. An orchestra furnished music and throughout the evening a buffet luncheon was served. The receiving line consisted of Thomas W. Hynes, Commissioner for New York city, and Mrs.
Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she does? Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes's. Work Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them. What's that? Might be money.
They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will come again. Hynes shook his head. Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.
"Nay, my dear; in the interests of music, I frowned upon disorder." He added, with waving of his antennae eyebrows: "It was Helen's first opera." We all laughed hysterically, and then Mrs. Van Dam and John went away. Could could Mr. Hynes have gone to the Opera just because he had heard that I would be there? Saturday evening, Jan. 18. Since Monday I have left the house but once.
Fetherel, driving up to the Grand Central Station one morning about five months later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist, Archer Hynes, hurrying into the waiting-room ahead of her. Hynes, on his side, recognizing her brougham, turned back to greet her as the footman opened the carriage-door. "My dear colleague! Is it possible that we are traveling together?" Mrs.
Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old man vacated. "Did you serve Aungier Street?" he asked Mr. O'Connor. "Yes," said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda. "Did you call on Grimes?" "I did." "Well? How does he stand?" "He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell anyone what way I'm going to vote. But I think he'll be all right." "Why so?"
I have been there this summer, and I shall be there again before it is autumn, because Mary Hynes, a beautiful woman whose name is still a wonder by turf fires, died there sixty years ago; for our feet would linger where beauty has lived its life of sorrow to make us understand that it is not of the world.
And there they stayed. They wouldn't go. They stayed, and talked, while I shivered and grew hot with fear and gladness and the excitement of his presence; they talked of all senseless topics about the ball. "Why, Mr. Hynes, we've missed you," said Ethel carelessly, at sight of him. "Oh, Meg, tell us about last night, won't you? Helen's said nothing; almost nothing at all."
Fetherel blushed with pleasure. Hynes had given her two columns of praise in the Sunday "Meteor," and she had not yet learned to disguise her gratitude. "I am going to Ossining," she said, smilingly. "So am I. Why, this is almost as good as an elopement." "And it will end where elopements ought to in church." "In church? You're not going to Ossining to go to church?" "Why not?
"You'll have Judge Baker and Hynes, of course; and that what's the name of that shy young man who's just gone? He looks presentable." "But but " protested Aunt; "Bake'd never go; and Nelly has do you suppose Mr. Burke has evening clothes?" "Naturally," I said with nonchalance, though my quick temper was fired. I was as sure he hadn't as I was that Mrs.
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