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Updated: May 7, 2025
Do you take me for a murderer?" "No; but there might be a mistake." "There is none. The powder is an opiate; it will harm no one. They will go to sleep a little earlier, and sleep a little longer and a little sounder than usual that is all." Mrs. Sharpe took the paper, but with evident reluctance. "I tell you it is all right," reiterated Hugh Ingelow; "no one is to be murdered but the dogs.
I introduced her to new books and especially to new poets; she had never heard of Browning and Jean Ingelow. She was so much cleverer than her neighbours that I often wondered how she could put up with them. How conservative these farmers and farmers' wives and daughters were, to be sure.
For an hour we talked of many things in both countries. Miss Ingelow showed great familiarity with American literature and with our national questions. While everything about her indicated deep love for poetry, and a keen sense of the beautiful, her conversation, fluent and admirable, showed her to be eminently practical and sensible, without a touch of sentimentality.
Your married life is likely to be a happy one, my dear Guy!" "Oh!" Dr. Guy aspirated, "if she only were my wife! Blanche, I would give all I possess on earth to know who that man is!" "Indeed!" said Mme. Blanche, coolly. "Then I think I can tell you: it was Hugh Ingelow." "Blanche!"
Oleander. The doctor advanced with an expectant smile; recoiled, a second later, at sight of the baronet, with a frown. "Good-day, doctor," said Miss Dane, politely. "Happy to see you. Lovely morning, is it not?" The doctor dropped into a seat. Hardly had he taken it, when "Mr. Ingelow!" exclaimed Margaret, opening the door. Mr.
Mollie said, hastily, blushing and laughing. "It would be light penance, in any case; to spend a day here, after a fortnight down yonder. What I mean is, I might improve the time by going to see Miriam." "If you wait, Miriam may improve the time by coming to see you." "No! What does she know about your studio?" "Heaps!" said Mr. Ingelow, coolly.
Evening came. Twilight, hazy and blue, fell like a silvery veil over the city, and the street-lamps twinkled through it like stars. Mr. Ingelow in an inner room had made his toilet, and stood before Mollie, hat in hand, ready to depart for the Walraven mansion. "Remain here another half hour," he was saying; "then follow and strike the conspirators dumb. It will be better than a melodrama.
Miss Dane is my ward, remember. You are her jilted lover, I remember. Therefore, I can make allowances. But no insinuations. If Miss Dane and Mr. Ingelow left together, you know as well as I do there was no impropriety in their doing so." "Did I say there was, Mr. Walraven? I mean to insinuate nothing. I barely state facts, told me by your servants."
Sharpe there, too! "They have driven me nearly out of my senses!" she said, with a sort of choking sob. "I don't know what I am doing half the time, and I was so glad to see a friend's familiar face, Mr. Ingelow." The blue eyes the eyes of a very child lifted themselves wistfully, deprecatingly, shining in tears. Hugh Ingelow was touched to the core of his heart. "I know it, my poor little girl!
Slimmens' earnest request, she retired, and that good woman took her place. At ten next day, the humble funeral cortège started. Mr. Ingelow sat in the carriage with Mollie, but they spoke very little during the melancholy drive. It was a dismal day, with ceaseless rain, and sighing wind, and leaden sky.
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