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Updated: May 25, 2025
"Well, well!" said the janitor, looking at the ink-splashed Doll and the ink-tipped Monkey. "I'll take these two toys home and maybe my little girl can clean them. Then I'll bring them back to school to-morrow, and the teacher can give them to whoever owns them. Yes, I'll take the Monkey and Doll home to my house." And this the janitor did.
When I sat face to face with Maxwell Hartington, my solicitor, in his ink-splashed, dirty, yellow-grained room with its rows of black tin boxes, I could no longer ignore that possibility. Maxwell Hartington sat back in his chair after his fashion, listening to my story, breathing noisily through his open mouth, perspiring little beads and looking more out of condition than ever.
There were a variety of uncomfortable chairs, an ink-splashed drugget, and red walls covered with pictures which had been banished from other rooms as they acquired the requisite stage of decrepitude and grime. The five girls surged into the room, faced each other, and burst into eager speech "Who's going to prison?" "We don't know. Wish we did!" "What do you mean by prison?" "Aunt Maria's!"
Her eyes went down the long bare room with its empty forms and ink-splashed desks. She thought it the most desolate place she had ever seen. After an interval of blank silence Dick spoke again. "Don't you stay! I'm not myself to-night. I can't think. It was awfully good of you to come. But don't stay!" "Dick!" she said. At sound of her voice he turned.
There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an old letter or of any other writing in either. The young surgeon examines the dress on the law- writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds. Mr.
Specially prominent, running indeed through the whole length of the shut-in space, that is, from the coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the wooden barrier, was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had first taken her place, there had been sitting three men busily sketching; but now every seat at the table was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking men, each with a notebook, or with some loose sheets of paper, before him.
"You give me a guinea, and I'll give you half an hour." With this reply Old Sharon held out his unwashed hand across the rickety ink-splashed table at which he was sitting. Mr. Troy would not have touched him with the tips of his own fingers for a thousand pounds. He laid the guinea on the table.
For the first time he realized the intense ugliness of this scene of his daily labors. The long desk, ink-splashed and decrepit, was covered with untidy piles of papers, some of them thick with dust; the walls were hung with seedy-looking files and an array of tattered bills; there were cobwebs in every corner, gaps in the linoleum floor-covering.
He would walk about the class-room mouthing great lines in a rich roar, and asking us with a flushed face and shining eyes if it was not "GLORIOUS." The very sight of Greek letters brings back to me the dingy, faded, ink-splashed quality of our class-room, the banging of books, Topham's disordered hair, the sheen of his alpaca gown, his deep unmusical intonations and the wide striding of his creaking boots.
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