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Updated: June 11, 2025
Give up dreams, old boy, and take to something useful. You might go back to your fiction writing; you seem to have leanings that way, and you know you need not publish the stories, except privately for the edification of your friends." With this Parthian shaft Bickley took his departure to make a job of Widow Jenkins's legs. I took his advice.
"Convince me of any of these things, Arbuthnot, and mind you I desire to be convinced, and I will take back every word I have said and walk through Fulcombe in a white sheet proclaiming myself the fool. Now, I must get off to the Cottage Hospital to cut out Widow Jenkins's varicose veins. They are tangible and real at any rate; about the largest I ever saw, indeed.
"My father died of dropsy; and I may just as well set on, and poke and pat at myself every other morning, to see if it's not attacking me. Only think what would become of this office without you! Galloway would fret and fume himself into his tomb at having nobody but me in it." A smile crossed Jenkins's face at the idea of the office, confided to the management of Roland Yorke.
The interior also is silting up so fast that it will constantly require dredging to admit boats. In fact, the colony must deeply repent not having patronised Mr. Jenkins's project of a T-headed pier, on one side of which landing would have been practicable in all weathers.
This intention he carried out about two days after Frank Gresham had done the same thing. He had delayed doing so till he had succeeded in purchasing his friend Jenkins's Arab pony, imagining that such a present could not but go far in weaning Mary's heart from her other lover.
There was another happy disappearance and silence before she resumed: "I was sentimental enough to want to deliver it in an unusual way. I took it to Mrs. Jenkins's house the day your surplice was to be returned to you, and I slipped it inside the pocket. I wanted you to find it there on Sunday morning.
Jenkins's proffered invitation to partake of tea and broiled fowl, Arthur departed carrying off the work. "A pretty time o' day this is to deliver the letters. It's eleven o'clock!" "I can't help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its time." "I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that's what it is.
The plebeian name, accentuated proudly by the liveried servants, and announced in a resounding voice, sounded in Jenkins's drawing-rooms like the clash of a cymbal, one of those gongs which, in fairy pieces at the theatre, are the prelude to fantastic apparitions.
Jenkins's visit to Monpavon at his toilet, the dejeuner at the Nabob's, the inspection of the OEuvre de Bethleem which would have delighted Dickens the collapse of the fetes of the Bey, the Nabob's thrashing Moessard, the death of Mora, Felicia's attempt to escape the funeral of the duke, the interview between the Nabob and Hemerlingue, the baiting in the Chamber, the suicide of that supreme man of tone, Monpavon, the Nabob's apoplectic seizure in the theatre these and many other scenes and episodes, together with descriptions and touches, stand out in our memories more distinctly and impressively than the characters do perhaps more so than does the central motive, the outrageous exploitation of the naive hero.
It looks just like that old barn of Deacon Jenkins's." "Yes," said Mrs. Carr. "That's it, exzackly. Well, I never thought o' offerin' to hire a barn to live in afore, but I s'pose 't'll do till we can look about. Mebbe we can do better." "But we've taken it for a year, mother," said Mercy, a little dismayed. "Oh, hev we?
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