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Updated: May 18, 2025
Killigrew had lived his life very thoroughly, though he had always loved not well but too wisely.
He smiled a little to himself; he could picture Killigrew, leaning attentive, turning the pages, smiling between narrowed lids at the lovely thing she looked chin raised and full throat vibrant yet giving so little away beyond his admiration. The song faded, silence fell, then a door opened and closed. Vassie's voice was raised, this time in welcome.
A murmur of assent came from the others, who saw an impossibly difficult situation thus in a way to be solved as far as the two principals in the quarrel were concerned, while to themselves it gave time to adjust their attitude, which they did not all take as simply as had Killigrew.
He rearranged his papers, crackling them suggestively. "Picnic this afternoon; going along?" asked Lord Monckton, pausing by the portières. "Really, I am not a guest here; I am only private secretary to Mrs. Killigrew. If they treat me as a human being it is because they believe that charity should not play in grooves." "Ah! We are all open to a little charity." "That's true enough. Good morning."
Carminow was full of stories, all, needless to say, of a sanguinary nature; Killigrew capped them, or tried to, by would-be immoral tales of Paris; and Ishmael said very little, but, with his deadly clarity of vision for once working beneficently, sat there aware how young and somehow rather lovable they were through it all, while he himself, whom they were obviously treating as so so much younger in the ways of the world, felt old compared with them.
"O'Mally, what's your opinion?" "On what?" "La Signorina," said Worth. "What about her?" "What do you think of her? She's not one of us; she belongs to another class, and the stage is only an incident." "Well, I don't know what to think. I've pumped Killigrew, but she seems to be in the dark with the rest of us.
She would never be the same again, and the hand she held softly against her cheek would never be the same hand. Where was the tranquillity of that morning? Fitzgerald found himself alone with Ferraud again. There was going to be no dissembling; he was going to speak frankly. "You have evidently discovered it. Yes, I love Miss Killigrew, well enough to die for her." "Zut!
Merrihew's face lengthened. He pulled the yellow hair out of his eyes and gulped his coffee. "Kitty Killigrew leaves in two weeks for Europe." "And who the deuce is Kitty Killigrew?" demanded Hillard. "What?" reproachfully. "You haven't heard of Kitty Killigrew in The Modern Maid? Where've you been? Pippin! Prettiest soubrette that's hit the town in a dog's age."
Colonel Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr.
Buckhurst had a parting interview with the governor-general, at which Killigrew and Beale, the new English counsellors who had replaced Wilkes and Clerk, were present. The conversation was marked by insolence on the part of Leicester, and by much bitterness on that of Buckhurst.
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