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Updated: June 22, 2025
I called out, and I flung it violently over the wall which skirted the gymnasium and formed the boundary to the cemetery. "Oh, the young plague!" muttered the officer, and then, apologising to the nuns, he saluted them and went away, accompanied by Father Larcher. As for me, I felt like a fox with its tail cut. I refused to come down immediately.
He is a young man clothed to be the fit companion of Miss Hill, and he waits self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously greets Florence as her dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her gloved fingers and a "How d'ye do, Mr. Kenby," on the father. She then introduces the young man as Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there appears a surprised admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty.
Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his inner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as a man could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, however, when Larcher did. "Where are you going?" the latter asked. "Home," was the reply; thus amended the next instant: "To my room, that is." "I'll walk with you, if you don't mind.
I love him! and I hold you answerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way to bring you to account!" Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: "In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you.
"That's true," said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done.
The forehead was ample and smooth, as far as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with a negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd painwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an unquenchable humor. "This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself," said Larcher, handing it. "Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport.
Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me for another month. He knew I gener'ly had use for money whenever it happened along. He was a kind-hearted I mean he is a kind-hearted man. Hear me speakin' of him as if What's that?" It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready.
Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for himself. "I just came in to tell you what I've discovered," said Edna. "Mr. Turl is in love with Florence Kenby!" "How do you know?" asked Larcher. "By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, too I can see that." "And what does she appear to think about it?" "What would she think about it?
There was a cylindrical stove, but not in use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and beside the stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly full of coal. While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was offering chairs, Davenport made directly for the window and looked out with an interest limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so.
As soon as he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. "Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?" inquired Larcher, having observed the usual preliminaries to interrogation.
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