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Updated: June 19, 2025
One who comes for the first time into new surroundings sees more, learns more about them in a brief period than has been seen and known by those who have lived there always. After a few hours of recalling and reconstructing Susan Lenox understood Sutherland probably better than she would have understood it had she lived a long eventless life there.
DEAR MOLLY, You're an awful miss when you're not here; what will you be, then, when you descend upon us from the heights of Lenox, from the schools of wisdom, from fiction and fine writing, from tragedy and comedy, from mountain mirrors reflecting all-surrounding beauty, down to plain, prosaic still-life in Sheffield? One thing I must desire of you.
"That would be very nice. I hear Lenox is more beautiful than ever." "Yes, it is, and about as difficult to get into as the kingdom of heaven. It's being spoiled for moderate people. The Hendersons and the Van Dams and that sort are in a race to see who shall build houses with the biggest rooms, and give the most expensive entertainments. It's all show. The old flavor has gone."
Lenox, returning, extended his firmly-knit length of figure on the sloping ground near by, and flung aside his cap; thus revealing more clearly the rugged contour of his head, and the black hair whose obstinate ripple no amount of brushing could subdue.
She found herself sitting down to face the mysteries of a meal whose type was different from any hitherto met in her brief experience of life. Her internal summing up was, "Of course I can't make any impression on Mr. Lenox. He likes the other kind of woman." She looked at Mrs.
On my way to the station, now, in fact, Madeline and I will go to see this rose among cabbages. We will introduce ourselves as your friends, Dick. If we think you are a mere deluded male thing, there the matter ends. If we, too, are carried away by enthusiasm, we will invite her on the spur of the moment, and Mr. Lenox, who, like most married men, is a connoisseur in pretty girls, can talk to her.
This exclusiveness of the titled French reminds me—incongruously enough—of a certain arrangement of graves in a Lenox cemetery, where the members of an old New England family lie buried in a circle with their feet toward its centre. When I asked, many years ago, the reason for this arrangement, a wit of that day—a daughter, by the bye, of Mrs.
Anne Nicholl, born in England about 1728, played the violin before the Duke of Cumberland at Huntley in 1746, and her granddaughter, Mary Anne Paton, also, who was better known as a singer and who became Lady Lenox, and afterwards Mrs. Wood, was a violinist. The celebrated Madame Gertrude Elizabeth Mara, one of the greatest singers of her time, was a violinist when young.
He waved his hand to them as he rode away beside the white-bearded judge, who was one of the most highly respected citizens of Lenox. "Well, he's a mighty fine sort of an old party, for a fact!" declared George, as they looked after the receding car; nor did he mean the slightest disrespect in speaking in this fashion of the interesting old man they had met in such a strange way.
Fortunately her room-mate was very sleepy next morning, and slumbered tranquilly on while the stealthy process of early dressing went forward. She did not lift an eyelid when Diana opened the door and crept downstairs. The big clock on the landing had not yet struck five, but Lenox was already waiting in the hall. He grinned as Diana joined him. "You are a sport!" he whispered.
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