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After some years had passed he married out there, and she married. His wife died when her first child, a boy, was born. Loxley also died, leaving his wife with an only daughter. Pavenham retired from business in South America, and came back with his son to his native village, where he meant to spend the rest of his days. Tom and Margaret were at once desperately smitten with one another.
'Monday's good, replied Jack; 'draw Thorney Gorse sure find; second draw, Barnlow Woods, and home by Loxley, Padmore, and so on. 'What sort of a place is Tuesday? 'Tuesday? repeated Jack. 'Tuesday! Oh, that's the cross-roads.
Loxley, her mother, was a Barfield, and old Pavenham, when he was a youth, fell in love with her. She was also in love with him. He was well-to-do, and farmed about seven hundred acres, but he was not thought good enough by the elder Barfields, who lived in what was called a park. They would not hear of the match. She was sent to France, and he went to Buenos Ayres.
He saw a long way, but he did not make believe he saw beyond his limit, and was content with it. A rare virtue is intellectual content! "Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi Finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios Tentaris numeros." The rector was telling me about Tom Pavenham's wedding. He has married Margaret Loxley, as you may perhaps have seen in the paper I sent you. Mrs.
Major-General Lee too was laid there; also General Mercer, killed at the battle of Princeton, but his body was afterward removed to Laurel Hill Cemetery." "We will visit Christ Church, I hope," said Rosie. "Carpenter's Hall too, where the first Continental Congress met, and Loxley House, where Lydia Darrah lived in Revolutionary times. You saw that, I suppose, mamma?"
The adjutant-general took up his quarters in Loxley House, the home of the Darrahs, and, as it was a secluded place, the superior officers frequently held meetings there for private conference on matters connected with the movements of the British troops." "One day the adjutant-general told Mrs.
The town is very ugly and gloomy; it is scarcely possible to say that there is a single good street, or an imposing or interesting public building, shops, warehouses and factories, and mean houses run zigzagging up and down the slopes of the tongues of land, or peninsulas, that extend into the rivers, or rather streamlets, of the Porter, the Riveling, the Loxley, the Sheaf, and the Don.
I went up to Jack, who was patting Neddy's neck, on which he stuck out his right arm, and said, "Link!" "What?" said I. "Link," said Jack; and as he stuck out his elbow again in an unmistakable fashion, I took his arm. "We call that linking, in these parts," said Jack. "Good-evening, Mrs. Loxley. Good-evening, Peter. Thank you, thank you. I'm very glad to get home too I should think not!"
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