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It was a great comfort to know that and of course I never cried after that for fear of worrying her. But at first it was very lonely. Why, Rosie—” She stopped terrified. “What’s the matter?” Rosie had thrown herself on the couch, and was crying bitterly. “Oh, Maida,” she sobbed, “that’s exactly what they say to me when I ask them—‘next week’ and ‘next week’ and ‘next week’ until I’m sick of it.
"Sir," said he, "I forgot to say, that on returning from Maida Hill, I took shelter from the rain under a covered passage, and there I met unexpectedly with your nephew, Frank Hazeldean." "Ah!" said Egerton, indifferently, "a fine young man; in the Guards.
By the time we got into Alessandria, with its mighty maze of fortifications, I was so weak from laughing that I giggled hysterically at sight of the Prince standing in the doorway of a hotel which we were sailing past. I pointed at him, as Maida had pointed at Vittorio Alfieri's tablet, and Mamma gave a welcome meant to drown my giggle. Mr.
The rain ran down and dripped from her fingers. Some one turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into Mr. Ramsay's eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest. "Why, Miss Maida," said he, "you look simply magnificent in your new dress. I was greatly disappointed not to see you at our dinner. And of all the girls I ever knew, you show the greatest sense and intelligence.
“Do you know what you look like, Maida?” Rosie said once. Before Maida could answer, she went on. “You look like that little mermaid princess in Anderson’s fairy tales—the one who had to suffer so to get legs like mortals.” “Do I?” Maida laughed. “Now isn’t it strange I have always thought that you look like somebody in a fairy tale, too.
The Constable family. Mistaken admiration for minute detail. Projected journey to Egypt. Mr. Ruskin. Bonomi. Samuel Sharpe. Tennyson. My lodgings were at Maida Hill, and I soon became personally acquainted with a writer whom I knew already by correspondence, Mr. R. W. Mackay, author of "The Progress of the Intellect." Mr. Mackay was for many years a kind friend of mine.
But I should have thought all his time was taken up with your mother." "Oh my! no. He wants her to think that. But you see, he's got more time than anything else, so he has plenty to spare for me, and Maida too. Do you know what he called us to a friend of his in this hotel? The friend's wife told her maid, and she passed it on to our Agnes, who repeated it to me because we were sending her away.
Barrymore got rather red, but he only laughed and answered, "Yes, that's why I spoke in Joseph's defence. A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind," while Maida looked as if she would like to set the new dog at His Highness.
For we were to lunch at Pavia, before seeing the Certosa that Maida had been talking about for hours with the Chauffeulier; and before us, as we crossed the Ticino bridged by a dear, old, arching, wooden-roofed thing supported with a hundred granite columns bubbled and soared a group of grey domes and campaniles against a turquoise sky.
"I will not try after to-night, if what I have to tell doesn't change your mind," said Maida. "But, just this once " "No no!" "Very well then, I will say nothing except " "Be careful!" "Oh," and the girl turned imploringly to me, "take us somewhere, so that I can talk to her alone." "There's said to be a good enough hotel in Cettinje. I'll take you both there," I ventured.
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