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Updated: May 13, 2025
Moggridge really got so far even as cloudily to ponder that, it is evident that he was not far from the kingdom of beauty. It is, of course, true enough that some faces are spoilt by flaws such as every Mrs.
Moggridge had this great element of refinement, that he thought nothing honest beneath him. It was the Friday of the entertainment, about one o'clock, and though Mr. Moggridge had practically finished the work the day before, he had slipped in during his lunch-hour to give it a final touch or two.
Are you the man who's walled up in green cardboard boxes, and sometimes has the blinds down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx, and always there's a look of the sepulchral, something of the undertaker, the coffin, and the dusk about horse and driver? Do tell me but the doors slammed. We shall never meet again. Moggridge, farewell! Yes, yes, I'm coming.
Indeed you are wonderful porcelain, you fair English girls, wonderful porcelain; but where are the stars? Mrs. Moggridge had also remarked that Miss Strange was "very easy in her manners." This was not always the case with ladies in Coalchester, and Mrs. Moggridge did not mean the remark as an unreserved compliment. She liked a certain stiffness in strangers.
He slipped his arm through his attendant’s, shouted a farewell apparently to some imaginary divinity overhead, and turned towards the house. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he remarked. “Yes, sir,” replied Moggridge. “Funny thing your turning up. Out for a walk, I suppose?” “For a stroll, sir—that’s to say——” he stopped.
A human being, the quieter the better, if possible a rather large man, diffusing a sense of warmth and safety, with perhaps no other gifts than kindliness and a pipe; and sometimes you have the best of company. And Mr. Moggridge, as we know, had brains too, and interesting instincts for new things. But his best gift was his humanity.
Hardly had he left the door of the refreshment-room when he perceived an uncomfortably familiar figure just arrived, breathless with running, on the opposite platform. The light of a lamp fell on his shining face: it was Moggridge!
“Say to-morrow at four o’clock,” he suggested, pertinently. “If you could manage to be passing up the drive at that hour.” There was another pause. “Perhaps——” the voice began. At that moment he heard the sharp crack of a branch behind him, and turning instantly he spied the uncompromising countenance of Moggridge peering round a tree about twenty paces distant.
J. T. Moggridge, Harvesting Ants and Trap-door Spiders, contained in two elaborately illustrated volumes, London, 1873-74. Its habits have lately been described by D. Cleveland of San Diego. In the adobe land hillocks are numerous; they are about a foot in height, and some three or four feet in diameter.
She ate some cold fowl which presently appeared, entirely without embarrassment, though two Miss Moggridges sat like dummies and watched her. "That's an interesting face!" she said presently, pointing to a conspicuous portrait of a young man on the mantelpiece. "That's Mr. Londonderry," said Mr. Moggridge. "O! that's Mr. Londonderry, is it?" she said.
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