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Updated: May 13, 2025
As I shall explain presently, his devotion to the Arcadia very nearly married him against his will; but first I must describe his boudoir. We always called it Scrymgeour's boudoir after it had ceased to deserve the censure, just as we called Moggridge Jimmy because he was Jimmy to some of us as a boy.
Moggridge were supremely happy. With the exception of the poet, who, as we have seen, occasionally irradiated the poet's corner of the "Argus," and Mr.
In silence and with a suspicious solemnity Moggridge handed him the handkerchief, and they turned back for the house. “Now for a balloon,” Mr Beveridge reflected. Certainly it was cold. The frost nipped sharp that night, and next morning there were ice gardens on the windows, and the park lay white all through the winter sunshine.
DEAR SIR: I regret to have to return the inclosed paper, which is not quite suitable for the Nineteenth Century. I find that articles by unknown men, however good in themselves, attract little attention. I inclose list of contributors for next month, including, as you will observe, seven members of upper circles, and remain your obedient servant, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. Nineteenth Century. To Mr.
“The deuce, they will!” replied Mr Beveridge, cordially; “and it’s rather hard to forget ’em, eh?” “Hindeed it is, sir.” “I remembered this afternoon, but I should like you as a good chap to forget. You won’t mention my moment of weakness, Moggridge?” “No, sir,” said Moggridge, stoutly. “I suppose I hought to report what I sees, but I won’t this time.”
Moggridge and me I may as well explain that I am the chief deacon," said Mr. Moggridge, dexterously slipping off his painter's apron and getting into his coat. So, with a wistful glance at his work of art, Mr. Moggridge carried off the beautiful London lady to Zion View. But was Isabel Strange beautiful? It was a new sort of beauty if she was or perhaps a very old sort.
James Moggridge, editor of the Times, to return you the inclosed seven manuscripts, and to express his regret that there is at present no vacancy in the sub-editorial department of the Times such as Mr. Buckle kindly offers to fill. Yours faithfully, To Mr. James Knowles, Brick Lane, Spitalfields.
“Wot’s he bin up to now, I wonder,” Moggridge panted to himself—for the second pair of feet belonged to him. “Shamming nose-bleed and sending me in for an ’andkerchief, and then sneaking off here by ’isself!” “What a time you’ve been,” said Mr Beveridge, slipping the purse with its contents into his pocket. “I was so infernally cold I had to take a little walk. Got the handkerchief?”
He told me that no more had been seen of Vetch, and indeed the espionage upon the house had ceased, Sir Richard being resolved apparently to abide the issue of the action at law. The bill in chancery had been filed; answers had been put in by Mr. Moggridge on behalf of Sir Richard; and Mr.
Yes, there's always something going on at New Zion," he repeated, rubbing his hands gleefully. Mr. Moggridge did so love anything that was alive. Mr. Moggridge also told the story of "The Dawn," and generally, as he would have said, posted her up in the position of things at New Zion.
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