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A Member of Parliament had written to the Morning Post about it ... a Conservative member of Parliament, not a Liberal or a Socialist, mark you, but a Conservative.... "Two thousand cases expected in one town," Mullally whispered. "Knows it for a fact. Seen the girls!..." Mullally proposed a calculation.
"You always were a bloody fool, Mullally, and you're a bloodier one now. Good afternoon!" said Henry, turning to look at the train which was now entering the station. He hurried to secure a carriage, and while he was settling his bag on the rack, he heard the voice of Mullally bleating in his ear. "I'm going to Exeter, too," he said. "I'll just get in with you.
He would be sure to say "little ones" when he meant "children." "He has a daughter!" "Oh, indeed! He must be very gratified. And Farlow and Graham, how are they, and what are they doing?" "Farlow's in Gallipoli and Graham's in France!..." "Oh, this dreadful war," Mullally exclaimed, wrinkling his features. "I'm greatly opposed to it. I've been addressing meetings on the subject!" "Have you?"
He had looked at him, vaguely wondering who he was and why his face should seem familiar, until recollection had come to him, and then, with a return of the old aversion, he had turned away, hoping that Mullally had not seen or recognised him. But Mullally had recognised him, and, unable as ever to understand that his acquaintance was not wanted, he came to Henry and held out his hand.
I saw somewhere that Farlow'd written a play, but I didn't see it. I've read one or two of your books, by the way. Quite good, I thought! What did you say'd become of them?" "Carey's in London ... at the Bar," Henry answered. "I've just been staying with him. He's married!..." "Dear me! And has he any ... little ones?" Oh, that was like Mullally!
Babbitt was strangely unmoved by the tidings from the Real Estate and Building column of the Advocate-Times: Ashtabula Street, 496 J. K. Dawson to Thomas Mullally, April 17, 15.7 X 112.2, mtg. $4000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nom And this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to entertain her with items from Mechanics' Liens, Mortgages Recorded, and Contracts Awarded. He rose.
There was something of a flabby sort in Mullally's nature that made Henry instinctively angry with him: his vague features, his weak, wandering eyes, peering from behind large glasses, his tow-coloured hair that seemed to have "washed-out," and above all, his squeaky voice that piped on one jerky note.... It was Gilbert Farlow who gave Mullally his nick-name.
Remember Mullally, the ... the boiled worm!" he continued, "an' say you won't go!" "But my father was at Oxford," said Roger quietly. "Your father was a parson and didn't know any better," Gilbert replied. "And that reminds me, if one of us becomes a parson, the rest of us give him the chuck. Is that agreed?" Ninian held up both his hands. "Carried unanimous!" he said. "I don't know!"
He would have to see his lawyers in Dublin ... there would be a marriage settlement to make and business connected with the estate to settle ... and that done, and his book ready for the printers, he would be free. "I wish the next two months were over," he said to himself. He had to change at Salisbury, and while he was waiting for the slow train to Exeter, he met Mullally.
"I don't" said Henry, "but I get out at the next station!" "I see," said Mullally. "About time," Henry thought. After dinner, he asked Mary to walk to the village with him. "Isn't it late?" Mrs. Graham objected. "Oh, no," he answered. "It's a beautiful moonlight night, and I feel I want to stretch my legs. I've been cooped up in the train best part of the day. Come along, Mary!"
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