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Updated: June 9, 2025
It was a messenger of death from the Musgrave Ranges, the mysterious, dreaded, fascinating Musgrave Ranges. The air behind the storm was cool and bright and clean. Not a spot of rain had fallen, but there was the same new-washed freshness about everything which comes after a sudden summer shower.
The man Colonel Musgrave found there was big and loose-jointed, with traces of puffiness about his face. He had wheat-colored hair and weakish-looking, pale blue eyes. One of his arms was about Miss Stapylton, but he released her now, and blinked at Rudolph Musgrave. "And who are you, pray?" he demanded, querulously. "What do you want, anyhow?
He it is Musgrave, of course has joined me, and is leaning his flat back also against the apostle, and, like me, is looking at the mist, at the red and yellow leaves at the whole low-spirited panorama. "She is ill," say I, lamentably, drawing a portrait in lamp-black and Indian-ink of the whole family; "we are all ill Barbara is ill!" "Poor Barbara!" "She has got a headache." "POOR Barbara!"
What we disagree about is only the precise amount of finish which is appropriate to the particular work. Musgrave would hold, in the case of Flaubert, that he was, in his novels, trying to give to the cathedral the finish of the gem, and polishing a colossal statue as though it were a tiny statuette."
"We must keep faith with one another at least." Hunt-Goring closed his eyes completely, and smiled a placid smile. "Dear Mrs. Musgrave," he said, "you are a true woman." And she did not hear the note of exultation below the lazy appreciation of his words.
It gave him a queer sort of shock, too, as he comprehended, for the first time, that the faint blue vein on that lifted arm held Musgrave blood, the same blood which at this thought quickened. For any person guided by appearances, Rudolph Musgrave considered, would have surmised that the vein in question contained celestial ichor or some yet diviner fluid.
"I think so," assented Musgrave, calmly. "But, then, my opinion is, naturally, rather prejudiced." "Yes, I can understand what Patricia must mean to you" Mr. Charteris sighed, and passed his hand over his forehead in a graceful fashion, "and I, also, love her far too dearly to imperil her happiness. I think that heaven never made a woman more worthy to be loved.
She was not in the drawing-room when the self-invited guest arrived, and it fell to her husband to receive and entertain him. Noel, however, was extremely easy to entertain at all times. He was never bored. "It was so awfully good of Mrs. Musgrave to let me come," he observed to his host, on shaking hands. "I had to beg jolly hard, I can tell you.
Have you been sitting here by yourself all the morning? Why didn't you go down to Daisy Musgrave?" "I didn't want to, Nick. I I don't in the least mind being by myself," she told him, mastering herself with difficulty. "Tell me what you've been doing all this time!" "I?" said Nick. "Watching and listening chiefly. Not much else. Is the post in? Come and help me read my letters!" "They're here."
"Sophist, don't I know my Lichfield? I know it almost as well as I know Rudolph Musgrave. And so I prophesy that he will not marry Clarice Pendomer, because he is inevitably tired of her by this. He will marry money, just as all the Musgraves do.
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