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Updated: May 31, 2025
"And, certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very delightful that one would covet it for her." "Any more than she does for herself." Norman was right in his view of his friend's motives, as well as of Ethel's present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away.
She sat down on a low chair by the window with the fearlessness of one whose complexion is not a matter of anxiety, and she told Mrs. Ogilvie the story of the disaster. 'Toffy's so awfully unlucky, said Jane, with genuine sympathy showing in her eyes and voice; 'and the doctor says his hand will be bad for a week at least. 'Is there such a thing as bad luck? said Mrs.
Mrs. Brownlow had a black lace veil thrown over her head; and both she and the clergyman with her, in muslin-veiled hat, had large white sunshades. "Little did we think where we should meet again, and why, Mr. Ogilvie. Do you feel as if you had got into 'Tales of the Alhambra, or into the 'Tempest'?" "I hope not to continue in the 'Tempest, at any rate, after this Algier wedding."
Ogilvie, who had a certain pride in his club, though it was only one of the junior institutions, had placed before his friend, met with but scanty curiosity: Macleod would rather have handed questions of cookery over to his cousin Janet.
Peter Ogilvie, meanwhile, and his friend, Nigel Christopherson, were in the midst of weather as hot as can be very well endured even by English people, who seem capable of resisting almost every sort of bad climate.
"You might just look in the dictionary Ogilvie there," and while Edwin ferreted in the bookcase, Mr Orgreave proceeded, reading: "`The pandemic of 1889 has been followed by epidemics, and by endemic prevalence in some areas! So you see how many demics there are! I suppose they'd call it an epidemic we've got in the town now." His voice had changed on the last sentence.
'I wish we hadn't asked Peter to stay and amuse Toffy! said Jane, with compunction. There was a tired white look on Mrs. Ogilvie's face, and an appearance of fatigue in her movements which neither her supreme art of dressing nor the careful manipulation of light in the room wholly concealed. 'Ah, now you are beginning to repent! said Mrs. Ogilvie.
"Yes, MY gown; whose else could you more appropriately borrow, pray? Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe presses, sponges, and darns my bachelor wardrobe, but I confess I never suspected that she rented it out for theatrical purposes. I have been calling upon you in Pettybaw; Lady Ardmore was there at the same time.
'I tell you what, though, he exclaimed, 'I believe the sash round the child's waist is made of Ogilvie tartan. A bare-legged boy on a lean pony was seen approaching them in a cloud of dust. The pony's short canter made his pace as easy as a rocking-chair; and Lara's son, who rode him, was half asleep in the heat. The post-bag dangled from his saddle, and the reins lay on the pony's neck.
"No, Flora, but I must go. Thank you for all this pleasure, but I shall have heard Norman's poem, and then I must go." Flora turned her round, looked in her face kindly, kissed her, and said, "My dear, never mind, it will all come right again only, don't run away." "What will come right?" "Any little misunderstanding with Norman Ogilvie."
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