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Updated: May 20, 2025
Had Gav been ready with an answer he could not have uttered it, for just then a terrible little man in black, who had been searching for him in likely places, seized him by the cuff of the neck, and, turning his face in an easterly direction, ran him to family worship. But there was still work to do for the other two. Walking home alone that night from Mr. Patullo's party, Mr.
He remembered, with the touch of almost physical nausea that assailed him when he saw them, one or two pictures in recent Paris exhibitions where the coveted accent of surprise had been produced by representing the sacred figure in the trivial monde of the boulevards, and fixed upon them as the source of Patullo's intolerable inspiration.
The poverty of the play faded out; he became almost unaware of the pinchbeck and the fustian of Patullo's invention, and its insufferable mixture with the fabric of which every thread was precious beyond imagination.
"That was the great Nonconformist success at home last year, wasn't it?" Arnold asked; "Leslie Patullo's play? I knew him at Oxford. I can't imagine he's a queer chap to be writing things like that." "It works out better than you than one might suppose," Hilda returned, moving toward the door. "Some of the situations are really almost novel, in spite of all your centuries of preaching."
The poverty of the play faded out; he became almost unaware of the pinchbeck and the fustian of Patullo's invention and its insufferable mixture with the fabric of which every thread was precious beyond imagination.
He remembered, with the touch of almost physical nausea that assailed him when he saw them, one or two pictures in recent Paris exhibitions where the coveted accent of surprise had been produced by representing the sacred figure in the trivial monde of the boulevards, and fixed upon them as the source of Patullo's intolerable inspiration.
"That was the great Nonconformist success at home last year, wasn't it?" Arnold asked; "Leslie Patullo's play? I knew him at Oxford. I can't imagine he's a queer chap to be writing things like that." "It works out better than you than one might suppose," Hilda returned, moving toward the door. "Some of the situations are really almost novel, in spite of all your centuries of preaching."
It was a kind o' like a man hoarse wi' a cauld, an' yet no that either. "'Wha bides i' this hoose? he said, ay standin there. "'It's Davit Patullo's hoose, I said, 'an' am the wife. "'Whaur's Hendry McQumpha? he speired. "'He's deid, I said. "He stood still for a fell while. "'An' his wife, Jess? he said. "'She's deid, too, I said. "I thocht he gae a groan, but it may hae been the gate.
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