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Updated: June 12, 2025
There were Father and Mother, Uncle Samuel and Aunt Amy, all with presents, faces of birthday tolerance and "do-as-you-please-to-day, dear" expressions. The Rev. Herbert Cole was forty years of age, rector of St. James's, Polchester, during the last ten years, and marked out for greater preferment in the near future.
Denny's was simply a larger, more developed "dressing up" and pretending. In some mysterious but nevertheless direct fashion Dick Whittington was coming to Polchester. It was just as he had heard for a long time of the existence of Aunt Emily who lived in Manchester and then one day she appeared in a black bonnet and a shawl, and gave them wet kisses and sixpence apiece.
At first he had a little studio at the top of Orange Street. At this time he was rather popular in Polchester society. Mrs. Combermere took him up and found him audacious and amusing. His French name gave a kind of piquancy to his audacity; he was unusual; he was striking.
"With the Bishop? How nice! I wish I were. He's an old dear." "He wants to consult me about some of the Jubilee services," Brandon said in his public voice. "Won't Canon Ryle mind that?" "I don't care if he does. It's his own fault, for not managing things better." "I think the Bishop must be very lonely out there. He hardly ever comes into Polchester now.
Brandon hoped to have his finger on the Cathedral purse as tightly in a few weeks' time as he had had it before. And all this was in no sort of fashion for the Archdeacon's personal advancement or ambition. He was contented with Polchester, and quite prepared to live there for the rest of his days and be buried, with proper ceremonies, when his end came.
The elderly lady who most thoroughly circumscribed Jeremy was, of course putting Miss Jones, who was a governess and therefore did not count, aside Aunt Amy. Now Aunt Amy was probably the most conceited woman in Polchester. There is of course ordinary human conceit, of which every living being has his or her share.
Too sad to see the poor man's pale face, restless eyes, to watch his hurried, uneasy walk, as though he were suspicious of every man. Everywhere now Ronder sang Brandon's praises what fine work he had done in the past, how much the Church owed him; where would Polchester have been in the past without him? "I assure you," Ronder said to Mrs.
His head is raised by angels and at his feet beyond the vizor and gauntlets are tiny figures of four knights fully armed. A small arcade runs round the tomb with a series of shields in the spaces, and these shields have his motto, 'God giveth Strength, and the arms of the See of Polchester.
As he sat there he was not thinking of the Jubilee, the one thought at that time of every living soul in Polchester, man, woman and child he was thinking of no one but Brandon, with whom, to his own deep disgust, he was at last implacably, remorselessly, angry.
There are Trenchards all over Glebeshire, you know, lots of them. In Polchester, our cathedral town, where I was born, there are at least four Trenchard families. Then in Truxe, at Garth, at Rasselas, at Clinton but why should I bother you with all this? It's only to tell you that the Trenchards are simply Glebeshire for ever and ever.
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