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Updated: June 16, 2025
This year there were forty who couldn't get in." "Oh!" breathed Tabitha, recalling with alarm Miss Pomeroy's words on the stairs. "Do they ever send them away after they have begun school here?" "I don't know. Why, yes, sometimes.
The old stone house, known as the "Deacon Pomeroy's place," that stood at the corner of Main and River streets, gives in a quaint gable an enduring record of romance in this sister Ann's young-life. It was built of stone in the peculiar herring-bone style by Judge William Cooper for a wedding gift to his only living daughter, Ann, when she married George Pomeroy, grandson of Gen.
"The first thing is for you to go out in the garden and attract Pomeroy's attention. He's locked in his bedroom." "But I don't know which is his bedroom," Hacking objected. "Well, you don't suppose the whole family are locked in their bedrooms, do you?" asked Mark scornfully. "But how do you know his bedroom is on this side of the house?" "I don't," said Mark. "That's what I want to find out.
Across more than ten years he recalled the careless, crisp little answer to some comment from Persis, his first precious memory of Rachael. The girls, he remembered, were supposedly too young for a certain dance that was imminent, they were opposing their youthful petulance baffled roses and sunshine to Mrs. Pomeroy's big, placid negatives.
As they pranced up the stairway, they met roguish Vera Foss hurrying toward the lower floor, and in answer to Carrie's laughing demand, "Where are you going, my pretty maid?" she said seriously, "To ask Miss Pomeroy's permission to stay here over Christmas." "Why?" cried the amazed conspirators in one breath.
I shall be happy to produce for any of your readers who find Mr. Pomeroy's story incredible at the close of the nineteenth century the signed statements of witnesses and other documentary evidence. I am, Sir, Your obedient servant, Danvers. The Right Honble. the Lord Danvers, P.C. President of the Society for the Protection of the English Church against Romish Aggression. My Lord,
Vera Villalonga says she knows, but I don't believe it. Magsie's a little nobody, she has no special talent, and here she is leading in a Barrett play " Peter Pomeroy's foot here pressed lightly against Rachael's; a hint, Rachael instantly suspected, that was intended for his wife. "Now I think Magsie's as straight as a string," the unconscious Mrs.
'So that is your tone, is it? he said slowly; and he reached for the tankard of ale that had been brought to him, and that now stood on a chest at the foot of the stairs. But Mr. Pomeroy's hand was on the pot first; in a second its contents were in Dunborough's face and dripping from his cravat.
About four o'clock the next afternoon he was walking up the main street, when just in front of Deacon Pinkerton's house he saw Tom leaning against a tree. "How are you Tom?" he said, and was about to pass on. "Where are you going?" Tom asked abruptly. "To Mr. Pomeroy's." "How soon are you going to the poorhouse to live?" "Who told you I was going?" "My father." "Then your father's mistaken."
Miss Pomeroy's lips twitched, but her voice was very stern, and the maid from Silver Bow flushed redder than ever, and contritely cried, "That was very hateful of me, but really, Miss Pomeroy, she never put those things back as she found them, because I had that drawer looking very neat and now see the muddle it is in!" "We will discuss that later.
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