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Updated: May 9, 2025
The watery sheet overhanging the fall glides so gently that no ripple is to be seen on the surface which mirrors the chaise as you drive past. The postboy smacks his whip; you turn past a crag; you cross a bridge: suddenly there is a terrific uproar of cascades tumbling together one upon another.
In less time than Hobson had mentioned, the carriage was announced. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Miching Mallecho. Sir Rowland, meantime, paced his chamber with a quick and agitated step. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself.
As the steaming horses stopped within a few paces of the chariot, the gentleman seated in the latter saw one of the ostlers go up to the post-chaise and heard him say, 'Soon back, Jimmie? 'Ay, and I ha' been stopped too, the postboy answered as he dropped his reins. 'No! in a tone of surprise. 'Was it Black Jack? 'Not he. 'Twas a woman! A murmur of astonishment greeted the answer.
"No, my dear; I was so full of the chickenpox, and terror about you, I could think of nothing else." "Thank you, dear mother but now that is out of the question, I had best write a line by the return of the postboy, to say, that Mr. Palmer is to be here to-day, and that he stays only one week." "Certainly! love but let me write about it, for I have particular reasons.
No one will know, and I shall have an equal chance with the others; if not, I shall fail, and to fail now would drive me mad." Just at that moment Florence, who had approached the window in her restless pacing up and down, saw the postboy enter the courtyard. She ran out to meet him. He brought several letters, and amongst others one for Florence from her mother.
In order to accomplish this, they had left Greshamsbury for Barchester exactly as the postboy was leaving Silverbridge for Greshamsbury. "I should like to wait for my letters," Mr Oriel had said, when the journey was being discussed. "Nonsense," Frank had answered. "Who ever got a letter that was worth waiting for?" and so Mary was doomed to a week of misery.
The postboy dismounted and rang the bell. "I almost think they are going to keep me waiting," said Mr. Richard, well-nigh in the very words of Louis XIV. But the fear was not realized, the door opened; a well-fed servant out of livery presented himself. There was no hearty welcoming smile on his face, but he opened the chaise-door with demure and taciturn respect. "Where's George?
This fellow looks like an executed postboy of other days, cut down from the gallows too soon, and restored and preserved by express diabolical agency. Numbers five, six, and seven, are hulking, idle, slouching young men, patched and shabby, too short in the sleeves and too tight in the legs, slimily clothed, foul-spoken, repulsive wretches inside and out.
Robberies were then of frequent occurrence in the neighbourhood of Bawtry, in Yorkshire; and one day a suspicious-looking character, whom they took to be a highwayman, made his appearance; but "John Rattray talking about powder and ball to the postboy, and showing his whanger, the fellow made off" Mrs.
The postboy thought it would be best to carry the wounded man to the village of Vallars, which was only half-a-league distant. "I'll go," he said, "to fetch the steadiest of the horses which remain. We'll tie the poor fellow securely on it, and lead it slowly ahead. I think him very ill.
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