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Updated: June 21, 2025
Then he said you wanted money of Mrs. Prichard...." "How the devil did he know that?" "He said it. And I told him the old lady had no money. It's little enough, if she has." "And that was all?" "All about Mrs. Prichard." "Anything else?" "He told me your name." "What name?" "Thornton Daverill." The moment Aunt M'riar had said this she was sorry for it.
Since the time of Leibnitz, and guided by such men as Humboldt, Abel Remusat, and Klaproth, Philology has taken far higher ground. Thus Prichard affirms that "the history of nations, termed Ethnology, must be mainly founded on the relations of their languages." An eminent living philologer, August Schleicher, in a recent essay, puts forward the claims of his science still more forcibly:
Prichard there, to my knowledge." "That's the name told to me, anyhow. Mrs. Prichard, of Sapps Court, London." "Now who ever told ye such a tale as that? I know now who ye mean, master. But she's not at Strides Cottage. She's up at the Towers" rather a hushed voice here "by the wish and permission of her young ladyship, Lady Gwendolen, and well cared for.
Prichard was one of two sisters, whose father owned a flour-mill near London. She married, and her husband committed forgery and was transported. He was sent to Van Diemen's Land the penal settlement." Gwen looked up furtively. No sign on the unconscious face yet of anything beyond mere perplexity!
Prichard pointed out where his own house lay, half hidden by a grove, and said 'May it please your majesty, I have advised my lord to cut down those trees, so that when he wants a good player at bowls, he may have but to beckon. 'Nay, returned the king, 'he should plant more trees, that so he might not see thy house at all.
"Because I want to talk a great deal.... Yes about Mrs. Prichard. I really should be comfortabler if you sat down.... Well Mr. Wardle can sit on the table if he likes." So that compromise was made, and Gwen got to business. "I really hardly know how to begin telling you," she said. "What has happened is so very odd.... Oh no I have seen to that.
"Now, how ever did you come to find that out, doctor?" said she. "We're a clever lot, us doctors! We've got to be clever.... Let's see, now where are we? Mrs. Prichard has a son who is called by your brother-in-law's name, but who is not your sister's son. Because if he were, Mrs. Prichard would be your sister. Which is impossible. But Mrs.
He might have seen it before, had he heard of the gipsy's mistake, but Ruth Thrale had never mentioned this. He remembered, too, in Gwen's story, some slight reference to a son of Mrs. Prichard who was a mauvais sujet. He determined on a daring coup. "Are you sure Mrs. Prichard is not the mother he was looking for?" said he. Granny Marrable was struck with his cleverness.
Burr, who took jobs out in the dressmaking, and very moderate charges. When Mrs. Burr worked at home, Mrs. Prichard enjoyed her society and knitted, while Mrs. Burr cut out and basted. Very few remarks were passed; for though Mrs. Burr was snappish now and again, company was company, and Mrs. Prichard she put up with a little temper at times, because we all had our trials; and Mrs.
Protheroe, belong to a species that is extinct at any rate, outside of Indiana. "The Chronicles of Don Q," by K. and Hesketh Prichard, J. B. Lippincott Company, is a picturesque tale of adventure, told, however, with a restraint that lends dignity and a fair degree of plausibility.
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