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Presently, however, a loud halloa from the top of the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts. Wondering what the old gentleman could be doing there, Harold Quaritch walked up the steps that led to the summit of the mound, and found him standing at the entrance to the mushroom-shaped summer-house, contemplating the view. "There, Colonel," he said, "there's a perfect view for you.
I am not in alliance with Mr. Quaritch; in fact, I am afraid of him, for if I stayed a single hour in his library, where I never was but once, and then for fifteen minutes only, I should leave it so much poorer than I entered it that I should be reminded of the picture in the titlepage of Fuller's 'Historie of the Holy Warre, "We went out full. We returned empty."
"You have a good memory, Miss de la Molle," said he, feeling not a little pleased that she should have recollected the incident. "Evidently not better than your own, Colonel Quaritch," was the ready answer. "Besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally remembers them. It is a place where nothing happens time passes, that is all."
The letter here in part given was addrest by Vespucius to Soderini, the Gonfalonier of Florence. The translation, by one "M.K.," was published by Mr. Quaritch, the London bookseller, in 1885, and has been printed as one of the "Old South Leaflets!" The letter is believed to have been composed by Vespucius within a month after his return from his second voyage. Vespucius was a naval astronomer.
But I cannot consent to become a party to what I disapprove of so strongly, and this being the case, I must beg you to cease your visits to my house. "I am, sir, your obedient servant, "James de la Molle. "Colonel Quaritch, V.C." Ida as soon as she had sufficiently recovered herself also wrote to the Colonel.
Any person of discernment looking on Colonel Quaritch must have felt that he was in the presence of a good man not a prig or a milksop, but a man who had attained by virtue of thought and struggle that had left their marks upon him, a man whom it would not be well to tamper with, one to be respected by all, and feared of evildoers.
He was ushered into the drawing-room, where Ida was working, for it was a wet and windy afternoon. She rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and then came a pause which she did not seem inclined to break. At last he spoke. "Did the Squire get my letter, Miss de la Molle?" he asked. "Yes," she answered, rather icily. "Colonel Quaritch sent it up."
Bernard Quaritch at No. 15 Piccadilly, and introduced myself, not as one whose name he must know, but rather as a stranger, of whom he might have heard through my relative. The extensive literature of catalogues is probably little known to most of my readers. I do not pretend to claim a thorough acquaintance with it, but I know the luxury of reading good catalogues, and such are those of Mr.
Massey's summer-house on the top of Dead Man's Mount has been blown away, which is a good riddance for Colonel Quaritch. Why, what's the matter with you, dear? How pale you look!" "The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep," answered Ida. "And no wonder. Well, my love, you haven't wished me a merry Christmas yet. Goodness knows we want one badly enough.
This process he applied to the Tales that pleased him most, leaving what he considered Crabbe's best passages untouched. As early as 1876 he refers to the selection as already made, and he printed it for private circulation in 1879. Finally, in 1882, he added a preface of his own, and published it with Quaritch in Piccadilly.
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