Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 1, 2025
For the Queerington family tree was afflicted with too many branches. There were little dry twigs of maidenly cousins, knotted and dwarfed stumps of half-gone uncles and aunts, vigorous, demanding shoots of nephews and niece's, all of whom had hitherto imposed upon the Doctor's slender income, and his too generous hospitality.
"Well, I give notice," announced Myrtella with all the dignity of offended majesty, and shoving Chick before her, she slammed the door upon the astonished Doctor and stalked haughtily down the stairs. "A bride who doesn't see her duty, should be made to see it," declared Mrs. Sequin to Mrs. Ivy in her most impressive manner." Something is naturally expected of the wife of John Jay Queerington.
It sounds like some one singing in the dining-room." "It's the new furnace man, madam, that Mrs. Queerington sent. It looks like he can't keep himself quiet." "I'll quiet him!" said Mrs. Sequin, who was as near irritation as full dress would permit. Phineas Flathers, having replenished the fire, was pausing a moment to admire himself in the Dutch mirror above the mantel when Mrs.
I had on a bran' new pair ob pants dat cost two-hundred an' sixty-fo' dollars in Confederate money! When Mr. Abe Lincum set us niggers free, dey made us git married all ober agin wid a preacher an' a Bible, but I never seed no diffunce." "Does Mrs. Mrs. Queerington ever come back to Thornwood?" asked the stranger, stumbling over the name as if it were very hard for him to say.
"It all used to be ours, long before it was ever called Billy-goat Hill." "The name is a handicap," said the Doctor. "You might modify it, Katherine, by calling your prospective mansion 'Angora Heights." "The very thing," said Mrs. Sequin, eager to seize upon any suggestion that emanated from the Queerington intellect. "But who does the ground belong to?" "It belongs to Mr. Wicker, now."
"That settles it, Connie," she said; "you girls can play for yourselves. Come on and go to bed, Kiddie," and with Bertie at her heels, the new mistress of Queerington raced down the hall. For ten years Doctor Queerington and Mr. Gooch had played pinochle every Friday evening. The Doctor did not especially enjoy it, except as one of those incidents that grows acceptable by long repetition.
For two days he had been made to stay in bed, and this morning he had suffered his third bath and been deprived of his breakfast. His being there at all was merely a concession to friendship. Mis' Queerington had persuaded him. He wouldn't have come for the Other One, the fat one who smiled and talked about The Willows Awful Home.
Something sang through every fiber of him. "Miss Lady!" he cried, catching the hands she extended in both of his, then as she drew back from his too ardent look, he remembered. "I beg your pardon of course it's Mrs. Queerington, now." "Not to you, Don. When did you come? Are you well again? Didn't any one know you were coming? Have the others seen you?"
Gooch said, taking his accustomed seat at the table, with a solicitous eye on the door where Myrtella would appear with the soup. "I shall do my best for him, but I have my doubts." "You say he has been here a week?" the Doctor asked. "Strange he has not been in to see us. He was always fond of the children, and professed a certain regard, I believe, for me. I want him to meet Mrs. Queerington."
"You say you don't know the rules of the game. I know them backwards and forwards and upside down. You let me play this hand for you with Connie Queerington, and you stand to win." "But but you?" "Heavens, man! Do you suppose if it were anything to me I'd have forgotten to read her letter all this time? No, I am through with that sort of thing." He turned his head abruptly and his face darkened.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking