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Updated: June 2, 2025
"I am a Methodist minister, spending some time at St. Ignace, and yesterday I encountered a lady, who, I believe, lives here. At least, I " The other cut him short. "Ringfield? That is your name? Anneau, champ no the other way, Champanneau. We have not this name with us. Yet, I do not know, it may be a good name."
Moral and social wisdom, tact and experience of the world, often atone for intellectual shortcomings, especially in rural districts, and Ringfield was compelled to admit that he was not the only worker in the neighbourhood capable of understanding the wants of the people. Mr. Abercorn was about fifty, but as enthusiastic and energetic as a much younger man.
Have I named the lady of my choice or have I not? The gay Pauline, the witty Pauline, the handsome Pauline! Ah! You admire her yourself. You wrote her a letter. I gave it to her and we read it together and laughed at it. 'Yours in Christ. Ha-ha! We laughed at it, Ringfield." Even in his foolish insults he paused, for an awful expression appeared for a moment on the other's face.
Ringfield, now committed to his duty at St. Ignace, was experiencing that reaction which must always follow upon a sudden change in the affairs of life when the person concerned has a tendency towards the reflective.
I would not take her back now, for she leave me to go nurse him, and not threat me right. No sir, not threat me, her husband, Amable Poussette, right at all." "I'm in no mood for these difficult distinctions in morality!" cried Ringfield in exasperation. "What day is this wedding tell me that!"
Three lay about in the hall; four were stretched on the grass in front of the door, and Ringfield saw two more so large and brown and with such huge tigers' heads, prowling under the trees, that he scarcely took them for cats.
She lowered her eyes, her mouth twitched once or twice, then she remained silent and passive while Ringfield, thinking he had said enough, resumed his paddling. It was some minutes before conversation recommenced and then Mademoiselle Clairville requested him to return.
And Ringfield, as almost any other man would have done, mistakenly concluded that she was the unfortunate mother of the unfortunate child in the distant parish, Angeel!
Then, as lovers will, he rebuked himself for this; perhaps Crabbe had taken refuge in the loft without her knowledge, and the great final crash had brought him down; perhaps she had known he was there, but was ashamed of producing him in a semi-drunken condition, perhaps then Ringfield saw the distant lights of the Manor House and hastened towards them.
Poussette again reflected. Any latent jealousy he had entertained of the minister tended to disappear under the fire of these inquisitorial interviews, and Ringfield might always be credited with having fine command over his features. "Ah, well, m'sieu," said the Frenchman, sagaciously nodding, "Crabbe is no harm.
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