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Updated: June 20, 2025
Unencumbered, therefore, she said au revoir to Roselawn, and set her compass for No. 8 Chelmsford Gardens, London. Chelmsford Gardens is a row of dignified houses on Oxford Street yet not on Oxford Street. A miniature park, some forty feet in depth, acts as a buffer-state between the street itself and the little group of town houses.
Through the damp-charged air the melancholy plaint of a single cow sounded like the warning of rocks on a foggy coast. In the air which was unstirred by a breath of wind the very buildings of Roselawn seemed strangely motionless, with their roofs glistening in their covering of moisture.
There was something about that journal's editorial page and its dignified treatment of events that made Roselawn seem the embodiment of British principle.
Have you let it?" pursues Bingo, ignoring his junior's request. Beauvayse yawns with ostentatious weariness of the subject. "No; I haven't let it." "Ought to go off like smoke, properly advertised. Somethin' like this: 'To let, Roselawn Cottage, Cookham: a charmin' Thames-side bijou residence.
Julius goes on: "At Roselawn Cottage a pretty place of the toy-residence description, standing in charming gardens not far from the Holiday Rest Home, lived a lady an actress very popular in Musical Comedy who was known to be the mistress of Lord Beauvayse. I need hardly tell you the Father touched on the unpleasant features of the story as delicately as possible " "Without doubt.
They're all going overboard. We've hoisted the black flag to-night, but with one, and only one, object to help Britain and the men of Britain to fight! And the British Fleet, at the King's command, was steaming out into the night. An early morning mist hung over the fields of Roselawn.
In vain the mother strove for her place in the sun; the rule of the masculine at Roselawn became adamant. Life in the Durwent ménage developed into a thing of laws and customs dictated by the youthful despot, aided and abetted by his father.
The sense of solitude at Roselawn made the outside world something so remote and apart that there was genuine curiosity to discover what the deuce it had been doing with itself during the house-party's retreat. Lord Durwent read the Morning Post as a sort of 'prairie oyster' or 'bromo-seltzer. It settled him.
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