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Updated: May 2, 2025
"It can't be helped, I suppose." She felt in the pocket of her sweater. "Oh, there's a letter for you. I've just been to fetch the mail. I don't know who it can be from. The handwriting looks like a vampire's. Kind of scrawly." Archie inspected the envelope. It provided no solution. "That's rummy! Who could be writing to me?" "Open it and see." "Dashed bright scheme! I will, Herbert Parker.
"Invited to the old station?" he mused. "I must go, of course, Too good a chance to miss." "Might have written herself!" he muttered, as he turned the letter over to see if by chance Miss Grant had written a line anywhere; then, laying it on one side, he took up carelessly a square business-like envelope, addressed to him in a scrawly, illiterate fist.
He had carelessly taken up a paper-bound volume of Chopin, and was on the point of commenting upon it, for he had lately begun to understand the difference between a Litolff and a Mikuli. But it slipped from his hand, and he was obliged to crawl under the piano to pick it up; on a corner of the cover, in a big, black, scrawly writing, was the name of Marie Louise Dufrayer.
This envelope was written in a scrawny, scrawly, gentleman's hand. "I put it into the office in the morning, directed to 'Mrs. Samuel E. Foote, and then sent word to Sis that it was coming, so that she might be ready to enact the part. "Well, the deception took. Uncle Sam examined it and pronounced, ex cathedra, that it must have been a real letter. Mr.
I made one of my nieces hunt up the book for me the other day, and the story brought back at once the little crib, or the watered blue moreen canopy of the big four-poster to which I was sometimes lifted for a change; even the scrawly pattern of the paper, which my weary eyes made into purple elves perpetually pursuing crimson ones, the foremost of whom always turned upside down; and the knobs in the Marseilles counterpane with which my fingers used to toy.
He worked so assiduously with this new toy that the table top was soon a mass of scrawly loops and irregular lines and his pencil-point worn down to the wood. Then he took another pencil, but this time he had a definite object in view. He would attempt to reproduce some of the little bugs that scrambled over the pages of his books.
When he had found what he looked for, he ran his eyes down the page, as if he were going to read it aloud. Then, however, he changed his mind; a boyish gratification overspread his face, and, tossing the letter to Krafft, he bade them read it for themselves. Furst leaned over the end of the sofa. It was written in English, in a bold, scrawly hand, and ran, without date or heading: MY OWN DEAREST
She remembered her father's Christmas fantasies: the sacred old rag doll at the top of the tree, the score of cheap presents, the punch and carols, the roast chestnuts by the fire, and the gravity with which the judge opened the children's scrawly notes and took cognizance of demands for sled-rides, for opinions upon the existence of Santa Claus.
Better give him a chance.” The note was signed in David Pollard’s well-known, scrawly handwriting. “I’m sorry you can’t see Mr. Farnum to-night,” said Benson, pleasantly. “He’ll be here early in the morning, though.” “When do you sail?” asked Truax, quickly. “That you would have to ask Mr. Farnum, too,” smiled Jack. “But, see here, Mr. Pollard engaged me to work aboard one of your submarines.”
Perhaps you remember my scrawly writing, with long tails to the letters? We were dreadfully disappointed that Mr Vanburgh had no daughters, for we have not many friends of our own age, but he tried to console us by saying that you were coming to pay him a visit.
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