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"Doesn't sound inspiring. Did you go to that fair or bazaar thing yesterday?" She smiled with her lips, but her eyes darkened. "Yes, I went. It was not altogether enjoyable. I doubt if I'll try that sort of thing again." Sherwood's eye suddenly became cold and dangerous. "If they didn't treat you right " She smiled, genuinely this time, at his sudden truculence.
This morning Marion noticed a letter from Frank amongst the pile, and, without a word, pounced upon it. She was curious as any woman would be to see how he took Miss Sherwood's action. Her father was deep in his paper at the time. Her mother was reading other letters. Marion read the first few lines with a feeling of almost painful wonder, the words were so curious, cynical, and cold.
As they neared Morristown, where Grandma Sherwood lived, the hills were higher and the views more picturesque. It was not yet dusk when they reached Grandma Sherwood's house, and they found the wide gate hospitably open for them. They swung into the driveway, and in another moment they saw Grandma and Uncle Steve on the veranda, waiting to welcome them.
He could hear this man Harrington, as the rebels came rushing on, crying out: 'No quarter! 'Kill every Yankee! 'Let none escape! 'Rid the country of the last one! 'Take no prisoners! The panic continued on our right, and at least one-half of this part of Sherwood's command broke, and was utterly disorganized, hiding behind trees, in hollows and ravines, to cover themselves from the enemy.
In the following pages will be found an epitome of all the information which has reached Europe concerning them, derived principally from Dr. Sherwood's treatise upon the subject, published in 1816, and the still more valuable and more recent work of Mr. Sleeman, entitled the "Ramaseeana; or, Vocabulary of the peculiar Language of the Thugs."
Nothing else in Papa Sherwood's letter, aside from the good news of Momsey's improved health, so pleased her as this thought. She hastened to write a long letter to Bess Harley, with Lakeview Hall as the text. Summer seemed to stride out of the forest now, full panoplied. After the frost and snow of her early days at Pine Camp, Nan had not expected such heat. The pools beside the road steamed.
Their preliminary task of watching the jail for a possible escape finished, they had been again gathered. With beautiful military precision they wheeled and came to rest facing the frowning walls of the jail, the cannon pointed at the door. Nan gasped sharply, and seized Mrs. Sherwood's arm with both hands. She had recognized Keith standing by the right wheel of the cannon.
Ben ground his teeth with rage, as he listened to this plain description of himself, and, in accordance with his usual practice in such cases, vowed to be revenged upon the man who had traduced him, which was his interpretation of Mr. Sherwood's candid statement of the truth.
For some unaccountable reason Francis made no answer, and the old man seemed much disturbed. Other letters were dispatched. Still no answer. After long waiting a letter in a feminine hand, postmarked "San Francisco," and addressed to "Rob't Palmer, Moore's Flat," found its way through the snow-drifts to Sherwood's ranch. It was from Harriet Somers. But no letter came from Francis.
Sherwood's couch into the room. "It is too bad to waste that sweet music on bare walls, Miss Dexie," said Guy smiling, "so I have brought an audience. Go on with what you were playing; the little I heard was very beautiful, so do not let us interrupt you.
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