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Updated: June 13, 2025
'Heaven preserve me from them, said Bude, and he gently stroked the strange muddy pearls in the sleeve-links on his loose shirt-cuff. It was a moment of emotion. Six silvery strokes were sounded from a little clock on the chimney-piece. The hour of confidences had struck. 'Bude, you are serious about Miss McCabe? asked Merton. 'I mean to put it to the touch at Goodwood. 'No use! said Merton.
"I wish you would lunch with me at White's to-morrow," he said. "We can talk it over quietly. Say half-past one. By the bye, I didn't catch your name." I spelt it to him: he wrote the appointment down on his shirt-cuff. I went to White's the next day and waited an hour, but he did not turn up. I met him three weeks later at a garden-party with his wife. But he appeared to have forgotten me.
But now he sprang to his feet, strode across, and, pulling a ragged shirt-cuff down from under his coat-sleeve, shook it in his son's eyes poverty. He went to one of the rotting doors and jerking it open without turning the knob, rattled it on its loose hinges poverty.
Meecher's boarding-house, and he wrote them down reverently on his shirt-cuff. "Yes, on second thoughts, do write," she said. "Of course, I shall want to know how you've got on. I... oh, my goodness! That clock's not right?" "Just about. What time does your train go?" "Go! It's gone! Or, at least, it goes in about two seconds."
A sheet of foolscap paper, and upon it a long slender hand. The hand traced a few lines of fine, beautiful caligraphy, then it paused, correcting with extreme care what was already written, and in a hesitating, minute way, telling of a brain that delighted in the correction rather than in the creation of form. The shirt-cuff was frayed and dirty. The coat was thin and shiny.
"If I haven't telephoned to you before half-past eight to-morrow morning, come straight to my house," said the Duke, scribbling the telephone number on his shirt-cuff. "Yes, yes," said Sonia. "But this card.... When Guerchard knows ... when he discovers.... Oh, I can't let you get into trouble for me." "I shan't.
As her brother-in-law pushed out a valedictory hand, she noticed a shirt-cuff that had the grime of days upon it. "He economises in the wash," she soliloquised, with wrinkling nostril and curling lip. "And in those filthy cheap coals that choke the grate with dust, and in tea that is undrinkable. Oh, what a house!" And she had not been there since. But now
"Is that really true?" said Effie, coloring. "Oh, what splendid news!" She looked eagerly at George as she spoke. She longed to jump up, throw her arms round his neck, and kiss him. "Is this true?" she repeated. "Oh, I am so glad! We do want the money so badly." George stooped to flick off a speck of dust which had settled on his immaculate shirt-cuff; his eyes would not meet Effie's.
It was not to be believed that the old man had dropped it there no, affirmed Melky to himself, with conviction, that bit of personal property had been dropped there, out of a loose shirt-cuff by some man who had called on Daniel not long before Andie Lauriston had gone in, and who for some mysterious reason had scragged the old fellow. And now the question was who was that man?
Philip, about to close it, fancied he heard the stealthy rustle of paper beyond and swung it noiselessly back, halting in silent interest upon the threshold. Themar, the Baron's Houdanian valet, was intently transcribing upon his shirt-cuff, the contents of a paper which lay uppermost in the drawer of a small portable desk. Catlike, Philip stole across the room.
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