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Updated: June 19, 2025
"We miss Randy," said Belinda Babson, "but of course we're glad that she is having such a lovely winter." "She writes just as she talks, and when we get one of her letters it seems as if she were with us," said Jemima. "I didn't know what to make of Phoebe Small's last letter," said Dot Marvin.
He strained his eyes and tried to identify the place by Deacon Small's tall, white tombstone, but he could not make it out. Suddenly, just above that silent, hallowed little area, a tall gray thing appeared, then disappeared as suddenly. Peter trembled, yet gazed in fascination. He was fearful of he knew not what. Yet he could not withdraw his eyes from that spot.
It rolled across the water as swiftly as the smoke clouds roll from a freshly lighted bonfire. It blotted Denboro from sight and moved across the bay; the long stretch of beach disappeared; the Crow Point light and Ben Small's freshly whitewashed dwellings and outbuildings were obliterated.
Sometimes I wish I was out of it. But, you know, Small's this kind of a man. He sees through you. He can look through a door" and there he shivered, and his voice broke down into a whisper. But Bud was perfectly cool, and doubtless it was the strong coolness of Bud that made Walter, who shuddered at a shadow, come to him for sympathy and unbosom himself of one of his guilty secrets.
Bolton had already Small's notes for a large amount in his safe, labeled "doubtful;" he had helped him again and again, and always with the same result. But Mr. Small spoke with a faltering voice of his family, his daughter in school, his wife ignorant of his calamity, and drew such a picture of their agony, that Mr.
June answered that she had not, she hated the stuffy things; and rose to leave. Mrs. Small's infallibly chosen silence was far more ominous to her than anything that could have been said. Before half an hour was over she had dragged the truth from Mrs. Baynes in Lowndes Square, that Soames was bringing an action against Bosinney over the decoration of the house.
Small's office. Bud and Walter Johnson had been having some confidential conversation that evening, and Bud had got more out of his companion than that exquisite but weak young man had intended. He looked round in a frightened way. "You see," said Walter, "if Small knew I had told you that, I'd get a bullet some night from somebody. But when you're initiated it'll be all right.
He threw the finding light upon the little edifice ahead and brightened the small stained-glass window, casting a soft reflection upon Deacon Small's slanting marble slab nearby. The small figure in a gray sweater with a rather tough look, cap drawn over his round face, who sat huddled up alongside the driver seemed not to partake of the delights which the big car claimed to furnish.
He related the incident of his encounter with Merriman in London how he had toppled him over in the mud wondering how the ladies would take it. He was relieved when they received his story with a peal of laughter. "Oh, mamma; and it was his new frock!" said Phyllis. "La, so it was, just fresh from Mr. Small's in Wigmore Street forty guineas and no less!"
Leaning heavily on Captain Small's shoulder, I threw on the table the last gold joe my aunt had given me with her final lesson in morals. "Best in three, Etherington." "Take it," he cried. I threw double sixes, he threes, and I deuce ace. Then he cast some numbers as good. Certainly the devil meant to have me. I threw a third time; a six and a five turned up, and he an ace and a four. I had won.
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