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Updated: May 9, 2025
At length the postchaise was packed; they had a long journey before them, because Cadurcis would go round by Southport, to call upon a tradesman whom a month before he had commissioned to get a trinket made for him in London, according to the newest fashion, as a present for Venetia. The commission was executed; Mrs.
I don't remember whether I have ever mentioned among the notabilities of Southport the Town Crier, a meek-looking old man, who sings out his messages in a most doleful tone, as if he took his title in a literal sense, and were really going to cry, or crying in the world's behalf; one other stroller, a foreigner with a dog, shaggy round the head and shoulders, and closely shaven behind.
He'd taken a massive dose of the disease and been cured in a few hours. Outside the room, the war went on, drawing toward a close. The supposed partial cure was good propaganda, if nothing else, and Jake was widening his territory steadily. There was only token resistance against him. He had the Southport shuttles now to cover huge areas in a hurry.
Bennoch says he had this story from an eye-witness, and that he fully believes it; and I think it not impossible that, betwixt downright humbug and a morbid exaggeration of her own emotions, Grace may have been betrayed into this awful fix. I wonder how she survived it! At Southport we remained from the middle of September to the following July, 1857.
At Southport we had a queer little governess, Miss Brown, who came to us highly recommended both as to her personal character and for ability to instruct us in arithmetic and geometry, geography, English composition, and the rudiments of French.
Lee, taking hold of Bessy's hand, and looking up thankfully in her face. The next Wednesday she set off, leaving home with a heavy heart, which, however, she struggled against, and tried to make more faithful. But she wished her three weeks at Southport were over. Tom and Jem were both older than Bessy, and she was fifteen. Then came Bill and Mary and little Jenny.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to the man, who eyed him curiously, "but will you tell me where I am?" "Wal," was the answer in a slow drawl, "ye'r' on Southport Island, and 'bout four miles from the jumpin' off place. Whar might ye be goin'? Ye look bushed." I lost my boat over back here on the shore, and have had a cheerful time among the Mohawk briers.
Reaching Southport, we took an omnibus, and under the driver's guidance came to our tall stone house, fronting on the sands, and styled "Brunswick Terrace." . . . .
Talbot when in imminent peril of death, however it may be scouted by the sceptics, is at least entirely in accord with many other narratives of the kind. A member of the Psychical Research Society in Southport sends me the following account of an apparition of a severely wounded man, which bears considerable resemblance to Mr. Talbot's, although its evidential value is nothing like so good.
He made no other protests as they dragged him into the crew shuttle that took off for Southport. He avoided their eyes and sat hunched over. It was Ben who finally broke the silence. "What happened to Art's money? He had a pile on him." "Go to hell!" "Give, I said!" Ben twisted his arm back toward his shoulder, applying increasing pressure.
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