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Updated: May 13, 2025
Staggchase added, her eyes shining on her cousin. Wynne stabbed her with a glance of indignation. "No, with a priest," corrected Mrs. Wilson, adjusting her domino about her face. "Elsie, how devilishly fond you are of making a fool of yourself," Dr. Wilson observed jovially. "Well, good-night." Mrs. Wilson swept him a profound courtesy, with her hands crossed on her bosom.
In that inmost chamber of his consciousness where he allowed himself the luxury of absolute frankness, however, the artist confessed that his animosity to the young rector had other causes. As Fenton sank into his seat, Mrs. Staggchase leaned over to quote from the poem, "'For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke."
Staggchase broke the silence which this declaration produced. "It is then your idea that death comes entirely from the belief of mankind?" "What we call death undoubtedly has that origin," Mrs. Crapps answered. "How then could so extraordinary a delusion have had a beginning?" A faint shade crossed the face of the seeress, but it merged instantly into a smile of patient superiority.
"How do you do, Miss Morison," Mrs. Staggchase said; "I must say that I am surprised that cousin Anna brought you to a place where the doctrine is so far removed from mind-cure. My dear Anna," she continued, turning to a lady whom Wynne knew by name as Mrs. Frostwinch and as an attendant at the Church of the Nativity, "you are a living miracle.
She had a way, too, of putting in unobtrusive observations on character and events which impressed Maurice. The art of saying things trenchantly he had found in Mrs. Staggchase, but his cousin had the air of being aware of her cleverness, while Mrs. Morison said these things as if they were of the natural and habitual current of her thoughts. Mrs.
Stanton had invited the artists, members of the press, and all the people that he knew, whether they knew him or not. Mrs. Frostwinch was there, Mrs. Staggchase, Elsie Dimmont, and Ethel Mott; and although Mrs. Bodewin Ranger was not actually present, she in a manner lent her countenance by sending her carriage to the door to call for one of her friends.
Nevertheless she could not keep her voice from, hurrying a little as she answered: "Mr. Wynne is a young clergyman who was in the seat next to mine. He's a cousin of Mrs. Staggchase." "Oh, a clergyman," Stanford echoed. The tone seemed to her excited mood to be full of intolerable superiority. "He may be a clergyman," she retorted with unnecessary warmth, "but he is a gentleman and a hero.
This invitation was the result of a conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Richard Staggchase, which had begun by that gentleman's asking his wife at dinner when she was going to call upon Miss Merrivale. "Not at all, my dear," Mrs. Staggchase answered, "as long as she is visiting that dreadful Mrs.
He was seething with anger; anger against Mrs. Wilson for having put him in a ludicrous position, at Berenice for her mockery, at Mrs. Staggchase for her satire, and at all the frivolous fools who had stood around, grinning to see him made ridiculous.
Staggchase, mention his name. He's very rich, I believe, and a good deal of a leader in society." "Humph," sniffed Mehitabel. "He may be a leader in society, but he's as selfish as a sucking calf!" "You seem to know him pretty well," commented Maurice. "I suppose you've seen him often." "Never saw him in my life till this minute. Young man, I'll tell you this, though.
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