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Updated: June 26, 2025
The discrepancies had, in fact, led Reeve to suppose that Malmesbury's statement must refer to another memorandum; and thus Lord Stanmore's letter has a singular historical interest, bearing, as it does, on a point that has been much discussed. From Sir Arthur Gordon
Lord Stanmore's recollections of his father's colleague go back to this period, and will be read with interest: 'As a boy of ten or twelve I often saw Lord John.
I will never believe that Damocles ate his supper with less appetite, drank his wine with less zest, for the threatening sword suspended overhead. Mr. Ryfe, we may be sure, did not fail to make his appearance in Berners Street at an early hour on the following day, as soon indeed as, according to Mr. Stanmore's information, there was any chance of finding the painter at home.
Stanmore's language at the luncheon-table, it is needless to say, was far less emphatic than that which relieved his feelings in soliloquy; nor was he to-day quite so talkative as usual. She told him so. "A merrythought, if you please, and no bread-sauce," said the young lady, in her calm, imperious manner.
That gentleman's feelings, as he sat in his uncle's office the morning after Mrs. Stanmore's ball, were of no enviable nature.
She remembered it all so well. She was in the midst of preparing Charles Stanmore's supper, and Joan, only a couple of weeks old, was fast asleep in an adjoining bedroom. He had chosen this time to call, because he knew that she, Mercy, would be alone. She remembered his handsome face clouded with sullen anger and jealousy when she let him in at the door of the apartment.
Such was the placard that afforded a few minutes' speculation for the few people who had leisure to read it, one fine morning about a week after Mrs. Stanmore's eventful ball, and towards the close of the London season; eliciting at the same time criticism not altogether favourable on the style of composition affected by our excellent police.
I was robbed of life years and years ago. Yes, life. I have been a dead woman these twenty years. My life was gone when your father died, leaving you, another woman's child, in my hands. God in heaven! Sometimes I wonder why I did not strangle the wretched life out of you years ago you, another woman's child, but yet with Charles Stanmore's blood in your veins.
But it takes time to find a lady, even of Mrs. Stanmore's presence, amongst five hundred of her kind jostled up in half-an-acre of ground; neither will the present code of good manners, liberal as it is, bear a guest out in walking up to his hostess
The very comparison of our own sorrows with those of others has a tendency to decrease their proportions and diminish their importance. How can I prate of my cut finger in presence of your broken leg? And how utterly ridiculous would have seemed Mr. Stanmore's sentimental sorrows to one of his own labourers keeping a wife and half-a-dozen children on eleven shillings a week?
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