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Updated: June 28, 2025
Her face flushed and she drew back from the summerhouse with an expression of merciless surprise. "He is a friend of Mr. Armadale's," she replied sharply. "I don't know what he wants, or why he is here." "A friend of Mr. Armadale's!" The governess's face lighted up with a suddenly roused interest as she repeated the words.
"I beg your pardon, Marion, but but this is not pleasant news." "You mustn't get rough, Harry. St. John says there are no true gentlemen among the Yankees. But I think differently now I have met Colonel Stanton." "Oh, confound St. John! There are truer gentlemen among my fellow officers than he will ever be." Harry Powell took a turn around the summerhouse. "But I forgot.
It had bay windows on either side of the front door, a gravel walk, bordered with flowers, leading to the gate, a small summerhouse on the lawn, and altogether was much the handsomest residence in the village. Three years before, the house, or, at all events, the principal rooms, had been newly furnished from the city.
She timed her day, as far as possible, with his. Would he swim, play tennis, or go crabbing there was Dorothea. Would he repose in the summerhouse hammock and listen to entire pages declaimed from Tennyson and Longfellow, the while being violently swung his slave was ready. She read no story in which she was not the heroine and Amiel the hero.
Her hand dropped from my bosom; a momentary obscurity passed like a flying shadow over the bright daylight in the room. I looked for her when the light came back. She was gone. My consciousness of passing events returned. I saw the lengthening shadows outside, which told me that the evening was at hand. I saw the carriage approaching the summerhouse to take us away.
"See, dear Charles," cried Julia, in a burst of what she would call natural feeling "there is our house here the summerhouse, and there the little arbour where you read to us last week Scott's new novel how delightful! every thing now seems and feels like home."
This tranquil June morning, as Missy sat in the summerhouse with the latest Ladies' Home Messenger in her lap, the dissatisfied feeling had got deeper hold of her than usual. It was not acute discontent the kind that sticks into you like a sharp splinter; it was something more subtle; a kind of dull hopelessness all over you. The feeling was not at all in accord with the scene around her.
Two or three boats passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. 'Three days' fine weather, thought Soames, 'and then a storm! Where was Annette? With that chap, for all he knew she was a young woman! Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he entered the summerhouse and sat down.
Green outside shutters lay inertly back from dull leaded panes which reflected metallically the orange glow of the setting sun, and over the door, which was squat and low and level with the pavement, an ancient four-sided lantern, hung from a bracket of rusty black iron, was gathering cobwebs in disuse. All this lay within Mary Louise's field of vision from the summerhouse and yet she saw it not.
He had kissed her two or three times, as occasion served and she seemed to desire it, but he had never lain awake afterwards, nor had his heart beaten any faster, no, not even in the summerhouse at Bingley when she was fairly in his arms. He pitched the photograph into a drawer. Frederick Cleve was safe, for him. Strolling out on the balcony, Lawrence folded his arms on the balustrade.
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