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Updated: May 18, 2025
You may apply things as you please, but if you don't use them according to their relative capacity, the unused value has to be paid for somewhere." "That's a nice principle!" said Marion. "I like that I should like to be paid for what I might be good for!" Frank Sunderline laughed. "It's a good principle; because by it things settle themselves, in the long run.
Frank Sunderline was not sure, as he walked up Roulstone Street afterward, whether Ray cared much. She made it seem all matter of course, in a minute, with that calm, deliberate answer of hers. And she sat so still, and let him go out of the room with hardly another word or look. She never stopped sewing, either. Well, he did not see those ten stitches! He might not have been the wiser if he had.
She would get into the same carriage, and take a seat with her. She knew very well that Frank Sunderline would jump on at Pomantic, his day's work just done. If he came and spoke to Ray he should speak also to her. She did not risk trying which he would come and speak to. It should be, that joining them, and finding it pleasant, he should not quite know which, after all, had most made it so.
Knoxwell, who was persistently "sitting with her." "There's Frank Sunderline and Ray Ingraham at the gate. She's coming in. They're engaged. It's just out." "What do I care?" cried Marion, fiercely, turning upon her, and astounding Mrs.
Walking down Roulstone Street, the lowering afternoon sun full in his face across the open squares, Frank Sunderline thought how pleasant it would be to have Ray Ingraham go out to Pomantic such an afternoon as this, and see what he had done; just now, while it was still his work, warm from his hand, and before it was shut away from her and him by the Newrich carpets and curtains and china and servants going in and fastening the doors upon them.
And then, what have you got left? What are you going to turn round to?" Sunderline stopped. The color flushed up in his face.
On Sunday morning Frank Sunderline came in on the service train, and went up to Pilgrim Street. "Mrs. Kent is dead," he told Kay. "Marion is in awful trouble. Can't you come out to her?" Ray was just leaving the house to go to church. Instead, she went with Frank to the horse-railroad station, catching the eleven o'clock car.
"Will tell another year's story," said Frank Sunderline. "Don't you like to think of that sometimes? That the story isn't done, ever? That there is always more to tell, on and on? And that means more to do. We are all making a piece of it. If we stayed right still, you see, why, the Lord might as well shut up the book!" He was full of life, this young man, and full of the delight of living.
This country of ours, and the ways of it, are certainly pretty nearly the queerest under the sun, when one looks it all through and thinks it all over. Frank Sunderline pointed out the lovely work of the pillars in the porched veranda; every pillar a triple column, of the slenderest grace, capitaled with separate devices of leaf and flower.
Sunderline." She called him "Mr. Sunderline," though she remembered very well that in the earnestness of his talk he had called her "Marion." They had grown to that time of life when a young man and a girl who have known each other always, are apt to drop the familiar Christian name, and not take up anything else if they can help it.
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