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Updated: May 14, 2025
The next morning the bell under the cupola did not clang, and Sutcliffe came up with the direction that we were to go down very quietly, and not to draw up the window-blinds; and then we all knew what had happened during the night.
Cousin Eleanor, with a delightful sense of wrong-doing, yielded to the temptation to adorn her; and the saleswomen, who knew Mrs. Hanbury, made indiscreet-remarks. Such a figure and such a face, and just enough of height! Two new gowns were ordered, to be tried on at Sutcliffe, and as many hats, and an ulster, and heaven knows what else. Memory fails.
That's what I want to ask you about," said Sutcliffe, scrambling into the taxi, and settling himself down with a little nod of satisfaction. "What?" I inquired, as we bowled out of the station. "Why, a rug for my our study," said the boy.
"I hope there is a doctor on the train," said Uncle Tom. "Yassah," answered the black porter, who had been listening with evident relish, "right good doctah Doctah Lov'ring." Even Aunt Mary laughed. "Peter," asked Honora, "can't you get Judge Brice to send you on to New York this winter on law business? Then you could come up to Sutcliffe to see me." "I'm afraid of Miss Turner," declared Peter.
For anything there was in it you might never have known him. But Mrs. Sutcliffe had sent her love. Mamma looked up sharply. "Did you write to him, Mary?" "Of course I did." "You'll not write again. He's let you know pretty plainly he isn't going to be bothered." "Did they say anything more about your going there?" "No."
In the evening they went to a new comic opera, and it is the music of that which brings back the day most vividly to Honora's mind. In the morning they took an early train to Sutcliffe Manors, on the Hudson. It is an historic place.
"The first thing we know you'll be marrying one of those people we read about, with more millions than there are cars on the Olive Street line." Honora was a little indignant. "I wish you wouldn't talk so, Peter," she said. "In the first place, I shan't see any but girls at Sutcliffe. I could only see you for a few minutes once a week if you were there.
He turned in his chair and looked at her above the fine, lean hand that passed over his face as if it brushed cobwebs. "They didn't tell me you were busy." "I'm not. I ought to be, but I'm not." "You are. I'll go and talk to Mrs. Sutcliffe till you've finished." "No. You'll stay here and talk to me. Mrs. Sutcliffe really is busy." "Sewing-party?" "Sewing-party."
She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and slenderness she had in it. Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr.
To the accompaniment of a babel of cries like these, and amidst an excited scramble of half-wild schoolboys, I at last discovered my small cousin. "There he is!" he said, pointing me out to a young friend who was with him; and coming up he hurriedly offered his hand. "How are you, Sutcliffe?" I asked, remembering his letter. "All right, thanks," he replied. "This is Gammage.
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