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Updated: June 28, 2025
"I am going abroad, Svendsen, for a fortnight or so I cannot say for certain. Look, here is my address. And with that he snatched the pen from behind Svendsen's ear and wrote across a large sheet of paper, on which the unfortunate man had just begun a magnificent letter: "Pavilion Rohan, "Paris. The second bell was now heard on board the steamer. "All right, Svendsen.
There were fat, rosy old women who looked hot in their best black dresses; spare, alert old women with brown, dark-veined hands; and several of almost heroic frame, not less massive than old Mrs. Ericson herself. Few of them wore glasses, and old Mrs. Svendsen, a Danish woman, who was quite bald, wore the only cap among them. Mrs.
Old Svendsen stood perfectly speechless, staring through the open door, as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, which was a habit of his when anything unusually perplexing occurred. Every door was open, a chair upset in the inner office, and Mr. Worse on the road to Paris with a hat and umbrella, Thomas after him in full career with the canvas bag.
The man was keenly anxious; it was hard to resist his appeal, and there was, after all, only a small risk that he might hear of Colston's visit. Svendsen and his wife, who attended to the housekeeping, were Scandinavians, and could scarcely converse in English. When they addressed him by any distinguishing epithet it was always as "Boss." "Well," he said doubtfully, "I can't refuse you shelter.
Dusk was falling when he rode away from the homestead with a couple of blankets and provisions for a few days strapped to his saddle. Though he could trust Svendsen to look after things in his absence, he was anxious and dejected, and it was with keen regret that he cast a last glance across the sweep of shadowy stubble toward the lighted windows of the house.
The cashier was sitting with the coin and notes scattered on the table in front of him, looking as if he had been robbed; and as old Svendsen's eye rested on the ruined letter, he discovered that he had a smudge of ink on one of his fingers. Now, it was thirty years since old Svendsen had had any ink on his fingers. Mr.
Although none of his letters of this period seem to have been preserved, a few landmarks are left us. Perhaps the most interesting fact connected with this performance was that the only female part, that of Blanka, was taken by a young débutante, Laura Svendsen; this was the actress afterwards to rise to the height of eminence as the celebrated Mrs.
Even the discovery of the brown clothes appeared less damaging. "Then there's much to be explained," he said slowly. "That's so. It will all come to light some day. And now, it's a bitter morning, the drifts are deep, and the trail lost in snow; Svendsen will have some trouble in driving you to Leslie's, and you can't go without food." Prescott called to Mrs.
"Yes," answered he, endeavouring to laugh; "as your guardian, it is my duty to assist you, to the best of my ability, to arrange for your future." "But are you going to send me to Paris alone?" "No; I have been thinking of offering you Svendsen as an escort. You surely know old Svendsen, my bookkeeper? He has been several times in Paris, and is a most trustworthy man.
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