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Updated: May 24, 2025
This locket held the Squire's portrait, and his daughter wore it constantly. The Louis Quatorze clock on the staircase struck five as Violet went down. "Of course he is staying for tea," she thought, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. "He belongs to the tame-cat species, and has an inexhaustible flow of gossip, spiced with mild malevolence.
We must really get some nice people about us, or we shall both go melancholy mad." "He belongs to the Tame-Cat Species." Life went on smoothly enough at the Abbey House after that evening.
They supped somewhere near the Haymarket, and then he offered to walk home with Stanbury, to his chambers in Lincoln's Inn. "Do you know that Mr. Gibson at Exeter?" he asked, as they passed through Leicester Square. "Yes; I knew him. He was a sort of tame-cat parson at my aunt's house, in my days." "Exactly; but I fancy that has come to an end now. Have you heard anything about him lately?"
But as he still affected far more violent forms of exercise, that excuse was not particularly convincing. By way of retort, he had rallied Roy on overdoing the tame-cat touch and neglecting the important novel. And Roy wincing at the truth of that friendly flick had replied no less truthfully: "Well, if it hangs fire, old chap, you're the sinner.
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