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Updated: June 22, 2025
That rite being accomplished to his satisfaction, he settled back and sent a cloud of wreathed smoke toward the ceiling before he picked up again his thread of conversation. Even when he had comfortably settled himself Mr. Hagan's initial comment was irrelevant. "Your place is decidedly changed, Mr. Tollman. Improved I should call it." "Thank you. Please state your business."
I'll read you just a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here. I rather think they'll amuse you." This was rich enough, and he came back to the same topic towards the end of the book. It will be remembered Mr. Pott went to Mrs. Leo Hunter's Fete in the character of a Russian with a knout in his hand.
Eben standing in the doorway, smiling, seemed to her disordered mood the figure of a Satyr. "I've had a letter from Ebbett," Tollman commented one day at luncheon. "Like Stuart here, he's been working too hard and he wants to know if he can run down for the week-end." When Conscience had declared her approval the host turned to Farquaharson. "I shouldn't wonder if you'd like Ebbett.
Sam Haymond, D.D., gathering together his belongings, as the train whistled for the village, fancied that he could visualize with a fair accuracy the gentleman who had written, "You will be met at the station." Eben Tollman used, in his correspondence, a stilted formality which conjured up the portrait of one somewhat staid and humorless.
"I want to have a hand on the oar because I think you have a sort of financial genius and I'd like to share a thing which must come that close to your inner life," she explained, and under the pleasurable spell of her appreciation Tollman found himself expanding with responsive pride. To certain forms of flattery he was as susceptible as a schoolgirl.
You say you'll rid yourself of this property and that you didn't know how it was being used. All right, but why didn't you know? You could of known, couldn't you, if you hadn't taken damned good care not to know? Do you think that story will stand scrutiny with the public or with your wife?" "Be good enough," cautioned Tollman ominously, "to leave my wife's name out of this talk.
I believe my prayers and the heritage of Godfearing forefathers will yet save her. As for you, you are to leave my house and henceforth never to cross my threshold." "Very well," answered Stuart quietly; then he added: "To what extent am I indebted to Mr. Eben Tollman for your sudden discovery that I am a sneak and a coward?" "That," shouted the invalid, "proves your meanness of spirit. Had Mr.
"Yes, quite old," she responded with a smile. Tollman nodded understandingly. A short while before he had been reading his Providence newspaper and a brief paragraph, which would otherwise have escaped his eye, had caught his attention like the red lantern at a railroad crossing because it contained the name of Stuart Farquaharson.
Tollman held a brief for you he could not have defended you more stoutly. He, too, was deceived in you, it seems." "Stuart," suggested the girl, "it's no use. You can't change him now. Perhaps when he's less angry " "Less angry!" screamed the old man. "For almost seventy years my wrath against the machinations of hell has burned hot. If God grants me strength to the end, it will never cool.
Much less abstruse were the thoughts of Eleanor Kent: she of the violet eyes, as she listened to Mary Barrascale's eulogy of Eben Tollman on the day before the wedding. Eleanor could not forget moments which had seemingly escaped Mary's observation: moments when Conscience, believing herself unnoticed, allowed a look of fright to come to her eyes and a line to circle her lips.
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