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Updated: May 2, 2025
Our boatman was one of the Minorcan race, of whom there are many on this coast, descendants of the men of Turnbull's colony of 1767. He was a cousin of our pilot, by name Pecetti a stout, well-built man forty years old, with keen black eyes and curling dark hair and beard, and a great fisherman with line and net.
Miss Turnbull's fortune, whatever it might be, was an object of no great importance to him: his father, though not opulent, was in easy circumstances, and was "willing," he said, "to deprive himself of some luxuries for the sake of his son, whom he would not controul in the choice of a wife a choice on which he knew, from his own experience, that the happiness of life so much depends."
His face was full, and, wet from the heat, he mopped it with a heavy linen handkerchief. August Turnbull's gaze was steady and light blue; his nose was so heavy that it appeared to droop a little from sheer weight, almost resting on the mustache brushed out in a horizontal line across prominent lips; while his neck swelled in a glowing congestion above a wilting collar.
"I congratulate you heartily," answered the other, "I am Doctor Quayle." Turnbull's eyes did not move, but he realized that the man in the panama hat had lost all his ease of a landed proprietor and had withdrawn to a distance of thirty yards, where he stood glaring with all the contraction of fear and hatred that can stiffen a cat.
But nothing was further from Turnbull's desire than that he and Marston should part; he could not keep the business going without his money, not to mention that he never doubted Marston would straightway open another shop, and, even if he did not undersell him, take from him all his dissenting customers; for the junior partner was deacon of a small Baptist church in the town a fact which, although like vinegar to the teeth and smoke to the eyes of John Turnbull in his villa, was invaluable in the eyes of John Turnbull behind his counter.
Since I cam' up here there has just been the baker and the Ruchill herd, besides you gentlemen. One of them gave me a cigar, which I smelt gingerly and stuck in Turnbull's bundle. They got into their car and were out of sight in three minutes. My heart leaped with an enormous relief, but I went on wheeling my stones.
"That was a good run, though, wasn't it?" said Lord Chiltern as Phineas took his leave. "And, by George, Phineas, you rode Bonebreaker so well, that you shall have him as often as you'll come down. I don't know how it is, but you Irish fellows always ride." Mr. Turnbull's Carriage Stops the Way
"Did you search Turnbull's apartment last night as you spoke of doing?" asked McIntyre. "I did, and found no trace of your securities, Colonel." McIntyre lifted his eyebrows as he smiled sarcastically. "Can I see Rochester?" he asked. "He is in Cleveland; I don't know just when he will be back." "Indeed? Too bad you haven't the benefit of his advice," remarked McIntyre insolently.
He rattled away, and attacked this person and that; sneered at Lady John Turnbull's bad French, which her ladyship will introduce into all conversations in spite of the sneers of everybody; at Mrs. Slack Roper's extraordinary costume and sham jewels; at the old dandies and the young ones; at whom didn't he sneer and laugh? "You fire at everybody, Pen you're grown awful, that you are," Foker said.
I John Hodgkinson of Vetch-field, East Riding of Yorkshire, Grazier and so forth, not choosing to style myself Gentleman, though entitled so to do, do hereby certify, that when I can find an honest attorney, it is my intention to make my will and to leave Mrs. Turnbull's recipe, infallible for all aches, bruises, and strains.
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