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Updated: May 19, 2025
"All ready, sir," said the sailing-master, and sprang for the indicator. "Hold on," said Peter suddenly. "We're getting visitors. There's some one signaling us from the shore." Varney's heart bounded. He turned with an exclamation; but in the next breath, he ordered: "Let her go, Ferguson."
You will have no place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation." "And which is that?" "Flora's own room." All started at the thought that Flora's chamber could in any way be profaned by any such presence as Sir Francis Varney's.
This was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body. "Whose is it?" inquired a dozen voices. "Not Sir Francis Varney's!" said the second speaker; the clothes are not his " "No, no; not Sir Francis's"
There was something noble and touching in the boy's low accents as he said this; it gave the key to his unusual modesty and his frank, healthful innocence of character. The devil in Varney's lip sneered mockingly. "My young friend, you have never loved yet. Do you think you ever shall?" "I have dreamed that I could love one day. But I can wait."
But it is necessary, now that we have disposed of the smaller number of rioters who committed so serious an outrage at the inn, that we should, with some degree of method, follow the proceedings of the larger number, who went from the town towards Sir Francis Varney's.
This was a piece of advice not at all likely to be adopted; and when the mob found that Mr. Chillingworth was not disposed to encourage and countenance it in its violence, it gave another loud shout of defiance, and moved off through the long straggling streets of the town in a direction towards Sir Francis Varney's house.
Upon the shore, at the spot where the Cypriani's boat ordinarily landed, stood a tallish, stocky young man, looking at them cheerfully and swabbing his brow with a large blue handkerchief. Catching Varney's eye, he waved his hand with the handkerchief in it, and said, for the second time: "Hello, aboard the Cypriani!" Varney stepped to the rail, a faint smile on his lip. "Hello, there!
We are both of opinion that Varney's great object throughout has been, by some means or another, to get possession of the house." "Yes; true, true."
Still, it was well to track him where he went, delay him, if possible; and Varney's spurs plunged deep and deeper into the bleeding flanks: on desperately scoured the horse.
Varney's first glance was at Leicester, his second at the Queen. In the looks of the latter there appeared an approaching storm, and in the downcast countenance of his patron he could read no directions in what way he was to trim his vessel for the encounter. He then saw Tressilian, and at once perceived the peril of the situation in which he was placed.
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