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Updated: May 5, 2025
Here there are no chances of that kind; the chances are that you'll wish the ghost had not been entreated: I think that is the phrase." In the laugh that followed a girl on Miss Macroyd's other hand audibly asked her, "Oh, isn't he too funny?" "Delicious!" Miss Macroyd agreed. Verrian felt she said it to vex him. "Now, there's just one other point," Bushwick resumed, "and then I have done.
Verrian had been very good, he knew that; he had saved the day for the poor thing when it was in danger of the dreariest kind of slump. She was a poor thing, as any woman was who had to make her own way, and she had been sick and was charming.
Verrian! Please! Or else I can't let you have any Tuesday off." Upon the whole, Verrian thought he would go to see Miss Shirley the next Tuesday, but he did not say so to Miss Macroyd. Now that he knew where the girl was, all the peculiar interest she had inspired in him renewed itself.
I came in for a share of her awe; she had found out that I was not only not Verrian the actor, but an author of the same name, and she had read my story with passionate interest, but apparently in that unliterary way of many people without noticing who wrote it; she seemed to have thought it was Harding Davis or Henry James; she wasn't clear which.
Bushwick rose up and took her hand under his arm, keeping his left hand upon hers. "He! Who?" "Mr. Verrian." "I don't know any Mr. Verrian. Come, you'll take cold here." He turned his back on Verrian, who fancied a tremor in her hat, as if she would look round at him; but then, as if she divined Bushwick's intention, she did not look round, and together they left him.
"I think, very probably, she cares a great deal about it. She is a serious person, intellectually at least, and it is a serious story. No wonder she would like to know, at first hand, something about the man who wrote it." This flattered Verrian, but he would not allow its reasonableness. He took a gulp of coffee before saying, uncandidly, "I can't make out what you're driving at, mother.
Westangle gave me, but she isn't there any more; she's gone up into Harlem somewhere, and I haven't been able to call again. Oh, I do feel so anxious about her. Oh, I do hope she isn't ill. Do you think she is?" "I don't believe so," Verrian began. But she swept over his prostrate remark. "Oh, Mr. Verrian, don't you think she's wonderful?
Westangle's, and I'm afraid I've got the only conveyance such as it is. If you would let me offer you half of it? Mr. Verrian," he added, at the light of acceptance instantly kindling in her face, which flushed thinly, as with an afterglow of invalidism. "Why, thank you; I'm afraid I must, Mr.
"Ah, I'm still in the dark," Verrian politely regretted, but not with a tacit wish to wring Miss Macroyd's neck, which he would not have known how to account for. "Well, she says that Mrs. Westangle has a professional assistant who's doing the whole job for her, and that she came down on the same train with herself and you."
"I think our driver could find room for something besides my valise. Or I could have it come " "Not at all," the girl said. "I sent my trunk ahead by express." A frowsy man, to match the frowsy horse, looked in impatiently. "Any other baggage?" "No," Verrian answered, and he led the way out after the vanishing driver. "Our chariot is back here in hiding, Miss "
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