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Updated: June 17, 2025
In the midst of it a voice a high, jolly, schoolboy voice called out from the gateway demanding, in execrable Portuguese, to be shown Lady Vyell's tent. She dropped the raking-iron with a clatter and stood erect, listening. "Dicky?" . . . she breathed. Yes; the tent flap was lifted and Dicky stood there in the twilight; a Dicky incredibly grown. "Dicky!" "Motherkin!" He was folded in her arms.
A coach-and-six, as a rule, may be called an impressive Object. But something depends on where you see it. Viewed from the tall cliffs along the base of which, on a strip of beach two hundred feet below, it crawled between the American continent and the Atlantic Ocean Captain Oliver Vyell's coach-and-six resembled nothing so nearly as a black-beetle.
"Would you, before taking a seat, oblige me by throwing a log on the fire? . . . Thank you the weather is raw, as you say." "Urgent? But not serious, I hope?" "Both. Sit down, please. . . . I am, as you know, a particular friend of Sir Oliver Vyell's." "Say, rather, his best." Mr. Silk bowed and smiled. "Possibly.
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