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With your pull you expect to get this smoothed over and hushed up, and have me at a hanging bee, and everything all right for Bill! Well " His eyes left Warfield's face and went beyond the staring group. His face darkened, a sneer twisted his lips. "Who're them others?" he cried harshly. "Was you afraid four wouldn't be enough to take me?" The four turned heads to look.
"Lone, you know how ugly a story can grow if it's left alone. Do you believe that girl actually saw a man shot? Or do you think she was crazy?" Lone met Warfield's eyes fairly. "I think she was plumb out of her head," he answered. And he added with just the right degree of hesitation: "I don't think she's what you'd call right crazy, Mr Warfield.
Autumn brought the usual city visitors to Hurricane Hall to spend the sporting season and shoot over Major Warfield's grounds. Old Hurricane was in his glory, giving dinners and projecting hunts. Capitola also enjoyed herself rarely, enacting with much satisfaction to herself and guests her new role of hostess, and not unfrequently joining her uncle and his friends in their field sports.
I shot him!" "Miserable young woman, if this be proved true, I shall have to commit you!" "Just as you please," said Cap, "but bless your soul, that won't help Craven Le Noir a single bit!" As she spoke several persons entered the office in a state of high excitement all talking at once, saying: "That is the girl!" "Yes, that is her!" "She is Miss Black, old Warfield's niece."
Brit's eyes were terrible. Lorraine shuddered while she told him. "Rabbits in a trap," Brit muttered, staring at the low ceiling. "Can't prove nothing couldn't convict anybody if we could prove it. Bill Warfield's got this county under his thumb. Rabbits in a trap. Raine, you better pack up and go home to your mother. There's goin' to be hell a-poppin' if I live to git outa this bed."
They could not have known of Al Woodruff's intentions toward Lorraine, else they would have kept themselves in the background and would not have risked the failure of their own plan. On the other hand, Al must have been wholly ignorant of Warfield's scheme to try and prove Lorraine crazy. It looked to Swan very much like a muddling of the Sawtooth affairs through over-anxiety to avoid trouble.
The shouts of the people on the little platform interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its load. "I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats," Mr. Lincoln remarked, "and not much opposition." "There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir," ventured Stephen, smiling. "Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, "did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an Old Line Whig?" Mr. Medill had not.
Warfield's new novel has freshness, and is so far removed from mediocrity as to entitle it to respectful comment. Her fiction calls for study. Her perception is deep and artistic, as respects both the dramatic side of life and the beautiful. It is not strictly nature, in the general sense, that forms the basis of her descriptions.
Warfield's beautiful and truthful performance of The Music Master, we are tempted not to notice that the play itself is faulty in structure, untrue in character, and obnoxiously sentimental in tone. Because Mr. Warfield, by the sheer power of his histrionic genius, has lifted sentimentality into sentiment and conventional theatricism into living truth, we are tempted to give to Mr.
But that we may not dare to question the mercy of the Lord, I should ask if these were sins that he would ever pardon! Herbert, it appals me to think of it!" Then, after deep thought, he added: "This, then, was the secret of my dear mother's long unhappiness. She was Major Warfield's forsaken wife. Herbert, I feel as though I never, never could forgive my father!"
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