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Updated: June 21, 2025
"I'll show you, sor," said the caterer's man, and he sprang up the stairs before Westover, with glad alacrity. In a little room at the side of that where the men's hats and coats were checked, Alan Lynde sat drooping forward in an arm-chair, with his head fallen on his breast. He roused himself at the flash of the burner which the man turned up. "What's all this?" he demanded, haughtily.
This life," he turned to Westover, in solemn exegesis, "is a broken shaft when death comes. It rests upon the earth, but you got to look for the top of it in the skies. That's the way I look at it. What do you think, Jackson? Jombateeste?" "I think anybody can't see that. Better go and get some heye-glass." Westover remained in a shameful minority. He said, meekly: "It suggests a beautiful hope."
Master Sparrow shook his head, with a rueful countenance. "I bought him from one of the French vignerons below Westover," he said. "The fellow was astride the poor creature, beating him with a club because he could not go.
There was the scent of freshly smitten bark and sap-wood in the air; the ground was paved with broad, clean chips. "Good-morning," said Westover. "How are you?" returned the other, without moving or making any sign of welcome for a moment. But then he lifted his axe and struck it into the carf on the tree, and came to meet Westover. As he advanced he held out his. hand.
Ken had been planning different ways of telling his mother of the passing of the Westover Street house, all the way down from Asquam. He could not, now, remember a single word of all those carefully thought out methods of approach. "I don't think I quite understand," Mrs. Sturgis said. "Are you staying with friends? I didn't know we knew any one in the country."
Westover realized that he had lost the best of any possible picture in letting that first delicate color escape him. This crimson was harsh and vulgar in comparison; it would have almost a chromo quality; he censured his pleasure in it as something gross and material, like that of eating; and on a sudden he felt hungry.
The boy had now and then a book in his hand when he came; not always such a book as Westover could have wished, but still a book; and to his occasional questions about how he was getting on with his college work, Jeff made brief answers, which gave the notion that he was not neglecting it.
Jeff laughed, and said to the off horse, which seemed to know that he was meant: "Get up, there!" "And Cynthia? Is Cynthia at home?" Westover asked. "Yes; they're all down in the little wood-colored house yet. Cynthia teaches winters, and summers she helps mother. She has charge of the dining-room." "Does Franky cry as much as ever?" "No, Frank's a fine boy. He's in the house, too.
The planchette suddenly stood motionless. "She done?" murmured Whitwell. "I guess she is, for a spell, anyway," said Jackson, wearily. "Let's try to make out what she says." Whitwell drew the sheets toward himself and Westover, who sat next him. "You've got to look for the letters everywhere.
They jointly separated the knapsack from the things tied to it, and the painter let the boy carry the easel and campstool which developed themselves from their folds and hinges, and brought the colors and canvas himself to the spot he had chosen. The boy looked at the tag on the easel after it was placed, and read the name on it Jere Westover. "That's a funny name."
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