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Updated: May 19, 2025
And the author expressed it as his opinion, in writing to me, that William Wetherell was undoubtedly a genius of a high order, and that he would have been so recognized if life had given him a chance. Mr. Wetherell, after his wife died, was taken in a dying condition to Coniston, where he was forced, in order to earn his living, to become the storekeeper there.
"One thing," remarked Amanda, "he ain't much like his dad. You'd never catch Isaac Worthington bein' that common." Just then there came another interruption for William Wetherell, who was startled by the sound of a voice in his ear a nasal voice that awoke unpleasant recollections. He turned to confront, within the distance of eight inches, the face of Mr.
You are determined to dismiss Miss Wetherell. Is it not so?" "I wish you'd hear me, Jedge," said Mr. Dodd, desperately. "Will you kindly answer me yes or no to that question," said the judge; "my time is valuable." "Well, if you put it that way, I guess we are agreed that she hadn't ought to stay. Not that I've anything against her personally "
Soon we turned into a lane, and came to the pasture-bars, Mr. Wetherell said: "You stay here with Darby, and I will drive the steers up to the bars, and salt them." I got out of the wagon, and unchecked Darby's head, and led him up to a plot of white clover, to get a lunch.
And presently, when it did come back, he tore it open and read it with an expression not often on his lips. He flung the paper at Mr. Flint. "Read that," he said. This is what Mr. Flint read: "Miss Wetherell begs to inform Mr. Isaac D. Worthington that she can have no communication or intercourse with him whatsoever." Mr. Flint handed it back without a word.
"Are you the son of Dudley Worthington" "Everybody asks me that," he said; "I'm tired of it. When I grow up, they'll have to stop it." "But you should be proud of your father." "I am proud of him, everybody's proud of him, Brampton's proud of him he's proud of himself. That's enough, ain't it?" He eyed Wetherell somewhat defiantly, then his glance wandered to Cynthia, and he walked over to her.
"Uncle Jethro," she said slowly, "you mustn't think I'm not grateful." "N-no," he answered; "I don't think that, Cynthy. I know you be." "I am grateful I'm very grateful for everything you give me, although I should love you just as much if you didn't give me anything." She was striving very hard not to offend him, for in some ways he was as sensitive as Wetherell himself.
Susan's appeal brought her back to Boston and the gas-lit parlor. "Forgive you, Susan! There's nothing to forgive. I wanted him to go." "You wanted him to go?" repeated Susan, amazed. She may be pardoned if she did not believe this, but a glance at Cynthia's face scarcely left a room for doubt. "Cynthia Wetherell, you're the strangest girl I've ever known in all my life.
He had a sinking fear that they might meet Jethro there, but only a few big-boned countrymen were scattered about, attended by sleepy waitresses. Lest Cynthia might suspect how his head was throbbing, Wetherell tried bravely to eat his breakfast.
Miss Wetherell, I believe, stands in the relation of ward to the person to whom they refer, and her father was a sort of political assistant to this person. "Sincerely yours,
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