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Updated: May 4, 2025
It's about what I ought to do." "Then, my boy, you have the right name addressed in the wrong direction: for I found you turning your shoulders on Mr. Whitford. And he has been out of his bed hunting you all the unholy night you've made it for him. That's melancholy. What do you say to asking my advice?" Crossjay sighed. "I can't speak to anybody but Mr. Whitford."
Theodora saw she hated the subject, but thought it good for her, and went on to tell her of a case at Whitford, cramming the subject into her ear at first against the stomach of her sense, but it could not but exact attention, a widow sinking in a decline after sorrows which, by comparison, made all young lady troubles shrink into atoms. Emma became interested, and began to ask questions.
Whitford to the effect that Andy's airship was not out the previous night, and that so far no clews had developed from the letter, or from any other source. "We'll just have to keep our eyes open," wrote Mr. Whitford. "I think perhaps we are altogether wrong about the Fogers, unless they are deeper than I give them credit for.
As they drew near the bank, they saw, anchored a little distance out, a small steamer. Approaching it, as if she had just left the shore at a point near where our friends stood, was a gasolene launch, containing several men, while on shore, in front of a small shanty, stood another man. This latter individual, at the sight of Tom, Ned and Mr. Whitford, blew a shrill whistle.
Little as she knew, she was alive to the worst interpretation of appearances. No other eulogy occurred to her now than to call him the best of cousins, because Vernon Whitford was housed and clothed and fed by him. She had nothing else to say for a man she thought luckless!
He should have been studying with a master for his profession. He has been kept here in comparative idleness to be alternately petted and discarded: no one but Vernon Whitford, a poor gentleman doomed to struggle for a livelihood by literature I know something of that struggle too much for me! no one but Mr. Whitford for his friend." "Crossjay is forgiven," said Willoughby. "You promise me that?"
Whitford, speaking almost involuntarily of what was in her heart, and in a voice that betrayed more concern than she had meant to express. The doctor gave a little shrug, but replied: "His earnest purpose in life will be his protection, Mrs. Whitford. Work, ambition, devotion to a science or profession have in them an aegis of safety. The weak and the idle are most in danger."
Whitford has not come back?" said Clara to Crossjay. "No, Miss Middleton. Sir Willoughby has, and he's upstairs in his room dressing." "Have you seen Barclay?" "She has just gone into the laboratory. I told her Sir Willoughby wasn't there." "Tell me, Crossjay, had she a letter?" "She had something." "Run: say I am here; I want the letter, it is mine."
David Whitford, who had been the tutor of Shirley the poet, was found lying dead in his bed: "he had been going to take a dram for refreshment, but death came between the cup and the lips, and this is the end of Davy." Prideaux records, in the same feeling style, that smallpox carried off many of the undergraduates, "besides my brother," a student at Corpus.
This growing too fine is our way of relapsing upon barbarism. Beware of over-sensitiveness, where nature has plainly indicated her alternative gateway of knowledge. And now, I presume, I am at liberty." "Vernon will excuse us for a minute or two." "I hold by Mr. Whitford now I have him." "I'll join you in the laboratory, Vernon," Willoughby nodded bluntly. "We will leave them, Mr. Whitford.
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