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Then, as if it would be modester in the proprietor of the view to leave them to their flattering raptures in it, he moved away and stood talking a moment with Cynthia Whitwell near the door of the serving-room. He talked gayly, with many tosses of the head and turns about, while she listened with a vague smile, motionlessly. "She's very pretty," said Miss Vostrand to her mother. "Yes.
It seems scarcely conceivable that the hand that had written the appendix to The Romany Rye could have so restrained itself as to write Wild Wales. Borrow had evidently read and carefully digested Whitwell Elwin's friendly strictures upon The Romany Rye.
The kerosene-lamp set in the centre of the table, where Jackson afterward placed his planchette, devoured the little life that was left in it. At the gasps which Westover gave, with some despairing glances at the closed windows, Whitwell said: "Hot? Well, I guess it is a little. But, you see, Jackson has got to be careful about the night air; but I guess I can fix it for you."
"But as far as that is concerned," said Westover, "and the doctrine of immortality generally is concerned, Jackson will have his hands full if he studies the Egyptian monuments." "What they got to do with it?" "Everything. Egypt is the home of the belief in a future life; it was carried from Egypt to Greece. He might come home by way of Athens." "Why, man!" cried Whitwell.
I've been mullin' over that consid'able since Cynthy and him fixed it up together. Of course, I know it's their business, and all that; but I presume I've got a right to spee'late about it?" He referred the point to Westover, who knew an inner earnestness in it, in spite of Whitwell's habit of outside jocosity. "Every right in the world, I should say, Mr. Whitwell," he answered, seriously.
See on this subject E.A. Bond's article in Archæologia, vol. xxviii., pp. 207-326; W.E. Rhodes, Italian Bankers in England under Edward I. and II. in Owens Coll. Historical Essays, pp. 137-68; and R.J. Whitwell, Italian Bankers and the English Crown in Transactions of Royal Hist. Soc., N.S., xvii. , pp. 175-234.
Whitwell promised to let Westover know what he heard of Jeff, but, when the painter had walked the philosopher home to his hotel, he found a message awaiting him at his studio from Jeff direct: Whitwell's despatch received. Wait letter.
I knew about his gittin' that feller drunk. Mr. Westover told me when he was up here." "Mr. Westover did!" said Cynthia, in a note of indignation. "He didn't offer to," Whitwell explained. "I got it out of him in spite of him, I guess." He had sat down with his hat on, as his absent-minded habit was, and he now braced his knees against the edge of the table.
"They might 'a' seen that I had him by the collar. I wa'n't a-goin' to let go." "Well, the next time I have you by the collar I won't let go, either," said the painter; but he felt an inadequacy in his threat, and he imagined a superfluity, and he made some haste to ask: "who are they?" "Whitwell is their name. They live in that little house where you took them.
Whitwell," she called to him, "won't you please come here a moment?" Whitwell slowly pulled himself across the grass to the group, and at the same moment, as if she had been waiting for him to be present, Mrs. Durgin came out of the office door and advanced toward the ladies. "Mrs.
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