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Updated: May 23, 2025
It's worse than his last insult; I shall never forgive this! She glanced down the page and handed it back with a laugh; from her point of vantage it was naïvely transparent. From Mr. Wilder's point, however, the contents were inscrutable; he looked from the letter to his daughter's serene smile, and relapsed into a puzzled silence.
But Wilder's reputation soared on higher voices than those of the journalistic crowd, and he was, beyond dispute, a person of genius one of those odd distorted bundles of broken nerve who help to establish the theory that fine thinking, a noble vocabulary, deep scholarship, and foolish living are neighbours and hard to separate. With this very queer fish Paul had established a certain intimacy.
Wilder's chair, ready to serve. "Hop Joy, this is Mr. Larry and this is Mr. Tom," said Mrs. Wilder. "Whatever they ask you to do, you must do it." The celestial, who was cook, washman and general factotum on the Half-Moon Ranch, bowed gravely to each of the boys. "That sounds very fine," laughed Mr. Wilder, "but you must be careful what you ask Hop Joy to do.
One regarding them, a stranger to their intent, might think they meant slaughtering either the mules or the men on their backs. They have no such thought, but a design altogether different, as declared by Wilder's words the last spoken by him before the act of execution. "When I gie the signal, Nat, prod yur critter sharp, an' sweep the support from unner them.
"What is the matter with you, Grace Harlowe?" she said half aloud. With an impatient squaring of her shoulders she marched along determined to be cheerful and make the best of what she could not change. As she entered Miss Wilder's office her quick glance took in the short, rather stout figure seated beside Miss Wilder. This, then, was Miss Wharton.
"That's jess the questyin; though thar ain't no questyin about it. Boys, do any o' ye recognise this hyar shootin' iron?" One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle. "I do," says one. "And I," adds another. And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise. "Walt Wilder's gun," continues Cully, "sure an' sartin. I know it, an oughter know it.
Every Sunday afternoon, the labourers at Mr. Wilder's lime-kiln were in the habit of visiting a small public-house, at the hamlet of Tickencote, called 'the Flower Pot. Thirsty, like all of their tribe, they spent hours in carousing; while John Clare, after having had his glass or two, went into the fields, and, sitting by a hedge, or lying down under a tree, surveyed the glories of nature, feasting his eyes upon the thousandfold beauties of earth and sky.
Colonel Morrison says that Balderson became familiarly known in State politics as Little Baldy, and was in demand at soldiers' meetings and posed as the soldier's friend. Wilder's "Annals" records the fact that Balderson failed to go to Congress, but went to the State Senate. He waxed fat.
Wilder's dark hair, and it cooled the back of Hartley's neck, as they rode along together, by the way of a lake. They had met quite accidentally, and Hartley, who had been vaguely wishing for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Wilder, seized upon it and offered himself as her escort.
I was introduced to her yesterday afternoon in Miss Wilder's office. I didn't tell you, because I wished you to form your own impression of her, first hand." "She was positively rude to me, Emma. She made me feel like a little girl. She said I looked more like a student than a person in charge of a campus house." "I agree with her," was Emma's bland reply.
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