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Updated: June 10, 2025
She has been told everything in the world and has never perceived anything, and the echoes of her education respond awfully to the rash footfall I mean the casual remark in the cold Valhalla of her memory. Mrs. Wimbush delights in her wit and says there's nothing so charming as to hear Mr. Paraday draw it out.
Budge from the big house on the other side of the valley. She stood low on the ground, and the spikes of her black-and-white sunshade menaced the eyes of Priscilla Wimbush, who towered over her a massive figure dressed in purple and topped with a queenly toque on which the nodding black plumes recalled the splendours of a first-class Parisian funeral.
"I had a distinct presentiment of this last night," she said. "A distinct presentiment." "A mere coincidence, no doubt," said Mary, brushing Mrs. Wimbush out of the conversation. "There's a very good train at 3.27." She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "You'll have nice time to pack." "I'll order the motor at once." Henry Wimbush rang the bell. The funeral was well under way.
"Couldn't you give the animals a little holiday from producing children?" asked Anne. "I'm so sorry for the poor things." Mr. Wimbush shook his head. "Personally," he said, "I rather like seeing fourteen pigs grow where only one grew before. The spectacle of so much crude life is refreshing." "I'm glad to hear you say so," Gombauld broke in warmly. "Lots of life: that's what we want.
"I don't know if you have seen Ely. There the old painting has been largely restored...." From that to the end there was no real danger, and at last the bishop found himself alone with his wife again. "Remarkable person," he said tentatively. "I never met any one whose faults were more visible. I met her at Wimbush House." He glanced at his watch.
A faint white glare, rising from behind a belt of trees, indicated the position of the dancing-floor. The music was nothing but a muffled rhythmic pulse. "I shall be glad," said Henry Wimbush, "when this function comes at last to an end." "I can believe it." "I do not know how it is," Mr.
"'Is that the piece he's to read, I asked, 'when Guy Walsingham arrives? "'It's not for Guy Walsingham they're waiting now, it's for Dora Forbes, Lady Augusta said. 'She's coming, I believe, early to- morrow. Meanwhile Mrs. Wimbush has found out about him, and is actively wiring to him. She says he also must hear him.
Paraday's admirers, she devoured everything he wrote. And then he read like an angel. Mrs. Wimbush reminded me that he had again and again given her, Mrs. Wimbush, the privilege of listening to him. I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you?" I crudely enquired. For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a moment she hesitated and coloured. "Oh all sorts of things!"
"It was in the spring of 1833 that my grandfather, George Wimbush, first made the acquaintance of the 'three lovely Lapiths, as they were always called. He was then a young man of twenty-two, with curly yellow hair and a smooth pink face that was the mirror of his youthful and ingenuous mind.
Henry Wimbush was all for a library a library of local literature, stocked with county histories, old maps of the district, monographs on the local antiquities, dialect dictionaries, handbooks of the local geology and natural history. He liked to think of the villagers, inspired by such reading, making up parties of a Sunday afternoon to look for fossils and flint arrow-heads.
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