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Updated: June 10, 2025
Paraday had been promptly caught and saddled, accepting with characteristic good-humour his confidential hint that to figure in his show was not so much a consequence as a cause of immortality. From Mrs. Wimbush to the last "representative" who called to ascertain his twelve favourite dishes, it was the same ingenuous assumption that he would rejoice in the repercussion.
Wimbush, who's aware of the accident, is much less agitated by it than she would doubtless be were she not for the hour inevitably engrossed with Guy Walsingham."
"We are listening." "Before I begin reading," said Henry Wimbush, looking up from the book and taking off the pince-nez which he had just fitted to his nose "before their begin, I must say a few preliminary words about Sir Ferdinando, the last of the Lapiths.
And now it's finished the whole chronicle, from Sir Ferdinando Lapith's birth to the death of my father William Wimbush more than three centuries and a half: a history of Crome, written at Crome, and printed at Crome by my own press." "Shall we be allowed to read it now it's finished?" asked Denis. Mr. Wimbush nodded. "Certainly," he said.
"Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?" Henry Wimbush leaned forward; the most promising of buds was nipped. "To begin with," said Denis desperately, "there was the Ballet..." "Last week," Mr. Wimbush went on softly and implacably, "we dug up fifty yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through the middle. Very interesting indeed.
She hoped and expected that her daughters would all marry into the peerage; but, being a prudent woman, she knew it was advisable to prepare for all contingencies. George Wimbush, she thought, would make an excellent second string for one of the twins. "At this first dinner, George's partner was Emmeline. They talked of Nature.
When I asked her what she was looking for she said she had mislaid something that Mr. Paraday had lent her. I ascertained in a moment that the article in question is a manuscript, and I've a foreboding that it's the noble morsel he read me six weeks ago. Wimbush, who had wished to give her a glimpse of it as a salve for her not being able to stay and hear it read.
Mary echoed incredulously. She turned astonished blue eyes towards Mr. Wimbush, then let them fall onto the seething mass of elan vital that fermented in the sty. An immense sow reposed on her side in the middle of the pen. Her round, black belly, fringed with a double line of dugs, presented itself to the assault of an army of small, brownish-black swine.
"I hope you all realise," said Henry Wimbush during dinner, "that next Monday is Bank Holiday, and that you will all be expected to help in the Fair." "Heavens!" cried Anne. "The Fair I had forgotten all about it. What a nightmare! Couldn't you put a stop to it, Uncle Henry?" Mr. Wimbush sighed and shook his head. "Alas," he said, "I fear I cannot.
He appealed to the patriotism and the Christian sentiments of all his hearers. Henry Wimbush walked home thinking of the books he would present to the War Memorial Library, if ever it came into existence. He took the path through the fields; it was pleasanter than the road.
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