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Updated: May 4, 2025
Polwarth?" asked the curate rather abruptly. "I will see anyone you would like me to see. Mr. Wingfold," answered Liugard for himself, with a decision that clearly indicated returning strength. "But, Leopold, you know it is hardly to be desired," suggested Helen, "that more persons " "I don't know that," interrupted Leopold with strange expression.
Drew is well," without reflecting whether he had really ever heard of a Mrs. Drew. The draper's face flushed. "It is twenty years since I lost her, sir," he returned. In his tone and manner there was something peculiar. "I beg your pardon," said Wingfold, with self-accusing sincerity. "I will be open with you sir," continued his host: "she left me with another nearly twenty years ago."
Having thus far succeeded with these two stanzas, Wingfold rose, a little pleased with himself, and climbed the bank above him, wading through mingled sun and wind and ferns so careless of their shivering beauty and their coming exile, that a watcher might have said the prospect of one day leaving behind him the shows of this upper world could have no part in the curate's sympathy with Horace.
If Love is Lord of the world, love must yet be Lord in his heart. It will wake, if not sooner, yet when the bitterness has worn itself out, as Mr. Wingfold says all evil must, because its heart is death and not life." "I don't care a straw for life. If I could but find my husband, I would gladly die forever in his arms. It is not true that the soul longs for immortality. I don't.
Wingfold! that is the way you help the helpless!" "How can any man help without knowing what has to be helped?" returned the curate. "The very being of his help depends upon his knowing the truth. It is very plain you do not trust me, and equally impossible I should be of any service as long as the case is such." Again Helen held her peace.
His voice was a little dry and husky, streaked as it were with the asthma whose sounds made that big disproportioned chest seem like the cave of the east wind; but it had a tone of dignity and decision in it, quite in harmony with both matter and style of his letter, and before Wingfold had followed him to the top of the steep narrow straight staircase, all sense of incongruity in him had vanished from his mind.
I was obstinate and proud and selfish. Oh, Mr. Wingfold, can you, do you really believe that Leopold is somewhere? Is he alive this moment? Shall I ever ever I don't mind if it's a thousand years first but shall I EVER see him again?" "I do think so. I think the story must be true that tells us Jesus took to himself again the body he left on the cross, and brought it with him out of its grave."
Bascombe yawned behind his handkerchief, and Wingfold gazed at the profile of the player, wondering how, with such fine features and complexion, with such a fine-shaped and well-set head? her face should be so far short of interesting. It seemed a face that had no story. It was time the curate should take his leave. Bascombe would go out with him and have his last cigar.
You don't know what you are guilty of in despising him. Mr. Wingfold speaks of him as far the first man in Glaston." Certainly Mr. Wingfold, Mr. Drew, and some others of the best men in the place, did think him, of those they knew, the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven. Glaston was altogether of a different opinion.
Wingfold that there MAY be some good in dreaming, uncle," she said. "Successfully?" asked Polwarth. "Unnecessarily," interjected Wingfold. "I required for conviction only the facts. Why should I suppose that, if there be a God, he is driven out of us by sleep?"
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