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Updated: May 28, 2025
Tom Witchet, why, if girls will run away, and all that sort of thing, they must take the consequences, you know. Of course they must. Where should we be if every rich merchant's daughters were at the mercy of his clerks? I'm sorry for all this. It's sad, you know. It's positively melancholy. It troubles me. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh, I was saying that money is the respectable thing.
"I tell you what they can do, father," said he. His father looked at him inquiringly. "They can take Mr. and Mrs. Tom Witchet to board." Mr. Newt remembered every thing he had said of Mr. Van Boozenberg. But of late, his hair was growing very gray, his brow very wrinkled, his expression very anxious and weary.
His daughter Kate married his clerk, young Tom Witchet not a cent, you know, but five hundred dollars salary. 'Twas against the old man's will, and he shut his door, and his purse, and his heart.
Lawrence Newt replied by looking round the room as if searching for some one, and then saying: "I don't see your daughter, Mrs. Witchet, here to-night, Mr. Van Boozenberg." "No," growled the papa, and moved on to talk with Mrs. Dagon.
On the other side, she knew that Boniface Newt was an obstinate man, and that fathers were sometimes implacable. Sometimes, even, they did not relent in making their wills. She knew all about Miss Van Boozenberg's marriage with Tom Witchet, for it was no secret in society. Was it possible her darling Alfred might be in actual danger of such penury at least until he came into his property?
Tom Witchet should never want any thing. Or there were other strange fancies. What will not an India merchant dream as he gazes from his window? It was some old teacher of Amy's some music-master, some French teacher dying alone and in poverty, or with a large family.
It was a woman with innumerable children, of course some old nurse of Amy's who had a kind of respectability to preserve, which intrusion would injure. No, no, by Heaven! it was Mrs. Tom Witchet, old Van Boozenberg's daughter! Of course it was. An old friend of Amy's, half-starving in that miserable lodging, and Amy her guardian angel. Lawrence Newt mentally vowed that Mrs.
He turned Witchet away; told his daughter that she might lie in the bed she had made for herself; told Witchet that he was a rotten young swindler, and that, as he had married his daughter for her money, he'd be d d if he wouldn't be up with him, and deuce of a cent should they get from him. They live I don't know where, nor how.
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