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Updated: June 20, 2025
Old Mat, Jim Silver, and the great horse stood on the edge of the throng, quite unconcerned. Many noticed them; not a few essayed enquiries. "Is your jockey a gal, Mr. Woodburn?" "So they says," answered Old Mat. "Where's Miss Woodburn then?" "Inside, they tell me." He nodded to the door of the weighing-room, which opened at the moment.
Mah goodness! we have to cyoant the coast so much nowadays; it seems to me we do nothing but cyoant it. Ah'd like to hah something once without askin' the price." "Well, if you didn't ask it," said Alma, "I don't believe Mr. Wetmore would ever know what the price of his lessons was. He has to think, when you ask him." "Why, he most be chomming," said Miss Woodburn.
Woodburn of his prey. George Grey was really a bore of capacity to wreck the social patience of the most courteous. The rector fled from him, John always had lessons and how would James endure his vacuous talk. It all helped her to be comfortably angry, and there too was that horrible spittoon.
Leighton, who made a deprecatory motion to let him pass to the chair beyond her; "I can find my way." He bowed a bulk that did not lend itself readily to the devotion, and picked up the ball of yarn she had let drop out of her lap in half rising. "Yo' worsteds, madam." "Yarn, yarn, Colonel Woodburn!" Alma shouted. "You're quite incorrigible. A spade is a spade!"
"Artists cannot tell a fib," Alma said, "or even act one," and she laughed in Beaton's upturned face. He did not unbend his dreamy gaze. "You're quite right. The suggestions are stupid." Alma turned to Miss Woodburn: "You hear? Even when we speak of our own work." "Ah nevah hoad anything lahke it!" "And the design itself?" Beaton persisted.
"Colonel Woodburn?" "Mmmmm." "He did seem to rather take to the colonel!" Fulkerson mused aloud. "Of course he did. Woodburn, with his idiotic talk about patriarchal slavery, is the man on horseback to Dryfoos's muddy imagination. He'd listen to him abjectly, and he'd do whatever Woodburn told him to do." Beaton smiled cynically. Fulkerson got up and reached for his coat and hat.
"Come back, miscreant! coward!" shouted Woodburn, dismounting, and leaping forward to the place where the other had disappeared "come back, and decide your fate or mine." But the new-made tory colonel, who was more a coward from conscience than nature, in the present instance, perhaps, did not see fit to accept the challenge for a further personal combat.
At dinner, she painted word-pictures of the "good times" she would give me, and though I've never been able to care for her, and don't a bit more now, I began to be rather excited by her talk, for she made things seem so interesting and new. Besides, it appears that Sally Woodburn will be at Newport most of the summer, so I shall have her to fall back upon.
"Colonel Woodburn," Fulkerson called out, "if you'll work up those ideas into a short paper say, three thousand words I'll engage to make March take it." The colonel went on without replying: "But Mr. Lindau is right in characterizing some of the motives that led men to the cannon's mouth as no higher than business motives, and his comparison is the most forcible that he could have used.
Mat and his Ma had one daughter between them, known to all and sundry in the racing world as Boy Woodburn. Boy Shows Her Metal The Polefax Meeting was small and friendly; never taken very seriously by the fraternity, and left almost entirely to local talent. Old Mat described it always as reg'lar old-fashioned.
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