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Updated: May 4, 2025
There's just room for a little table of books at one end of the divan, and I'm going to have a movable electric lamp with a ground-glass globe and a green shade to be good for the eyes. Your pipe-rack will be on the wall over it. Then by squeezing a little there will be just room for my writing-chair, you know the one with the desk on the arm and the little drawer for note-paper?"
I do not see why my stepfather should betray such anxiety on my account." "The general is greatly concerned about you," Weirmarsh said, seated cross-legged at his writing-chair, toying with his pen and looking into the girl's handsome face. "He wished me to see you. That is why I wrote to you." "Well," she said, wavering beneath his sharp glance, "I am here. What do you wish?"
Then, when he had finished, he laughed softly to himself, and, closing the book, replaced it in the safe and shut the oaken door. By the inspection of that secret entry he had learnt much regarding that man who posed as a doctor in Pimlico. He sat back in his writing-chair and puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette. Then he turned his attention to a pile of letters addressed to him as "Mr.
I had made up my mind to consult my chief, and with that object entered his room on the following afternoon at a quarter before four. "Well, Boyd, anything fresh?" he asked, putting off his severely professional air and lolling back in his padded writing-chair as I entered. "No, nothing," I responded, throwing myself in the patient's chair opposite him and tossing my gloves on the table.
His cronies, who in raiment, manners, and tastes differ from him no more than a row of pins differs from a stray brother, regard a writing-chair as a mediaeval instrument of torture, and faint at the sight of ink. They will put themselves to all kinds of physical and pecuniary inconvenience in order to avoid regular employment. They are the tramps of the fashionable world.
"My own idea is that a woman killed him." "Why?" cried Walter quickly. "What causes you to make such a suggestion?" "Well listen, and when I've finished you can draw your own conclusions." "HARRY BELLAIRS was an old friend of mine," Trendall went on, leaning back in his padded writing-chair and turning towards where the novelist was standing.
But there was something the matter with her father, Una thought, as she followed him across the hall to the library. He walked so slowly, and stopped every now and then as if in pain; and when he sat down in the big writing-chair by the table he looked so tired and sad paler even than usual, the little girl thought, as she looked anxiously into his face with the big eyes so like her father's own.
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