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Updated: June 1, 2025
This staggered Mr. Lusignan, and he was afraid to press the point; but what Staines had said fermented in his mind. Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman continued their visits and their prescriptions. The patient got a little worse. Mr. Lusignan hoped Christopher would call again, but he did not. When Dr.
"What! anybody ill?" said Mr. Lusignan. "One of the servants?" "No; it is Miss Lusignan." "Why, what is the matter with her?" Wyman hesitated. "Oh, nothing very alarming. Would you mind asking her?" "Why?" "The fact is, she requested me not to tell you: made me promise." "And I insist upon your telling me." "And I think you are quite right, sir, as her father.
"Now my chief interest," said Wyman, who was at the stage where he put life in capital letters, and cherished harmless ideas about his own deep understanding of the human heart, "is in Mrs. Hubers. There, I fancy," it was his capital letter voice "is a woman who understands." "A dandy girl," said Georgia, briskly. "She has the artistic temperament?" he pursued.
In the automobile which came for her was old Wyman himself, on his way home from the city; and as a snowstorm had begun, he came in and stood by the fire while his car was exchanged for a closed one from Harvey's stables. Montague did not meet him, but stood and watched him from the shadows-a mite of a man, with a keen and eager face, full of wrinkles.
He takes her to ride almost every day, and they have interminable walks and daily confabs together." "Well, I should think the child's lessons would come off slim, Miss Gay." "O, that's only a subterfuge. They'll be married 'fore one year has gone by." "I do not believe Hugh Wyman will ever marry again," said one who knew his character better than the others.
Professor Wyman was there some years ago, and on noticing no pigs but these black ones, he asked some of the people how it was that they had no white pigs, and the reply was that in the woods of Florida there was a root which they called the Paint Root, and that if the white pigs were to eat any of it, it had the effect of making their hoofs crack, and they died, but if the black pigs eat any of it, it did not hurt them at all.
When the hunt was over we generally went out to paddle on the lake, Agassiz and Wyman to dredge or botanize or dissect the animals caught or killed; those of us who had interest in natural history watching the naturalists, the others searching the nooks and corners of the pretty sheet of water with its inlet brooks and its bays and recesses, or bathing from the rocks.
"The batch is next melted, Jean," explained Giusippe, as they followed Mr. Wyman into the great brick-paved room where the furnaces were. Here indeed was a picturesque scene.
"I have one question to put to you, which you must answer from your soul's deep intuition, and not from your reason alone. Do you believe Hugh Wyman guilty of the crimes charged against him?" "I do not." There was no hesitation in the answer; their souls met on sympathetic ground, and those two women loved Hugh Wyman alike, with a pure sisterly affection.
Wyman's was the poetry of scientific research, Agassiz's its prose, and they offered a remarkable example of mental antithesis, from which, had Wyman lived, much might have been expected through their association in study.
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