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"Yes, in my wife's boudoir on the first bedroom floor." "When did you last see Mr. Spencer alive?" "When I showed him into his bedroom and loaned him a pair of pajamas." "Did you help him undress?" "No, as he assured me, with drunken gravity, that he could manage it himself." "Did you inform your wife and daughter that Mr. Spencer was spending the night in your house?" "No.
Unless I might change Billy and the Farquhar girl to their table, and put them in the boudoir balcony! Billy wouldn't mind and the Farquhar girl doesn't matter; she didn't get me those tickets, anyhow." The Sparrow gave a little hop of satisfaction. "Right. That'll do famously." So the Cassowary went back to the table and laid her hand on Joyselle's sleeve.
Sitting in her boudoir immediately after these events, driving, walking, shopping, calling on the few with whom she had managed to scrape an acquaintance, Aileen thought morning, noon, and night of this new woman. The pale, delicate face haunted her. What were those eyes, so remote in their gaze, surveying? Love? Cowperwood? Yes! Yes!
That night Kalora slept on a hard and narrow cot in a bare apartment adjoining her sister's gorgeous boudoir quite a change from the suite overlooking the avenue.
Anything approaching to badness ensured their summary and violent ejection. Branching from this family room was a little recess, screened off by skin curtains, which formed Nootka's private apartment or boudoir. It was singularly unlike the boudoirs of other lands! Black smoke, instead of whitewash, coloured the walls and ceiling.
Her rich, dark hair was uncovered and wound around her head in three thick coils, like a tiara. Her graceful figure was as slender as that of a girl, and she looked so young and childlike that no living man would have supposed her to be the mother of five children. In the peculiar blue light of the boudoir her naturally fair face appeared so white that I was almost startled.
She wore a lace boudoir cap, plenteously beribboned, and her sunburned nose had been lavishly powdered. She looked now merely like an indulged matron whose most poignant worry would be a sick Pomeranian or overnight losses at bridge. She wished to know whether I would have tea with her. I would. Tea consisted of bottled beer from the spring house, half a ham, and a loaf of bread.
Mash laid stress on the word "woman," in retaliation for the somewhat peremptory way in which the person in question had accosted her at the door. The "Buttery and the Boudoir a Tale of Real Life," afforded her a precedent on this point. "Show in the lady," said Marcus, wondering who she could be. A tall, shapely person, dressed in deep black, and wearing a thick veil, was ushered into the room.
"You naughty Madge, where are you?" The speaker was Jennie Montgomery. She had been busy over the arrangement of a number of bouquets for the dinner-table, and assisting Mrs. Verne in many ways, and now made a hasty transit towards Madge's favorite retreat a pretty boudoir adjoining her mamma's dressing-room. "Just as auntie said, you old offender.
What ARE you talking about? And it's almost five o'clock. I suppose I must telephone them not to come! Well, I'll go home and do it, and you come on over as soon as you're ready. We'll spend the evening alone in my boudoir, and we'll amuse ourselves somehow." "Wait a minute, Mona. Let me think. Yes, I do believe I'll do it! Mona, suppose I provide a chaperon.
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