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Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he suspected that it would not. "When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, "put that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack my portmanteau for a week."
But any one who wished to move from place to place must needs do so in the saddle in a country where land is so valuable that the width of a road is grudged, and bridle-ways are deemed good enough for the passage of the long and narrow carts that carry wine. Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from the Villa Cordouan at Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone had been in company.
Pierre Lawrence appeared to be mollified, and turned toward the house with a gesture inviting him to walk with her. "I will be frank with you," she said. "I telegraphed to tell you that the Villa Cordouan is for the moment unfortunately filled with guests." "What matter? I will go to the hotel. In fact, I told the driver of my carriage to wait for further orders.
Pierre Lawrence to one and another. "He knows nothing, and so far as I am aware, is no politician merely a banker, you understand. Leave him alone and he will go to sleep." During the three weeks which Loo Barebone had spent very pleasantly at the Villa Cordouan, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had provided music and light refreshment for her friends on several occasions.
Suddenly he threw up his arms and shouted aloud in his joy. "'Tis the point of La Tremblade!" he cried. "I had not thought that we were as far as Oleron. The Gironde lies before us, and once over the bar, and under shelter of the Tour de Cordouan, all will be well with us. Veer again, my hearts, and bring her to try with the main course!"
"We are just passing between the island of Oleron and the mainland." "Oh, yes, I see. When I came down, of course we saw it from the other way; and I did not recognize it, at first. So we managed to get past Cordouan without being seen?"
Pierre Lawrence, asking if it would be convenient for her to put him up for a few days. And he suspected that it would not. "When I am gone," he said to his well-trained servant, "put that into an envelope and send it after me to the Villa Cordouan, Royan. Pack my portmanteau for a week."
But any one who wished to move from place to place must needs do so in the saddle in a country where land is so valuable that the width of a road is grudged, and bridle-ways are deemed good enough for the passage of the long and narrow carts that carry wine. Ever since their somewhat precipitate departure from the Villa Cordouan at Royan, Dormer Colville and Barebone had been in company.
I am quite determined," she answered, gaily, for she was before her time inasmuch as she was what is known in these days of degenerate speech as cock-sure. And when John Turner, carrying a bundle of papers, presented himself at the Villa Cordouan next morning he found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting alone in the veranda. "Dormer and his friend have left me to my own devices.
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