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'He says he is Mr Griffith Jenkins's groom, and waits for an answer. Howel doesn't do the thing by halves anyhow. 'Mr Griffith Jackanapes! said the farmer, breaking the seal of the note hastily, and reading it. Owen watched his countenance assume an angry expression, and then heard him utter a very broad Welsh oath. 'Tell that feller there's no answer, said Mr Prothero.
In March, 1915, when Miss Jenkins's report was printed in the News, 3823 of Wellesley's daughters had contributed, and belated contributions were still coming in. In June, 1915, 3903, out of 4840, graduates had responded.
The turn of the wringer never seemed so easy, and she frequently paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment to wring the suds from her swollen hands and listen anew to the recital of Bud's call upon the bishop and the choirmaster of Grace Church. The next day the flood-tide of the Jenkins's fortunes bid fair to flow to fullness. Word came to the little home that Mr.
"Would you please to condescend to take a cup of tea with us, sir?" was Jenkins's answer. "It is just ready." "I don't care if I do," said Roland. "There's nothing I like better than buttered muffins. We get them sometimes at home; but there's so many to eat at our house, that before a plate is well in, a dozen hands are snatching at it, and it's emptied.
Jenkins's account was doubtless abundantly emphatic; but there is no ground to question the substantial truth of him and it.
And the Aunties were so proud and happy, that they could neither eat nor sleep, but just wandered about the house and garden in a happy daze. And through all the interviews, not one of the clever, keen-scented reporters, discovered that the hero had been just a poor waif from an Orphan Asylum that Auntie Elspie had plucked as a brand from the furnace of Skinflint Jenkins's cruelty.
Hudgers," said Amarilly, gazing longingly at the doughnuts, which were classed as luxuries in the Jenkins's menu. "I dassent eat 'em, Amarilly. If I et jest one, I'd hev dyspepsy orful, and folks hez brung in enough stuff to kill me now. It does beat all the way they bring vittles to a house of mournin'! I only wish Hallie could hev some of 'em."
Hamish tilted himself on to the edge of Mr. Jenkins's desk, and took up the letter, apparently in absence of mind, which Mr. Galloway had left there, ready for the post. "Mr. Robert Galloway, Sea View Terrace, Ventnor, Isle of Wight," he read aloud. "That must be Mr. Galloway's cousin," he remarked: "the one who has run through so much money." "Of course it is," answered Roland Yorke.
"The sky is clear, the pavement dry. If you like, my dear boy, we will send the carriage away and return on foot," said Jansoulet to his companion as they left Jenkins's house. De Gery accepted with eagerness.
But I do not believe popery has ventured at these diabolical tricks since the earthquake at Lisbon, so that a bucket of real water, carried to the real fire at Jenkins's cottage, would have done more good than a wild plan to put out an imaginary flame which no longer burns.
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