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Updated: June 18, 2025
This was not in the least to Natalie Weyman's liking. Her own car having arrived, she was obliged to drive it. She had not emerged from her cloud of resentment against the officious Miss Walbert, nor was she likely to. Meanwhile the faithful little committee, truly devoted to freshman welfare, was blissfully unaware that their duties were about to be snatched from them by the predatory Sans.
At the touch of Weyman's lips to her hair Josephine lay very still, and Philip wondered if she had felt that swift, stolen caress. Almost he hoped that she had. The silken tress where for an instant his lips had rested seemed to him now like some precious communion cup in whose sacredness he had pledged himself.
"The characters in the book are all entertaining, and many of them are droll, while a few, like the conscientious Mr. Fishwick, the attorney, and the cringing parasite, Mr. Thomasson, are, in their own way, masterpieces of character study. Take it all in all, 'The Castle Inn' is in many ways the best work which has yet come from Mr. Weyman's pen." "Mr.
Weyman's new romance illustrates the types and manners of fashionable London society in the year 1742. In everything that means the revival of an historical atmosphere it is skilful, and, on the whole, just.
It is history which we read here, and not romance, but history which is so perfectly written, so veritable, that it blends with the romantic associations in which it is set as naturally as the history in Shakespeare's plays blends with the poetry which vitalizes and glorifies it." "It will be scarcely more than its due to say that this will always rank among Weyman's best work.
"Last fall we came down to the train to meet her crowd. We knew they were greenies from a little one-horse town called Sanford. They were to be at the same campus house as we. A few of us thought we would try to help them. We took my friend, Miss Weyman's, car and went to the station. Missed 'em by about two minutes. They hired a taxi.
These fears must have been present to the mind of B.S. when he met Crawford at the station in Hamburg on the 27th on his return from Belfast, for the precautions taken to avoid being followed gave their movements the character of an adventure by one of Stanley Weyman's heroes of romance. Whether any suspicion had in fact been aroused remains unknown.
It is a fascinating and absorbing tale, which carries the reader with it, and impresses itself upon the mind as only a novel of unusual merit and power can do." "The story gives a view of the times which is apart from the usual, and marked with a fine study of history and of human conditions and impulse on Mr. Weyman's part.
His fingers dug into Henri's flesh. His eyes had caught a glimpse of the steel-studded collar about Kazan's neck. "Wait!" he cried. "It's not a wolf. It's a dog!" Henri lowered his rifle, staring at the collar. Weyman's eyes shot to Gray Wolf. She was facing them, snarling, her white fangs bared to the foes she could not see. Her blind eyes were closed.
Natalie Weyman's cheek bore a long disfiguring scratch, caused from a too near contact with a fancy pin or ornament. A jab from someone's elbow had decorated Dulcie Vale with a black eye. Leslie Cairns, who had essayed to unlock the front door in the dark, declared resentfully that she had received more kicks, thumps and bruises than all the others had put together.
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