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Updated: June 9, 2025
Wait and see!" To cover a trail is less than half the work, for any dog with a nose can smell it out. You should make a false trail afterward to deceive the clever folk. -Eastern Proverb "Say: that little girl you're wanting to run off with is my wife!" The other side to the intrigue developed furiously up at the Baines' house on the hillside.
Constance emitted an "Oh, FAN!" of shocked terror, and Samuel betrayed his nervous tension by an involuntary movement. But Fan had settled down into that titanic lap as into heaven. It was a greater flattery than Mr. Povey's. "So your name's Fan!" murmured Mrs. Baines, stroking the animal. "You are a dear!" "Yes, isn't she?" said Constance, with inconceivable rapidity. The danger was past.
A strange peculiarity of the shop was that it bore no signboard. Once it had had a large signboard which a memorable gale had blown into the Square. Mr. Baines had decided not to replace it. He had always objected to what he called "puffing," and for this reason would never hear of such a thing as a clearance sale.
As I expected, it was proposed by those who had long been recognised as the leaders of the Liberal party in Leeds that Sir Edward Baines should be the candidate. Forthwith a most violent opposition was offered to the proposal by men who had never before been heard of in Leeds politics, and some of whom had only been resident in the town for a few months.
Baines," Sarah said, making an effort at coldness and dignity. "Bet you hain't enjoyin' yourself enough to warrant your doin' a favor for an old feller like me, eh?... This evenin', for instance?" "I I'm going away this evening." "Um!... Goin' away, eh? Alone? Or along with somebody?" "That's my own affair." "To be sure.... To be sure, but the train don't leave till nine, does it?
Sophia had taken off her hat and mantle hurriedly in the cutting-out room, for she was in danger of being late for tea; but her hair and face showed traces of the March breeze. Mrs. Baines, whose stoutness seemed to increase, sat in the rocking- chair with a number of The Sunday at Home in her hand. Tea was set. "Yes, mother. I called to see Miss Chetwynd."
And sobs ran through her frame like waves one after another. She spoke so indistinctly that her mother now really had some difficulty in catching her words. "Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with god-like calm, "it is not I who make you cry. It is your guilty conscience makes you cry. I have merely asked you a question, and I intend to have an answer." "I've told you."
"He was scribbling caricatures all the time I was talking with his father in my parlour," says Mr. Baines, and produces a sketch of an orange-woman near the Bank, who had struck Clive's eyes, and been transferred to the blotting-paper in Fog Court. "He needn't do anything," said good-natured Mr. Baines. "I guess all the pictures he'll paint won't sell for much."
"Who's that for, mother?" Constance asked sleepily. "It's for Sophia," said Mrs. Baines, with good cheer. "Now, Sophia!" and she advanced with the egg-cup in one hand and the table-spoon in the other. "What is it, mother?" asked Sophia, who well knew what it was. "Castor-oil, my dear," said Mrs. Baines, winningly.
He had scrambled up, taken a dose of castor-oil at once, and on the morrow was as well as if he had never seen a staircase. This episode was town property and had sunk deep into all hearts. "I don't want any, mother," said Sophia, in dejection. "I'm quite well." "You simply ate nothing all day yesterday," said Mrs. Baines. And she added, "Come!"
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