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Updated: June 8, 2025
Miss Kingsbury was now a large, blonde mass of suffering, "Oh, dear, dear! What shall I do? It was sacrilege yes, it was nothing less than sacrilege to go on as I did. And I meant so well! I did so admire, and respect, and revere her!" Olive burst out laughing. "You wicked girl!" whimpered Clara. "Should you should you write to her?" "And tell her you didn't mean her nose?
The long street, deeply shaded in summer, was bordered by decorous homes, some of which had stood there for a century and a half; others were of the Mansard period. The high school, of strawberry-coloured brick, had been the pride and glory of the Kingsbury of the '70s: there were many churches, some graceful and some hideous.
I dare say you will partly guess the story of Benny's misfortune, but for the sake of those who are not good guessers, I shall tell you that he had taken a fancy to cut across a corner of the Kingsbury farm that morning, to make the distance to his grandmother's shorter, in his unwise fashion, never considering that climbing walls and fences, paddling through the marshy meadows and contriving to get over the ditch would more than overbalance the few steps he saved.
Lady Kingsbury thinks that I am an idiot because I do not live exclusively with counts and countesses; but in declining to take her advice I do not injure her much. She can talk about me and my infatuations among her friends with a smile. She will not be tortured by any feeling of disgrace. So with my father.
In novels it's treated, not only as if it were the chief interest of life, but the sole interest of the lives of two ridiculous young persons; and it is taught that love is perpetual, that the glow of a true passion lasts for ever; and that it is sacrilege to think or act otherwise." "Well, but isn't that true, Mr. Sewell?" pleaded Miss Kingsbury.
He was taken along a passage on the ground floor, past numerous doors, to what must have been the back of the house, and there was shown into a somewhat dingy room that was altogether surrounded by books. There he saw an old gentleman; but the old gentleman was not the Marquis of Kingsbury. "Ah, eh, oh," said the old gentleman. "You, I believe, are Mr. George Roden." "That is my name.
Love was very strong with him, but with it there was a sense of duty and manliness which would make it impossible for him to submit himself to such thraldom. In doing it he would have to throw over all the strong convictions of his life. And yet he was about to sit as a guest at Lord Kingsbury's table, because Lord Kingsbury would believe him to be an Italian nobleman.
"It is certainly very odd that my affairs should be in such a state that I can't have all the money of my own that I want, whenever I want it." Atherton's thin face paled a little more than usual. "I shall be glad to resign the charge of your affair Miss Kingsbury." "And I shall accept your resignation," cried Clara, magnificently, "whenever you offer it."
Lady Kingsbury was of course very unhappy during all this time; but there was a source of misery deeper, more pressing, more crushing than even the Post Office clerk. Mr. Greenwood, the late chaplain, had, during his last interview with the Marquis, expressed some noble sentiments. He would betray nothing that had been said to him in confidence.
He had wondered at the moment that such a man as Lord Kingsbury should confide so much of his family matters to such a man as Mr. Greenwood. Since then he had heard something of Mr. Greenwood's latter history from Lady Frances. Lady Frances had joined with her brother in disliking Mr. Greenwood, and all that Hampstead had said to her had been passed on to her lover.
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