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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Your Affectionate Aunt, As Miss Landale sighed forth the concluding words, she dropped the little folio on her lap, and looked at her brother with a world of apprehension in her faded eyes. "Oh, Rupert, what shall we do?" "Do," said Mr.
But there must be more than this, as Adrian surmised, to cause him to blush, wax angry, and stammer like a very school-boy found at fault. Speaking with much sharpness: "My name is Smith, my man," cried he, seizing his belongings, "and you just carry on with that coiling!" "And my name, sir, is Adrian Landale, of Pulwick Priory. I would like a moment's talk with you, if you will spare me the time.
Landale could not draw any positive conclusion from his aunt's manner of receiving his confidence, nor determine whether she had altogether grasped the whole meaning of what he had intended delicately to convey to her concerning his brother's past as well as present position; but he had said as much as prudence counselled.
"You are forgetting yourself, officer," said Mr. Landale, looking severely into the eyes of the disappointed preventive man, whose rising ebullition became on the instant reduced. "So I am, sir, so I am and beg your pardon. But you must admit, it's almost enough to make ... but never mind, sir, the trick is done.
Miss Landale, the eldest of the family, had had a disappointment in her youth, as a result of which she now played the ungrateful rôle of old maid of the family. She suffered from chronic toothache, as well as from repressed romantic aspirations, and was the âme damnée of Rupert.
"If I may take the liberty," said he with subdued voice, "will his honour come and look out, without showing himself?" And he pointed to a group, consisting of Mr. Landale and two men in blue jackets and cockaded hats of semi-naval appearance, now slowly approaching the house. Mr.
"The man, my dear, whose plots to compromise and entangle a lovely girl you have favoured, is a villain of the deepest dye a pirate." "Oh!" shivered Sophia with fascinated misery thrilling recollections of last night's reading shooting through her frame. "A smuggler, a criminal, an outlaw in point of fact," pursued Mr. Landale.
"Lady Landale, let me bring you back to your cabin it is late." She went with him as one half-conscious. At the door she paused. The light from within fell upon his face, deeply troubled and white, but upon the lips and brows, what scorn! He was a god among men.... How she loved him, and he scorned her! Poor Murthering Moll! She looked up. "Have you no word for me?" she cried passionately.
February 18th. Upon the 18th of January, 1815, did I commit that most irreparable of all follies; then by my own hand I killed fair Molly de Savenaye, who was so happy, so free, so much in love with life, and whom I loved so dearly, and in her stead called into existence Molly Landale, a poor-spirited miserable creature who has not given me one moment's amusement. How could I have been so stupid?
My 'hostility' has saved you from some already, I know more is the pity it could not save you from this for it passes all bounds that you should meditate such an unnatural act, upon my soul, in the most natural manner in the world. One must be an Adrian Landale, and live on a tower for the best part of one's life, to reach such a pitch of unconventionality, let us call it."
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