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Updated: June 20, 2025
Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can't think why he doesn't keep on with it. But it's really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie's going to be married " "Ah!" "You've never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling.
Nor is their ground-landlord spiritually the richer. He has built flats on its site, his motor-cars grow swifter, his exposures of Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt the precious distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can give it back to society again. Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle on a house before they left town to pay their annual visit to Mrs. Munt.
You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, 'It's better to be fooled than to be suspicious' that the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence-trick is the work of the devil." "I remember something of the sort now," said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for she longed to add, "It was lucky that your father married a wife with money."
"In either case one can class it as reassuring." Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter and very common he looked in a tall hat.
"But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don't be taken by surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art?
Every other house on the Back Bay has been abandoned for the Hygeia." Mrs. Brinkley stopped, and then she asked. "Are you just up from there?" "No; but I don't know but I shall go." "Hello, Mavering!" said Mr. Brinkley, coming up and taking his hand into his fat grasp. "On your way to Fortress Monroe? Better come with us. Why; Munt!"
It is cheap, even if you hear it in the Queen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London, though not as dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap. "Whom is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the conclusion of the first movement.
Hurrah for riches!" "For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. "Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" "So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree with us." "Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the flowers." "Not at all, dear.
Brinkley gave herself a moment for reflection. "Well, if he can stand it, I suppose I can." "That isn't exactly what people are saying to Mrs. Pasmer, Mrs. Brinkley," suggested Munt, with his humorous manner. "I dare say they're trying to make her believe that her daughter is sacrificed. That's the way. But she knows better." "There's no doubt but she's informed herself.
"Well, you'll 'scuse me, sar," returned the negro with an air of profound humility, "but my massa lost a old sarvint a nigger like myself only last munt', an' he wants to go on one ob his usual expeditions jus' now, so he sends me to Batavia to git anoder man `a good one, you know, says massa, an' as you, sar, was good 'nuff to ax me what you should do, an' you looked a pritty smart man, I "
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