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Updated: June 2, 2025
While Miss Trescott was slim, and rather below the medium in height, she was not at all thin; and had the great mass of ruddy dark hair and fine brown eyes which I remembered so well, and a face which would have been pale had it not been for the tan the only thing about her which suggested those occupations by which she became her father's "right-hand man."
There was one part of her experience, however, that Elizabeth passed over lightly, and that was the meeting with George Trescott Benedict. Instinctively she felt that this experience would not find a sympathetic listener.
"Why, we why, we now Willie Dalzel said I dassent go right up to him, and I did; and then he did; and then the other boys were 'fraid; and then you comed." Trescott groaned deeply. His countenance was so clouded in sorrow that the lad, bewildered by the mystery of it, burst suddenly forth in dismal lamentations. "There, there. Don't cry, Jim," said Trescott, going round the desk.
But Miss Trescott had apparently heard nothing of Jim's speech, and begged pardon; and wouldn't they go and show her the bronzes in the library? "This mansion, General," said the Captain, "takes one back, suh, to the halcyon days of American history. I refeh, suh, to those times when the plantahs of the black prairie belt of Alabama lived like princes, in the heart of an enchanted empire!"
Trescott. "Thet little quirly thing there," said Mr. Trescott, spreading a map out on my library table and pointing with his trembling and knobby forefinger, "is Wolf Nose Crick. It runs into the Cheyenne, down about there, an' 's got worlds o' water fer any sized herds, an' carries yeh back from the river fer twenty-five miles.
Mr. Trescott showed this letter to the President on the evening of Sunday, December 2, and while his narrative does not mention any expression by Mr. Buchanan of either approval or dissent, his subsequent acts show a tacit acquiescence in Governor Gist's propositions.
That she had promised. He had told her of awful things that might happen to her if she lay down in the wilderness alone. Her lodging would sometimes cost her something. Yet often they would take her in for nothing. She would be careful of the money. She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott Benedict, 2 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn.
This I did that evening, rapped at the door, and imagining I heard a voice bid me come in, opened it, and stepping into the library, found no one. The door between the library and the front hall stood open, and through it I heard the voice of Miss Trescott and the clear, carrying tones of Mr. Cornish, in low but earnest conversation. "Yes," I heard him say, "perhaps.
The outlines of the house of Dr. Trescott had faded quietly into the evening, hiding a shape such as we call Queen Anne against the pall of the blackened sky.
"Here is an idiot," said Cornish, while we were placing the paper to float the Trescott deal, "who is calling his loans; and why, do you think?" "Can't guess," said Jim, "unless he needs the money. How does he account for it?" "Read his letter," said Cornish. "Says the Fleischmann failure in London is making his directors cautious.
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