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The telephone was answered almost immediately by a man, apparently a servant. I inquired for Mr. Parker and in a moment or two I heard his voice at the telephone. "This is Joseph H. Parker speaking. Who are you?" "I am Paul Walmsley. You told me I might ring up between ten and eleven." "Sure!" was the prompt reply. "My dear fellow, I am delighted to hear from you.
ALFRED WALTER AVERILL: Consecrated January 16, 1910, in Napier Cathedral, by S. T. Dunedin, C. Christchurch, C. O. Nelson, F. Wellington, M. R. Auckland, W. L. Williams. Tr. to Auckland, February, 1914. WILLIAM WALMSLEY SEDGWICK: Consecrated February 22, 1914, in Napier Cathedral, by S. T. Dunedin, C. Christchurch, A. W. Auckland, T. H. Wellington, W. C. Nelson, C. O. Mules, W. L. Williams.
Walmsley," he said, "a week ago we were rather proud of having inveigled away one of your adherents. All I can say at the present moment is that we should have been better satisfied if you had left Mr. Bundercombe in town." "Why, he's been speaking against me at nearly every one of your meetings!" I protested. "That's all very well," Mr.
I confessed. "They were just a trifle noticeable." Mr. Parker came a little nearer to me. He accentuated his words by beating on the palm of his left hand with two fingers of his right. "Absolutely, my dear Walmsley, two of the most unmitigated and desperate ruffians on either continent!" "They looked it," I agreed heartily. "Their record," Mr.
They wouldn't leave her much of that, you know." I had certainly succeeded in making an impression this time. Mr. Parker's smooth forehead was wrinkled; his face was clouded. "You are right, Mr. Walmsley," he admitted. "I wish I wish she would listen to reason. We'll have a talk together the three of us soon. You've no idea how difficult it is! She doesn't know fear can't realize danger. Hush!
He was standing in the door, the figure of vulgar comedy, with ruffled hair, reddened face and unpardonable confusion of attire no trace there of the immaculate Robert Walmsley, the courted clubman and ornament of select circles. He was doing a conjuring trick with some household utensils, and the family, now won over to him without exception, was beholding him with worshipful admiration.
The city was far away. Father sat without his pipe, writhing in his heavy boots, a sacrifice to rigid courtesy. Robert shouted: "No, you don't!" He fetched the pipe and lit it; he seized the old gentleman's boots and tore them off. The last one slipped suddenly, and Mr. Robert Walmsley, of Washington Square, tumbled off the porch backward with Buff on top of him, howling fearfully.
Walmsley says in his letter, that "one Johnson" is about to accompany Garrick to London, in order to try his fate with a tragedy and get himself employed in translation. Johnson, he adds, "is a very good scholar and poet, and I have great hopes will turn out a fine tragedy writer." The letter is dated March 2nd, 1737.
Bundercombe is now making and may make in later life," the lawyer remarked, "will certainly not appreciate the adventurous spirit that er induced him to make acquaintances among a certain class of people. Therefore, in the interests of my client, Mr. Walmsley, as well as your own, Mr.
Did you or did you not arrange to accompany me this morning to a meeting at the offices of the Women's Social Federation?" "I fear I er I had forgotten the matter," Mr. Bundercombe stammered. "An affair of business I was rung up on the telephone." Mrs. Bundercombe stared at him. She said nothing; expression was sufficient. She turned to me. "Eve is in the morning room, Mr. Walmsley," she said.
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