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Updated: June 16, 2025
And a deep, tender, woman's heart it was, too, despite her reserve. Without many words, we understood each other, and so Pshaw!" said Westwood, "my cigar is out!" "On with the story!" "Well, we had our lovers' quarrels, of course. Singular, what foolish children love makes of us! rendering us sensitive, jealous, exacting, in the superlative degree.
The 'Athenaeum' has been gracious to me beyond gratitude almost; nothing could by possibility be kinder. A friend of mine sent me the article from Brussels a Mr. Westwood, who writes poems himself; yes, and poetical poems too, written with an odorous, fresh sense of poetry about them.
Under sentence of death, they behaved themselves with great obstinacy and resolution, refused to give any account of their crimes, but in general would say that they were great and notorious offenders. As to the fact committed by Knowland and Westwood, they would not positively say it was done by them, though they could not deny it.
"I should not have thought of a gentleman like you, one of your family, troubling himself about a ragged miserable child like this little Westwood girl. I'm sure she ought to be eternally grateful to you all!" "Oh, by-the-bye," said Hubert, turning round as he was nearing the door, "you have reminded me of something that I may as well mention now, Mrs. Rumbold!
Careful village mothers would not let their children play with her, and district-visitors went out of their way to avoid her for she had been known to fling stones at boys who had come too near, and she laughed in the faces of people who tried to lecture her. Jenny Westwood was thus very little in the way of hearing Beechfield gossip, or she would have known all about Mr.
Financial failures in the New York laundry business are frequent. Even in the short time elapsing between the Department of Labor's inspection of laundry machinery, early in February, and a reinspection of the twenty-six establishments that had improperly guarded machinery, made in August by Miss Westwood, two out of these twenty-six firms had collapsed.
She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon.
If I were you I should tell her about things," she added pointedly. "I do not know if you have any plans made, but you are up for discharge next week." She bustled off and Mrs. Westwood drew up a chair and sat down close to Joan, staring at the girl with short-sighted, pink-lidded eyes. "You will wonder who I am," she said at last.
Those who had kept themselves cool, to win, and who earned their living in such scenes, threw themselves upon the combatants, and, forcing them asunder, dragged them some space apart. 'Let me go! cried Sir Mulberry, in a thick hoarse voice; 'he struck me! Do you hear? I say, he struck me. Have I a friend here? Who is this? Westwood. Do you hear me say he struck me?
Also God's wisdom, deeply steeped in His love, is as far as we can stretch out our hands. To Mr. Westwood 50 Wimpole Street: December 26, 1843. Dear Mr. Westwood, You think me, perhaps, and not without apparent reason, ungrateful and insensible to your letter, but indeed I am neither one nor the other, and I am writing now to try and prove it to you.
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