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Updated: June 11, 2025
The fact that he went in for portrait painting and seemed averse to subsisting on the generosity of his father, preferring to live by his talent, in no way operated against him, so far as Mrs. Wrandall was concerned. That was HIS lookout, not hers; if he elected to that sort of thing, all well and good.
"My wife noticed it the minute she saw Mrs. Wrandall. Same height and everything." A bell rang sharply and Burton glanced over his shoulder at the indicator on the wall behind the desk. He gave a great start and his jaw sagged. "Great Scott!" he gasped. A curious greyness stole over his face. "It's it's the bell in that very room. My soul, what can " "Mrs.
The young woman now in the far West is a sickening example. I refer to the Ashtley girl. If, by any chance, the right person should be taken, I will do my part, Mr. Wrandall, with the same purpose if not the same spirit that actuates you, but I am opposed to baring skeletons to gratify the morbid curiosity of a public that despises all of us because, unhappily, we are what we are.
Of course she had a heart, but it was only for the purpose of pumping blood to remote extremities, and had nothing whatever to do with anything so unutterably extraneous as love, charity or self-sacrifice. As for Mr. Redmond Wrandall he was a very proper and dignified gentleman, and old for his years. Secretly, Vivian was his favourite.
For a long time he looked into her sombre eyes, and as he looked the fear that was hateful took on something of a definite shape. "Did you know her husband?" he asked, and somehow he knew what the answer would be. "Yes," she replied, after a moment. She was startled. Her lips remained parted. He watched her closely. "Has this this secret anything to do with Challis Wrandall?"
Drearily, I have said, for the reason that it was Sunday, and raining at that. "I met Mrs. Wrandall a few years ago in Rome," said his companion, renewing interest in a conversation that had died some time before of its own exhaustion. "She's most attractive. I saw her but once. I think it was at somebody's fete." "She's returning to New York the end of the month," said Leslie.
Presently the keeper's collie came up and sniffed his puttees, all the while looking askance. Mr. Wrandall said: "Away with you," and the dog retreated with some dignity to the steps where he laid down and fixed his eyes on the stranger. Half-an-hour passed. Mr. Wrandall frowned as he looked at his watch. Another quarter of an hour went by.
"I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy you want to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through, eh? Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dresses through, as you'll discover if you become a real American, Miss Castleton. It's in the blood." Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap.
In that instant, Sara Wrandall no philanthropist, no sentimentalist made up her mind to give this erring one more than an even chance for salvation. She would see her safely across THAT bridge and many others. God had directed the footsteps of this girl so that she should fall in with the one best qualified to pass judgment on her. It was in that person's power to save her or destroy her.
He recalled all she had said to him in that sylvan confessional, and was content. His family? Pooh! He had a soul of his own. It needed its mate. He did not see the Wrandall motor at his garden gate until a lusty voice brought him down from the clouds into the range of earthly sounds.
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