Then, with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, she noticed the paper cone filled with violets that had been left on a chair and forgotten by her mother and Mrs. Greaves in the engrossment of their converse.
“Yes. Close by—”
For the tenth time in the last two minutes he glanced at his clock. He had fifteen minutes in which to make five moves. He wasn't in time-pressure, he must remember that. He mustn't make a move on impulse, he mustn't let his treacherous hand leap out without waiting for instructions from its guiding brain.
Almost involuntarily he said: "I'd give anything for a peg!"
SOUTHERN TROOPS LEAVING CORINTH.
She seemed so disappoynted that for a moment she joost stared at the auld gintleman. Then she ses gintly:
I floundered. If he was going to be witty or sarcastic, or anything horrid of that kind, I should be nowhere at all. To cover my confusion—and, as it chanced, to make that confusion worse—I began to talk very rapidly.
They drove along, faster and faster, until they came to a great portal, and out into the blinding radiance of a molten copper sky.
The fascination of this kind of life, which began to dawn on young Mr. Bokenham almost concurrently with the idea of his standing for the borough of Brocksopp, soon proved to be incompatible with the proper discharge of the duties required of him as candidate. He found the necessity for frequent visits to his intended constituents becoming more and more of a nuisance to him, and entirely declined a suggestion which was made to the effect that now, as the time of the election was so near at hand, it would be advisable for him to take up his residence at his father's house, and give his undivided attention to his canvassing. It was pointed out to him that his opponent, Mr. Creswell, was always on the spot, and, quite unexpectedly, had recently shown the greatest interest in the forthcoming struggle, and was availing himself of every means in his power to insure his success; but Tommy Bokenham refused to "bury himself at Brocksopp," as he phrased it, until it was absolutely necessary. "It is positively cruel," wrote Mr. Harrington, a clever young clerk, who had been despatched by his principals, Messrs. Potter and Fyfe, the great parliamentary agents, to report how matters were progressing in the borough, "to see how Mr. B. is cutting out the running for the other side! I've had a talk with South, the attorney, who is acting for us down here, a shrewd, sensible fellow, and he says there is every hope of our pulling through, even as we are, but that if we had only brought another kind of man to the post, our success would be a moral." Old Mr. Potter, a very rigid old gentleman residing at Clapham, and deacon of a chapel there, growled very much, both over the matter and the manner of this communication.
CHAPTER V THE LIE详情 ➢
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