. ’ The pathetic sob which accompanied the last word had a signal effect on two of the company at least. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. The tired woman looked quietly at her. She pulled her hand away quickly. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. Return, I implore of you, to your master,—to Mr. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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