“He’s a plucky fellow, and deserved to win,” said Mr Trump to his partner, when Markworth had disappeared, and his steps were heard going down the staircase.
“That he is; that he did,” responded parrot Sequence, and both dismissed him from their minds, and set about filing the necessary papers which would soon put an end to the longed talked of suit of “Markworth versus Hartshorne.”
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
The Doctor Goes Abroad.
“Ait-choo!” sneezed the doctor one morning towards the end of October, when the weather was getting damp and misty, as he entered his comfortable breakfast parlour, where Deborah was sitting as usual before the fire darning her interminable stockings. I believe if you walked into that room at any hour of the day or night, you would always find her at the same task, darning stockings, and she always seemed to have the same stocking, a half grey and white one with plenty of holes about the heel, in her hand.
“Ait-choo!” sneezed the doctor again. “Bless my soul, Deb,” he exclaimed, “I believe I have taken a cold. Confound it! Just what I might expect from toddling up to The Poplars last night on such a wild goose chase.”
“Well, you know, Richard, you would go out, and you threw off that comforter I took the trouble to wrap round your neck.”
“A lot of molly coddling! But you’re a good soul, Deb. What an old catamaran that old woman is to be sure.”