Chat coquin body chat quin themes


I don't think he had enter- tained honest Bob with much conversation from those thin lips of his during their grizzly tete-a-tete among the black windows and the mural tablets that overhung the aisle.

But the rector had lots to say though deliberately and gravely, still the voice was genial and inspiring and exorcised the shadows that had been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church functionaries. Irons's tooth, he learned, was still bad ; but she was no longer troubled with ' that sour humour in her stomach.' There were sour humours, alas !

If it's bad, why, it costs them nothing ; and if good, so much the better.

So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self- possession, and being offered tea, preferred punch, and the in- gredients were soon on the little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp, was pleasant ; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed his nectar, to his heart's content ; and as we sipped our tea in pleased attention, he, after his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an interest which I confess has never subsided.

She had dreamed of making the great four-post, state bed, with the dark green damask curtains a dream that be- tokened some coming trouble it might, to be sure, be ever so small (it had once come with no worse result than Dr.

Walsing- ham's dropping his purse, containing something under a guinea in silver, over the side of the ferry boat) but again it might be tremendous. A large square letter, with a great round seal, as big as a crown piece, addressed to the Rev.

1 1 was spouting down from the corner of the sign ; and indeed the night was such as might well have caused that suicidal fowl to abandon all thoughts of self-incremation, and submit to an unpre- cedented death by drowning), there was no idle officer, or lounging waiter upon the threshold.

Some odd facts 2 bout the Tiled House oein an authentic narrative of the ghost of a hand - - - "57 XIII. ' Gently, gently, my good man/ said the curate, placing his hand hastily upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the purpose of demonstration.

There were now three can- dles in church ; but the edifice looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total darkness.

Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig and blue chin, and some- thing shy and sinister in his phiz.

Hugh Walsingham, Doctor of Divinity, at his house, by the bridge, in Chapelizod, had reached The House by the Church- Yard.

As they passed by the Phoenix (a little rilet, by-the-bye, The Rectors Night Walk.

The door was nearly closed, and only let out a tall, narrow slice of candle-light upon the lake of mud, over every inch of which the rain was drumming.

You must have an account to comment. Please register or login here!