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Hilda Wade, a Woman with Tenacity of Purpose

Creator: Allen, Grant, 1848-1899
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Hilda went to Scarborough, and came back again for a week before going on to Bruges, where she proposed to spend the greater part of her holidays. She stopped a night or two in town to report progress, and, finding another nurse ill, promised to fill her place till a substitute was forthcoming. "Well, Dr. Cumberledge," she said, when she saw me alone, "I was right! I have found out a fact or two about Daphne's rival!" "You have seen her?" I asked. "Seen her? I have stopped for a week in the same house. A very nice lodging-house on the Spa front, too. The girl's well enough off. The poverty plea fails. She goes about in good rooms and carries a mother with her." "That's well," I answered. "That looks all right." "Oh, yes, she's quite presentable: has the manners of a lady whenever she chooses. But the chief point is this: she laid her letters every day on the table in the passage outside her door for post--laid them all in a row, so that when one claimed one's own one couldn't help seeing them." "Well, that was open and aboveboard," I continued, beginning to fear we
The Patchwork Girl of Oz

THE PATCHWORK GIRL OF OZ by L. FRANK BAUM Affectionately Dedicated to my young friend Sumner Hamilton Britton of Chicago Prologue Through the kindness of Dorothy Gale of Kansas, afterward Princess Dorothy of Oz, an humble writer in the United States of America was once appointed Royal Historian of Oz, with the privilege of writing the chronicle of that wonderful fairyland. But after making six books about the adventures of those interesting but queer people who live in the
had hastily misjudged Miss Sissie Montague. "Very open--too much so, in fact; for I was obliged to note the fact that she wrote two letters regularly every day of her life--'to my two mashes,' she explained one afternoon to a young man who was with her as she laid them on the table. One of them was always addressed to Cecil Holsworthy, Esq." "And the other?" "Wasn't." "Did you note the name?" I asked, interested. "Yes; here it is." She handed me a slip of paper. I read it: "Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London." "What, Reggie Nettlecraft!" I cried, amused. "Why, he was a very little boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford, and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a Greek bust in Tom Quad--an antique Greek bust--after a bump supper." "Just the sort of man I should have expected," Hilda answered, with a suppressed smile. "I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes HIM best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better