“A man might as well turn his land into charity land at once as leave it to some people,” observed Solomon, his sister’s question having drawn no answer.
“What, Bluecoat land?” said Mrs. Waule, again. “Oh, Mr. Trumbull, you never can mean to say that. It would be flying in the face of the Almighty that’s prospered him.”
While Mrs. Waule was speaking, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull walked away from the fireplace towards the window, patrolling with his forefinger round the inside of his stock, then along his whiskers and the curves of his hair. He now walked to Miss Garth’s worktable, opened a book which lay there and read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if he were offering it for sale:
“ Anne of Geierstein (pronounced Jeersteen) or the Maiden of the Mist , by the author of Waverley .” Then turning the page, he began sonorously—“The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsed since the series of events which are related in the following chapters took place on the Continent.” He pronounced