Tales and Novels — Volume 03 by Maria Edgeworth
page 65 of 611 (10%)
page 65 of 611 (10%)
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the clearness of their memories improved by the novelty of their
situation. Mrs. Luttridge, when we came up, was leaning, with a truly martial negligence, against the wall of the barn, with her pistol, as I told you, in her hand. She spoke not a word; but her second, Miss Honour O'Grady, advanced towards us immediately, and, taking off her hat very manfully, addressed herself to my second--'Mistress Harriot Freke, I presume, if I mistake not.' Harriot bowed slightly, and answered, 'Miss Honour O'Grady, I presume, if I mistake not.' 'The same, at your service,' replied Miss Honour. 'I have a few words to suggest that may save a great deal of noise, and bloodshed, and ill-will.' 'As to noise,' said Harriot, 'it is a thing in which I delight, therefore I beg that mayn't be spared on my account; as to bloodshed, I beg that may not be spared on Lady Delacour's account, for her honour, I am sure, is dearer to her than her blood; and, as to ill-will, I should be concerned to have that saved on Mrs. Luttridge's account, as we all know it is a thing in which she delights, even more than I do in noise, or Lady Delacour in blood: but pray proceed, Miss Honour O'Grady; you have a few words to suggest.' 'Yes, I would willingly observe, as it is my duty to my _principal_,' said Honour, 'that one who is compelled to fire her pistol with her left hand, though ever so good a shot _naturally_, is by no means on a footing with one who has the advantage of her light hand.' Harriot rubbed my pistol with the sleeve of her coat, and I, recovering my wit with my hopes of being witty with impunity, answered, 'Unquestionably, left-handed wisdom and left-handed courage are neither of them the very best of their kinds; but we must content ourselves with them _if_ we can have no other.' 'That _if_,' cried Honour O'Grady, 'is not, like most of the family of the _ifs_, a peace-maker. My Lady Delacour, I was going to observe that my principal has met with an unfortunate accident, in the shape of a whitlow on the fore-finger of her right hand, which incapacitates her from drawing a trigger; but I am at your service, ladies, either of you, that can't put |
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