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Penelope's Irish Experiences

Chapter 7 7

Word Count: 1965    |    Released on: 28/11/2017

to meself, "we're

whin we git there

kno

Bar

t it too tiring a journey for Benella, and arranged for a little visit to Cork first. We nearly missed the train owing to the late arrival of Salemina a

f course we went 'first' on this occasion on account of Benella. I told her that we could not follow British u

sford, when a man's name is Dusenberry, you can't hardly bl

sked her middle name. It was Franc

likely. My father's name was Benjamin and my mother's Ella, and mine is made from both of 'em; but you ca

phne, call

Lalage o

ly call

e not ready to do, I though

ough it has been temporarily drowned in the Atlantic Ocean. If she were a clock, I should think that some experimenter had taken out her original works, and substituted others to see how they would run. The clock has a New England case and strikes with a New England tone, but the works do not match it a

their sense of humour. Himself in America, and the Rev. Mr. Macdonald in the north of Scotland, both answer

romantic idiot, and I love you more than tongue can tell." Francesca did not say what Ronald added; probably a part of this sam

ed in a trice, and the sun smiled through the light veil of rain, turning every falling drop to a jewel. It was as if the fairies were busy at aerial watering-pots, withou

just past their golden prime. There was a grey-green hint of verdure in the sallows that stood against a dark background of firs, and the branches of the fruit-trees were tipped with pink, rosy-hued promises of May just threatening to break through their silvery April sh

ore doggedly conscientious and assiduous than our attentions to the Derelict. She had beef juice at Kildare, malted milk at Ballybrophy, tea at Dundrum; nevertheless, as we approached Limerick Junction we

he chief fault, or at least the chief responsibility, is mine. If I hadn't been born in Salem, or hadn't had the word painted on my trunk in such red letters she wouldn't have fainted on

the 'Push forward' motto of the Barrymores.) It's delightful, Penelope," she continued; "we'd better get off, too. It is a garrison town, and there is a military hotel. Then in the vicinity is Kilcolman, where Spenser wrote the Faerie Queene: so there is the beginning of your literary pilgrimage the very first day, without any plotting or planning. The little river

mfortable place for an invalid lady, and that Mallow was much more the thing. At Limerick Junction, then, we al

undertake any sort of excursion with perfect propriety, gave added zest to the affair in my eyes. Sleeping at Cork in an Imperial Hotel was far too usual a proceeding,-we scorned it. As the very apex of boldness and reckless defiance of common-sense, we let our heavy

Shure, tha

ell, adorns ri

nd we walked about the fine old ninth-century town, called by the Cavaliers the Urbs Intacta, because it was the

, Great Southern Hote

nstead Cork. Strong

sh. Youghal to-morrow,

ss Murphy's. H

NEL

ity that can be achieved at the cost of

ur be recalled to Benella's bedside, we took a childlike pleasure in crowding as much as possible into the time. This zea

of the best-known body of pig-buyers in Ireland; but her mind was fixed upon Kills and Ballies. On asking our jarvey the meaning of Ball

eaning in the course of its existence. Cromwell had been there too, and in the confusion of his departure they must have forgotten to sweep under the beds. We entered our rooms at ten in the evening, having dismissed our car, knowing well that there was no other place to stop the night. We gave the jarvey twice his fare to avoid altercation, 'but divil a penny less would he take,' although it was he who had recommended the place as a cosy hotel. "It looks like a small little house, melady, but

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