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In some ways Tom Pollard is the most congenial man I ever knew. I truly try to make him be serious about the important things in life, like going to church with his mother and working all day, even if he is rich. I wish he wasn't so near kin to me! Now, there, I feel in Ruth Clinton's way again! "Well, have some jam then," I managed to say with a little laugh, as I turned away and picked up the silver spoon. "Well, no, major, I can't say that he was. In fact," added Etwald, with the air of a man making a simple statement, "I hated him!".

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"I am glad to hear it is only 'admire,'" he remarked, slowly, "for had the word been any other I should have resented it." Griffin held out a hand for Judith's envelope. "You'll verify these, Kendall?" she said brusquely, pushing the bulky oblong across the table to Elinor. Lastly Etwald. It is difficult to describe the indescribable. He was austere in face, like Dante, with hollow cheeks, and a pallid hue which told of midnight studies. If he had passions, they could not be discerned in his features. Eye and mouth and general expression were like a mask. What actually lay behind that mask no one ever knew, for it was never off. His slightly hollow chest, his lean and nervous hands, and a shock of rather long, curling hair, tossed from a high forehead, gave Etwald the air of a student. But there was something sinister and menacing in his regard. He looked dangerous and more than a trifle uncanny. Physically, mentally, morally he was an enigma to the bovine inhabitants of Deanminster and Hurstleigh. But Elinor, far from showing rancor, shook the bony hands and kissed the sunken cheeks with as good grace as though she were receiving her dearest friends. She even made some little speech to each, though Patricia was too far away to catch more than a word or two..