It serves my father right for not buying me my gloves." That was Ronald's state of mind.
Sybil Brandon and Miss Schenectady were elements in the solemn leave-taking which Ronald had not anticipated.
I must speak to my father, and he will think it over, and perhaps he will write and ask Ronald how he would like it done.
Ronald did not know much about artists and that sort of people, but the expression formed itself conveniently in his mind.
She talked to Ronald with a vivacity that was unusual, and Joe herself was astonished at the brilliance of her conversation.
Leaning on the shattered stump of an old tree, he fixed his eyes on the far-stretching plain, which alone seemed to divide him from the venerable Sir Ronald Crawford and his youthful haunts at Ayr.