human
By jove, he said,
gpt
This furniture was made to order for me in Boston.
human
Then it isn't genuine, he said, disappointed.
gpt
But it's a very clever imitation of antique colonial. It is really a wonderful copy.
human
I don't think it is a copy.
gpt
It certainly doesn't look like it; but it must be if it was made in Boston for you. They're ingenious fellows, these modern makers of colonial furniture. Every antique shop in New York is loaded up with excellent copies of this sort--only not nearly as well done.
human
What a charming setting this old house makes for such things,
gpt
The Manor House was much finer, she observed.
human
Come to the window and I'll show you where it stood. They were fine folk, the Lockwoods, Hunts, and Fanchers.
gpt
Hello, he said uneasily,
human
That is the Bedford road, she said.
gpt
Over there, beyond those chestnuts, is the Stamford road. Can you see those tall old poplars? Beyond the elms I mean--there--where the crows are flying?
human
Yes. Eight tall poplars.
gpt
The Manor House stood there. Tarleton burnt it--set it afire with all its beautiful furniture and silver and linen! His hussars ran through it, setting it afire and shooting at the mirrors and slashing the silks and pictures! And when the Major's young wife entered the smoking doorway to try to save a pitiful little trinket or two, an officer--never mind who, for his descendants may be living to-day in England--struck her with the flat of his sword and cut her and struck her to her knees! That is the truth!
human
You are intensely interested in--er--colonial and revolutionary history.
gpt
Yes. What else have I to think of--here?
human
I suppose many interesting memories of those times cluster around this old place,
gpt
Many, she said simply.
human
Just by the gate yonder they captured young Alsop Hunt and sent him away to the Provost Prison in New York. In the road below John Buckhout, one of our dragoons, was trying to get away from one of Tarleton's dragoons of the 17th Regiment; and the British trooper shouted, 'Surrender, you damned rebel, or I'll blow your brains out!' and the next moment he fired a bullet through Buckhout's helmet. 'There,' said the dragoon, 'you damned rebel, a little more and I should have blown your brains out!' 'Yes, damn you,' replied John, 'and a little more and you wouldn't have touched me!'