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knife given him only yesterday by his sister for his birthday--the kind of gift "for a man" above which certain feminine minds seem unable to rise when cigarette-cases, sleeve-links, tie-pins and pocket-books have been exhausted. The knife was a cumbersome plated article, comprising, in addition to blades of all sizes, a corkscrew, folding scissors, a button-hook, and an instrument intended for the extraction of stones from horses' hoofs. For once he blessed Nellie's limited notions of masculine needs, because her present suggested a plausible plea.
"Oh! ah! I'd forgotten that," Woodroffe said, looked down at the knees of his trousers, and added with a faint blush: "Might get myself some new togs out of capital? I'm sure to want 'em sooner or later. Only things are such a filthy price just now. They rook you about thirty quid for a dress suit."
As the figure of Lysimachus disappeared in the crowd Zopyrus remarked, “A likely young fellow. I liked his upright manner, though his opinions differed from mine.”
But the bonnie brown broadswords will klink and will kling
Certainly, his temperament is not magnetic like the 182personality of Paderewski, of Kubelik, of Yvette Guilbert, and the public is a connoisseur of temperaments. I think I have elsewhere observed in this book that the public collects temperaments just as a few people collect china or autographs. Perhaps Bauer is not exotic or orchidaceous enough. He is too “straight,” too downright.
“You know well, Mardonius, that their water supply from the Asopus river is completely cut off. Where are they able to get water?”
The Bishop laughed outright as his mind went back again.
not exactly regard as a misfortune, and in the interests of the reader it is rather an advantage; for, in accordance with the objects of the ‘General History of the Sciences,’ this History of Botany is not intended for professional persons only, but for a wider circle of readers, and to these perhaps even the details presented in it may here and there seem wearisome.
About sivin in the avening the hole family, including meself set out from the house for 17 Arch Strate, which is the number on the letter paper. Mr. John and Mr. James walked on eyther side there puir mother, haulding her up by the arms, while Miss Claire and I carried hankychiffs and smilling salts. By and by we cam to the place, a little auld barn setting up aginst the side walk. The family guv a look at the noomber and thin walked boldly in widout nocking. There were a noysy lot of men inside. A little greesy fellow in overalls cum sontering up to Mr. John.
Georges rolled over, sat up. "Let me at the son of a—" he muttered.
1.harmless young men was a different matter altogether.
2.“Certainly! It is most ingenious.”>
It was the autumn of the year, in the spring of which Walter Joyce had returned to London from Westhope. Six months had elapsed since he had read what he had almost imagined to be his death-warrant in Marian's reply to his letter containing the Berlin proposal. It was not his death-warrant; he had survived the shock, and, indeed, had borne the disappointment in a way that he did not think possible when the blow first fell upon him. Under the blessed, soothing influence of time, under the perhaps more effectual influence of active employment, his mind had been weaned from dwelling on that dread blank which, as he at first imagined, was to have been his sole outlook for the future. He was young, and strong, and impressionable; he returned to London inclined to be misanthropical and morose, disposed to believe in the breaking of hearts and the crushing of hopes, and the rather pleasant sensations of despair. But after a very short sojourn in the metropolis, he was compelled to avow to himself the wisdom of Lady Caroline Mansergh's prognostications concerning him, and the absolute truth of everything she had said. A life of moping, of indulgence in preposterous cynicism and self-compassion, was not for him; he was meant for far better things--action in the present, distinction in the future--those were to be his aims, and after a fortnight's indolence and moodiness, he had flung himself into the work that was awaiting him, and begun to labour at it with all his energy and all his brain-power.
We could not speak of our feelings before Mr. Gordon, but I knew Father O'Rourke had enjoyed our entertainment as little as myself; so all night long we tramped, gathering such news as we might from our companions of the battle, which was vague but disheartening enough. At daybreak we arrived at a very considerable house—indeed, a gentleman's seat—which Mr. Gordon informed us was that of McKenzie of Dundonald, to whom we were recommended by old Colin Dearg, who was his uncle. Dundonald was at Inverness, whither he had gone that he might not be suspected of favoring the Prince's cause, but his lady was at home.
“Lons!” cryes he in thoondering toans. “I cut lons! Why me deer sister its aginst me most artistick instink” ses he. “Its wan of me firm and uncontradictible opinyons that lons shud remane uncut. Why annyone can have cut lons. Luk at the places around us, widout an ixcipshun the lons are cut slick and smooth as a yooths chin. I tell you sister mine” ses he “its more artistick to let your grass grow long.”