时间：2020-02-25 09:58:23 作者：非诚勿扰 浏览量：86782
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As the sportsmen arrived in their camp they were met by a terrified group, a deputation of wretched, half-naked people who had come from a hamlet near by to report yet another disaster. They waited while the sahibs got down from the elephants and stretched their cramped limbs, and then they approached with humble yet eager appeal.
To pass a churn and not give a helping hand.
“Pas du tout! Have you not seen music-hall turns imitating celebrities with marvellous accuracy? Nothing is easier than to personate a public character. The Prime Minister of England is far easier to understudy than Mr. John Smith of Clapham, say. As for O’Murphy’s ‘double,’ no one was going to take much notice of him until after the departure of the Prime Minister, and by then he would have made himself scarce. He drives straight from Charing Cross to the meeting-place of his friends. He goes in as O’Murphy, he emerges as some one quite different. O’Murphy has disappeared, leaving a conveniently suspicious trail behind him.”
As regards the choice of topics, I have given prominence to discoveries of facts only when they could be shown to have promoted the development of the science; on the other hand, I have made it my chief object to discover the first dawning of scientific ideas and to follow them as they developed into comprehensive theories, for in this lies, to my mind, the true history of a science. But the task of the historian of Botany, as thus conceived, is a very difficult one, for it is only with great labour that he succeeds in picking the real thread of scientific thought out of an incredible chaos of empirical material.
fun grew fast and furious in the smoking-room, Theodora's own footman would tap at the door, and the marquis, with a feeble pretense of "coming back after a while" would disappear. He never came back though. William McBean, who was the life and soul of the smoking-room, would make this hypocritical promise of the marquis's return an excuse for keeping up a rollicking good time until unearthly hours of the morning, when the last cigar would be smoked, the last story told, the last punch brewed.
Husband and wife stood alone on the steps of their veranda. For a space neither of them uttered a word. Trixie's heart beat painfully; she waited for George to speak, almost choking with apprehension. Was he dreadfully angry? What was he going to say? Wild visions of futile explanations and excuses, followed by disgrace, despair, even perhaps divorce, crowded her mind and rendered her weak and helpless. She yearned to throw herself into his arms, to feel his lips on hers, to weep out her love and her contrition on his
“This vase,” he said, picking up a small urn in terra-cotta with figures and designs painted in black, “has depicted upon it in minutest detail the story of the siege of Troy. Here we see Paris presenting Aphrodite with the apple. There he is carrying away the beautiful Helen. And here,” he added delightedly, “is the wooden horse of Ulysses. How very—”
THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE
“That—that beastly poney; I warned him it was no good—and the ground still so slippery,” she broke out.
felt encouraged, not only by the prospect of receiving justice, but also of having mercy shown them. Draper, in his notes on information supplied by George Herndon, a Revolutionary soldier, who long lived in Logan County, writes: “The women were, of course, in his charge, and lodged in the old log jail, becoming dirty and lousy, Major Stewart, feeling for their miserable situation, agreed to let them enjoy the liberty, provided they promised not to attempt to escape and thus make him liable, for he did the act on his individual responsibility. They were rejoiced at the offer and he went around the little town and collected some necessary articles of clothing for them, had them and their children cleaned up, placed them in the courthouse and got a couple of spinning wheels and set them to spinning.” [12F]
2.Allusion to the impression that Augustus John gives of habitually loafing reminds me that this characteristic is typical of Chelsea. They are the most casual people in the world, and it is their casualness that the worker-by-rote 172cannot understand. I know a score of studios where one could walk in at any time of the day and be welcomed or, if not welcomed, treated with most disarming frankness. If the owner of the studio were busy on some work that had to be finished, he would say: “There’s a drink there on the table and a smoke. Do what you like but, for God’s sake, don’t talk!” Or: “Go round to the Bells, Old Thing. I like you very much and all that sort of nonsense, but even you can be a bit of a nuisance at ten in the morning. It’s like drinking Benedictine before breakfast.” But receptions such as this latter are very rare, and most artists—because they are artists, I suppose—are ready enough to throw down their work and play for half-an-hour.>
Trotwood appreciates the criticism above, from a scholar in one of the best schools in the South. The more so because we do not claim any particular credit for making Trotwood’s different. We are picturing naturally the life around us—its songs, traditions and ideals. We could make our Monthly twice as large by using syndicate matter. But it will add nothing to the thought of the Monthly nor to its quality.
He was quite content with that. Whatever "having it all out" might portend, she was treating him now frankly and with a certain confidence. Her manner since they had left Hartling behind them, had completely changed. She might presently criticise him in a way that he would find intolerable. They might openly quarrel. But anything would be better to endure than that air of contempt and reserve she had displayed at breakfast. He would, at least, be given the opportunity to defend himself. He felt sure that she had not understood his attitude, as yet.
A freak who ultimately lost all reason and was confined in a private asylum used to sit at the same desk that I did when, many years ago, I was a shipping clerk in Manchester. This man, whose name was not, but should have been, Bundle, had considerable private means, but some obscure need of his nature drove him to discipline himself by working eight hours a day for three pounds a week. The three pounds was nothing to him, but the eight hours a day meant everything. He was a conscientious worker, but I think I have already indicated that his intelligence was not robust. He had no delusion; he merely possessed a misdirected sense of duty.