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“It is true,” said I, with warmth. “Anyone who has tried for years, as I have done, to master the art of writing, and who examines the Apologia carefully will perceive at once that it is shamefully badly written. For two generations it has been the fashion to praise Newman’s style, but those who have done so have never read him in a critical 87spirit. I would infinitely prefer to have written a racy book like—well, like Moll Flanders, where the English is beautifully clean and strong, than the sloppy Apologia.”

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时间:2020-02-26 18:43:45 作者:起风了 浏览量:92976

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A great hush, at last, fell on all, as the Pres-i-dent’s coach was driv-en to a stand in the “Square.” Then Lin-coln rose, faced the great throng, and spread out his hands as a min-is-ter would when giv-ing a bless-ing. Not a sound was heard for more than a min-ute. Then the hor-ses went on and Lin-coln was gone.

Up the gully they roared and out into the hillside birch woods beyond and thence to the patch of broken ground over which Ruff had carried Pitchdark so tenderly. The scent was rankly strong now. It was breast-high. No longer was there need to work with nostrils to earth. The dragging hindfeet of the vixen were easier to follow than an aniseseed lure.

Next moment she was outside, running in silent terror towards the house in the next compound. The lightly clad figure sped like a ghost through the dim light of the coming dawn, and stumbled through the gap in the low mud boundary, leaving George Coventry standing on the threshold of his house as though he had been turned to stone.

(From a drawing by J. Bernhard Alberts, made in 1916)

chapter 11

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION: One Year, .00; Single Copy, 10 cents.

"Changed your mind, I suppose, about what you said to Charles this morning. You won't be leaving us now, I take it."

1."Can't you do anything? Can't you speak to her? I don't feel I know her sufficiently well to interfere."

2.

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He slipped off the helmet absently and pressed the buttons that turned off the suit's cooling units, looking around the chamber. It was bare except for a litter of irrelevant human articles—much like the one in which he himself had first appeared, except that the articles were not Jodrell Bank's. A woven cane screen, some cooking utensils, a machine like a desk calculator, some books—he picked up one of the books and glanced at it. It was printed on coarse paper, and the text was in ideographs, Chinese, perhaps; he did not know Oriental languages.

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“Mrs. Bangs,” ses she, “is ingaged wid Mr. Wolley.”

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“Delia O’Malley” ses she “That yung Dudley fellow do be fresh as sour milk” ses she. “Its been on me conshunse iver sinse I came, mavourneen, to poonish him for his thricks. Its desaving the pretty Miss Claire hes after oop to. Trust an auld girl like Minnie Carnavan to see throo the thricks of a yung spalpeen like that.”

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