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How much of your life have you passed at court, and are you a prime minister's son, Mr. Arthur?" Pen began to laugh "It is as cheap for a novelist to create a duke as to make a baronet," he said. "Shall I tell you a secret, Miss Amory? I promoted all my characters at the request of the publisher.
"Now, tut, St. George," Amory put in tolerantly, "next to doing exactly what you will be doing all this week you'd rather ferret out this." "On my honour, no," St. George protested eagerly, "I mean quite what I say. I might go on fearfully about it. Lord knows I'm going to see the day when I'll do it, too, and cut my troubles for the luck of chasing down a bully thing like this."
From a tour of the temple Amory came listlessly back to the king's chapel. There, where the descendants of Abibaal had worshiped until their idols had been refined by Time to a kind of decoration, the Americans and Jarvo had spent the night. They had slept stretched on benches of beveled stone.
The girl wiped her eyes and added, slowly, almost as if she was thinking aloud: "I'm not one of the strong ones I'm not one of the strong ones no more than little Margery was." She said the last words with a kind of unconscious consciousness. While she uttered them her mind had evidently turned back to other times not her own, but little Margery's. Miss Amory drew a deep breath.
Among the guests were Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, for whom the indefatigable Major Pendennis had procured an invitation, and our two young friends Arthur and Harry. Each exerted himself, and danced a great deal with Miss Blanche.
He has asked me to dinner. We are almost as great friends, as we used to be in our youth: and his talk is about Blanche Amory from morning till night. I'm sure he's sweet upon her." "I'm sure he is engaged to his cousin, and that they will keep the young man to his bargain," said the major. "The marriages in these families are affairs of state.
The new-comer a young man stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host. "Excuse me, Mr. Phillips," said William Sullivan, for it was he; "I fear my visit is an intrusion." "Do not speak of it," replied Mr. Amory. "I beg you to be seated;" politely handing a chair.
When I'd said it she looked like some little hunted animal dogs was after that had run till its breath was gone an' its eyes was startin' from its head. Her little chest went up an' down with pantin'. I didn't wonder when I heard after that she'd dropped in the street in a dead faint." "Was that the day I picked her up as she lay on the pavement?" Miss Amory asked.
His name was Thomas, not John, and there is very little that is Rabelaisian in his spirit. One sees what Hazlitt meant the voluble and diffuse learning, the desultory thread of narration, the mixture of religion and animalism. But the resemblance is very superficial, and the parallel too complimentary to Amory.
Harry, her dear Hokey-pokey-fokey, lay on his bed table by his side, amid keys, sovereigns, cigar-cases, and a bit of verbena, which Miss Amory had given him, and reminding him of the arrival of the day when he was "to stand that dinner at the Elefant and Castle, at Richmond, which he had promised;" a card for a private box at Miss Rougemont's approaching benefit, a bundle of tickets for "Ben Budgeon's night, the North Lancashire Pippin, at Martin Faunce's, the Three-corned Hat in St.
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