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"Yes, Arbuthnot," said Bastin, "we saw that in your face, and in hers as she bade us good night before she went into the cave, and we congratulate you and wish you every happiness." "We wish you every happiness, old fellow," chimed in Bickley. He paused a while, then added, "But to be honest, I am not sure that I congratulate you." "Why not, Bickley?"
Again he sought to avert the coming danger by concession; and he determined, in the first instance, on restoring Lady Lovat to her friends. It is stated by Mr. Arbuthnot, but still on the authority of the Master of Lovat, that Lady Lovat had now become reluctant to return to her relations.
There is but one Paris, and pleasure is the true profit of all who visit it." "My dear De Simoncourt, I am appalled to hear you perpetrate a pun! By the way, you have met Mr. Basil Arbuthnot at my rooms?" M. de Simoncourt lifted his hat, and was graciously pleased to remember the circumstance. "And now," pursued Dalrymple, "having met, what shall, we do next?
Ashbee, who looked at matters solely from a bibliographical point of view, dissented; and Mr. Arbuthnot sweetly changed the conversation to Balzac; with the result, however, of another tempest, for on this subject Burton, who summed up Balzac as "a great repertory of morbid anatomy," could never see eye to eye with Balzac's most enthusiastic English disciple.
"Paths," I said, "worn by countless feet walking on them for thousands of years." "You should cultivate the art of observation, Arbuthnot. What do you say, Bastin?" He stared at the grooves through his spectacles, and replied: "I don't say anything, except that I can't see anybody to make paths here.
You must have heard that the French squadron gained a great deal of glory, whilst the English attained their desired end. Admiral Arbuthnot will since have informed you that I was blockaded; but, although we were not sailors, that blockade did not detain us four hours.
Linder's eyes did not drop, but a film seemed to be drawn over them. "You once knew er a Mrs. Arbuthnot?" The thick shoulders quivered a little. "Her husband her widower is in Brooklyn. Shall I push the argument any further to convince you that you'd better drop out of the mayoralty race?" Linder recovered himself a little. "What kind of a game are you ringing in on me?" he demanded.
The last number of the Spectator is on the table, and a brisk discussion soon arises between Pope and Addison concerning the merits of the Italian opera, in which Pope would have the better if he only knew a little more about music, and could keep his temper. Arbuthnot sides with Pope in favor of Mr. Handel's operas; the duke endeavors to keep the peace.
The Epistle to Arbuthnot, now arbitrarily called the "Prologue to the Satires," is a performance consisting, as it seems, of many fragments wrought into one design, which, by this union of scattered beauties, contains more striking paragraphs than could probably have been brought together into an occasional work.
Evidently she was rudderless blown about by gusts, by impulses. Nerves was almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no one helped her. Poor little thing, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balance returning hand in hand with her compassion, and unable, because of the table, to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins's legs.
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