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The imagination is a better medium than the eye. This is surely the reason why Byron could not write poetry on Lake Leman, but found he must wait till he got within four walls. This is the reason why we are all more moved by the slightest glimpses of good descriptions in books than by the amplitude of the same objects before our eyes.
When we spoke again, it was about indifferent matters, about the height of the river, and the recent rains. We parted with the minister at his own door, where his old housekeeper appeared in great perturbation, waiting for him. "Eh, me, minister! the young gentleman will be worse?" she cried. "Far from that better. God bless him!" Dr. Moncrieff said.
"Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the dark race? Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race! Will you not do this?" "You talk absurdly, Therese. Do not trouble me with nonsense now. You will undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters the estates I have left to them by will. That is, in case of the blacks getting the upper hand.
So much the better, since there are in the chapel of Saints Fereol and Ferrution two statues, the one of John the Baptist, the other of Saint-Antoine, of solid gold, weighing together seven marks of gold and fifteen estellins; and the pedestals are of silver-gilt, of seventeen marks, five ounces. I know that; I am a goldsmith." Here they served Jehan with his supper.
"We'd better go in and speak to them," said Montagu; "at any rate, they've no right to disturb us all night. Will you come?" "I'll join you," said Owen; "though I'm afraid my presence won't do you much good." The three boys went to the door of Eric's study, and their knock could not at first be heard for the noise.
"They always say she is not worse; not to be worse is to be better." "They never say that, and I shall not forgive myself." "No?" she exclaimed, and sighed. There was, indeed, so little hope, and if the child died, what might not be feared for the father?
"Men who cheat in trade, who scamp work, evade taxes, rack-rent the poor, are no better than pirates and wreckers." "Here we are at the Stack," Harry exclaimed. "Look out there with the sail! Captain, mind your helm. There now; you nearly had her aground!
Peter, it's the very security of the place which will enable us to get out of it. But don't talk, as there are always spies about who understand English." We were shown into a room allotted to six of us; our baggage was examined, and then delivered over to us. "Better and better, Peter," observed O'Brien, "they've not found it out!" "What?" inquired I.
"The incessant output of illustration," he continues, "killed not only the artists themselves, but the process. In its stead arose a better, truer method, a more artistic method, which we are even now only developing." But there is another side to this question.
The favourite story of both was 'Little Red Riding-Hood, with its refrain of 'Grandmother, what large eyes you've got! That could be said with pointed fun; it seemed to be written especially for them. Often Daisy would look up suddenly and say: 'Grandmother, what a large mouth you've got! 'All the better to bite you with, grandmother would reply. And then there would be hugs and kisses.
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