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Pah! times is different now," pulling his hat over his forehead to go. "Good bye, David!" "Where are you going?" "I don't mind tellin' you, you'll keep it. Bone's bringin' a horse yonder to the road. I'm goin' to warn the boys to be ready, an' help 'em, at the Gap, you know?" "The Gap? Merciful God, no!" cried Gaunt. "Go back" The words stopped in his throat. What if he met this man there?
A work on the oil regions was issued in 1864, and a second, enlarged edition, was published in Philadelphia, in 1865. Aside from his professional duties as a journalist and the fulfilment of his engagements as a magazine writer, Mr. Bone's literary tastes are chiefly with the older works of English literature.
Bert Smallways' grandfather, in the days when Bun Hill was a village under the sway of Sir Peter Bone's parent, had "known his place" to the uttermost farthing, touched his hat to his betters, despised and condescended to his inferiors, and hadn't changed an idea from the cradle to the grave.
"Take it, for old Bruvver Jim," the man gently coaxed, and spoonful after spoonful, touched every time to his own mouth first, to try its heat, he urged upon the little patient. Then Miss Doc did a singular thing. She put on a shawl and, abruptly leaving the house, ran with all her might down the street, through the snow, to Bone's saloon.
For hours they talked, Bone desperately striving to make his dreams articulate to Carl and to himself. They ate fish fried on the powder-can stove, with half-warm coffee. They walked a few steps outside the shack in the ringing cold, to stretch stiff legs. Carl saw a world of unuttered freedom and beauty forthshadowed in Bone's cloudy speech. But he was melancholy.
That very moment she stood watching for him on the porch, her face colorless from a sleepless night, thinking he had been at Romney, that every moment she would hear his "Hillo!" round the bend of the road. She did not know that could not be again. He lay now, his limbs stretched out, his grizzly old head in Bone's arms. "Tell Dode I didn't fight. She'll be glad o' that.
A dull, apathetic indifference to everything except the chains of his imprisonment enveloped his spirit. "All right," he answered, grudgingly. Sam deftly unwound the bandages, examining closely the condition of the foot. "Bone's in place all right," he commented. "Has the girl rubbed it and moved it every day?" "Yes." "Any pain to amount to anything now?"
'Let's have a look what's wrong. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped away the blood, and began feeling round the wound.... 'The bone's not touched, he muttered through his teeth; 'the ball didn't go deep; one muscle, vastus externus, grazed. He'll be dancing about in three weeks!... And to faint! Oh, these nervous people, how I hate them! My word, what a delicate skin!
"I have the greatest possible desire, my Lord Duke, to enter public life." "I thought you were already in the army," said the Duke. "So I am; was on Sir Bartholomew Bone's staff in Canada for two years, and have seen as much of what I call home service as any man going. One of my chief objects is to take up the army." "It seems that you have taken it up." "I mean in Parliament, your Grace.
Murmurs followed about him as if he were the horse himself "looks in racing form" "looks used up to me" "too little hands surely to hold in long in a spin" "too much length in the limbs for a light weight; bone's always awfully heavy" "dark under the eye, been going too fast for training" "a swell all over, but rides no end," with other innumerable contradictory phrases, according as the speaker was "on" him or against him, buzzed about him from the riff-raff of the Ring, in no way disturbing his serene equanimity.
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