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"That is so," said the Black Spanish Cock. "You do look alike; the same white feathers, the same broad breast, the same strong wings, the same pointed tail, the same long neck, the same sweet expression around the bill!" That was just like the Black Spanish Cock. He always said something pleasant about people when he could, and it was much better than saying unpleasant things.
"Will you please lead me to the scene of the crime?" he said, rising from his chair. The others led him into the next room, the magistrate going ahead with a lamp. The judge called for more lights and the group stood around the pool of blood on the floor of the study. Muller's arms were crossed on his breast as he stood looking down at the hideous spot.
Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling in his breast; pride, however, was victorious; he blushed, and his hesitation ceased. 'No, my Lord, said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; and I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.
My mother threw herself on my father's breast, sobbing violently, and then turned from the room without a word; my father's eye, swimming in tears, followed her; and then, after pacing the room for some moments in silence, he came up to me, and leaning his arm on my shoulder, whispered, "Can you guess why I have now told you all this, my son?"
The individual shares in the general ecstacy, and his breast has now only space for an emotion: he is a man. The state of passion in itself, independently of the good or bad influence of its object on our morality, has something in it that charms us. We aspire to transport ourselves into that state, even if it costs us some sacrifices.
The boys shouted after my son the absurd word " "It is certainly an insult," interrupted Van der Werff, "a very disagreeable name, that our people bestow on the enemies of their liberty." The baron rose, angrily confronting the other. "Who tells you," he cried, striking his broad breast, padded with silken puffs, "who tells you that we grudge Holland her liberty?
As knocking was of no use, Pinocchio, in despair, began to kick and bang against the door, as if he wanted to break it. At the noise, a window opened and a lovely maiden looked out. She had azure hair and a face white as wax. Her eyes were closed and her hands crossed on her breast. With a voice so weak that it hardly could be heard, she whispered: "No one lives in this house. Everyone is dead."
Upon the breast that he had bruised, against the heart that he had almost broken, she laid his face, now covered with his hands, and said, sobbing: 'Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will soon call Walter by the name by which I call you. When it was born, and when I knew how much I loved it, I knew what I had done in leaving you.
His fine youthful profile was distinctly outlined, the soft bright hair clustered like a halo round his broad brows, and the two small hands were crossed upon his breast, while in his sleep he smiled.
I have done wrong, my boy, but you do not know all the cause, and as what I mean to say cannot make place in your breast for me now, you will know that it is true, because it has no design. Oh! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! It is so hard to have but one deep love, and yet find that love the greatest sorrow of one's life.
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