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"Will not this revolutionize the globe?" said the pasha; to which I replied, "C'est le premier pas qui coute; there is no doubt of an aërial voyage to India if they get over the first quarter of a mile."
How like her that letter is, egotistical, vain, foolish; no, not foolish narrow, limited, but not foolish; worldly, oh, how worldly! and yet not repulsively so, for there always was in her a certain intensity of feeling that saved her from the commonplace, and gave her an inexpressible charm. Yes, she is a woman who can feel, and she has lived her life and felt it very acutely, very sincerely sincerely?...like a moth caught in a gauze curtain! Well, would that preclude sincerity? Sincerity seems to convey an idea of depth, and she was not very deep, that is quite certain. I never could understand her; a little brain that span rapidly and hummed a pretty humming tune. But no, there was something more in her than that. She often said things that I thought clever, things that I did not forget, things that I should like to put into books. But it was not brain power; it was only intensity of feeling nervous feeling. I don't know...perhaps.... She has lived her life...yes, within certain limits she has lived her life. None of us do more than that. True. I remember the first time I saw her. Sharp, little, and merry a changeable little sprite. I thought she had ugly hands; so she has, and yet I forgot all about her hands before I had known her a month. It is now seven years ago. How time passes! I was very young then. What battles we have had, what quarrels! Still we had good times together. She never lost sight of me, but no intrusion; far too clever for that. I never got the better of her but once...once I did, enfin! She soon made up for lost ground. I wonder what the charm was. I did not think her pretty, I did not think her clever; that I know.... I never knew if she cared for me, never. There were moments when.... Curious, febrile, subtle little creature, oh, infinitely subtle, subtle in everything, in her sensations subtle; I suppose that was her charm, subtleness. I never knew if she cared for me, I never knew if she hated her husband, one never knew her, I never knew how she would receive me. The last time I saw her...that stupid American would take her downstairs, no getting rid of him, and I was hiding behind one of the pillars in the Rue de Rivoli, my hand on the cab door. However, she could not blame me that time and all the stories she used to invent of my indiscretions; I believe she used to get them up for the sake of the excitement. She was awfully silly in some ways, once you got her into a certain line; that marriage, that title, and she used to think of it night and day. I shall never forget when she went into mourning for the Count de Chambord. And her tastes, oh, how bourgeois they were! That salon; the flagrantly modern clock, brass work, eight hundred francs on the Boulevard St Germain, the cabinets, brass work, the rich brown carpet, and the furniture set all round the room geometrically, the great gilt mirror, the ancestral portrait, the arms and crest everywhere, and the stuffy bourgeois sense of comfort; a little grotesque no doubt; the mechanical admiration for all that is about her, for the general atmosphere; the Figaro, that is to say Albert Wolf, l'homme le plus spirituel de Paris, c'est-
Two men ascended the stairway, one much older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low voice: "Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house." "A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed the other.
I say to Golemar, 'We will closer go, ne c'est pas? A step or two then three but he do not move then pretty soon I look again, close. Eet is a man, I pick heem up, like this and I bring heem home. Ne c'est pas, Medaine?" Her name was Medaine then. Not bad, Barry thought.
In that case John of Hastings, lord of Abergavenny, put in a claim as the grandson of Earl David's youngest daughter. Hist. de Guillaume le Maréchal, ii., 64, II. 11899-902. Oil, sire, quer c'est raison Quer plus près est sanz achaison Le filz de la terre son père Que le niês: dreiz est qu'il i père.
Here it is well to note that St. Thomas in this single sentence teaches that private property, or the individual occupation of actual land or capital or instruments of wealth, is not contrary to the moral law. Consequently he would repudiate the famous epigram, "La Propriété c'est le vol."
In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man. ADVICE AS A RIDDLE. "If the band is not to break, bite it first secure to make!" The belly is the reason why man does not so readily take himself for a God. The chastest utterance I ever heard: "Dans le veritable amour c'est l'ame qui enveloppe le corps."
This will wear off, or, 'si c'est veritablement une grande passion, eh bien' we must take what Providence sends us. 'And which we might have prevented if we had condescended to listen to the plainest worldly wisdom, added Mrs. Shorne. 'Yes, said Lady Jocelyn, equably, 'you know, you and I, Julia, argue from two distinct points. Girls may be shut up, as you propose.
"C'est mon reve," said Aurora, still looking at me. "Have you been all over Europe," I asked "in all the different countries?" She hesitated a moment. "Everywhere that there's a pension. Mamma is devoted to pensions. We have lived, at one time or another, in every pension in Europe." "Well, I should think you had seen about enough," said Miss Ruck.
But yet there is a progress of democratic principle indicated by this very understanding that the king is to hold things for the benefit of the people. Times are altered since Louis XIV. was instructed by his tutor, as he looked out on a crowd of people, "These are all yours;" and since he said, "L'elot, c'est moi"
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