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Late on the last night of the year 1817, Carl wrote in a diary these words; they show what depths there were in the soul and what heights in the ambition of one whose youth and training and early recklessness had promised so little of solidity and solemnity. "The great important year has closed.
Miss Ainslie sighed, and then began to croon a lullaby. XVII. Dawn As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was never satisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed for the night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she dropped asleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask where he was.
He gave her the papers, and a few tears sparkled on her lashes like diamonds and fell, as with a beating heart she read of the complete triumph of the King over the Socialist and Revolutionary party, of his march with the multitude to the Government House, of his bold denunciation of Carl Perousse, ending in the utter overthrow of a fraudulent Ministry, and of his determination to renounce for five years, one half his royal revenues in order to personally assist the deficit in the National Exchequer.
But then, the rest of us had things laying pretty heavy on our minds, too, that wasn't guilt; so there wasn't any way to tell what was bothering Carl." Lite made no attempt to answer the question she had asked. "Now, here's this wire Rossman sent me. You don't want to get the wrong idea, Jean, and feel too bad about this. You don't want to think you had anything to do with it.
This is not the story of Ruth Winslow, but of Carl Ericson. Yet Ruth's stifling days are a part of it, for her unhappiness meant as much to him as it did to her. In the swelter of his office, overlooking motor-hooting, gasoline-reeking Broadway, he was aware that Ruth was in the flat, buried alive. He made plans for her going away, but she refused to desert him.
Presently Ealdwulf himself came to the door and called me softly, and I followed him back to the presence of the king. I cannot tell what had passed between those two, nor do I suppose that any man will ever know; but Offa was more himself, save that on his face was a deep sadness, and no trace of hardness or pride therewith. "Friend," he said, "is it your duty to go back to Carl the Great?"
She rarely disagreed with the Dunleavys, who were Catholics; or her Aunt Emma, who regarded anything but High Church Episcopalianism as bad form; or her brother Mason, who was an uneasy Unitarian; or Carl, who was an unaggressive agnostic. Of the four it was Carl who seemed to have the greatest interest in religions.
When "Der Freischütz" was given in Dresden, Caroline was ill at home. Carl arranged a courier service by which he received, after every scene, news of his wife. In February of the next year, he was compelled to leave Dresden; he placed in his wife's hands a sealed letter only to be opened in case of his death.
Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw. Something like this occurs to me upon a reperusal of the unfinished memoirs of my old and dear friend, Carl Schurz. Assuredly few men had better warrant for writing about themselves or a livelier tale to tell than the famous German-American, who died leaving that tale unfinished.
Funny, ain't it, that when even these dudes from Yale get to be cranks they're short on baths and tailors?" Carl slid from the parallel bars.
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