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"It's nothing, child," he said in the fatherly tone that to Molly meant so far too much. "The merest rick. I forgot, in the hurry, to think how high I was lifting you, and I also forgot that there might be cucumber frames on the other side!"
"You see Lime can't go away," he explained, breathlessly, to Frank, in a whisper, "'cause they'd tell it all over the country that he backed down for Steve. He daresn't leave." "Steve ain't no durn fool," returned the superior wisdom of Frank, in the same cautious whisper, keeping his eyes on the bar-room. "See Lime there, cool as a cucumber. He's from the pineries, he is."
The point is that nowhere else but in Prussian Germany is any theory of honour mixed up with such things; any more than with poisoning or picking pockets. No French, English, Italian or American gentleman would think he had in some way cleared his own character by sticking his sabre through some ridiculous greengrocer who had nothing in his hand but a cucumber.
Rhodes, on the other hand, seemed to be in robust health, and as calm as the proverbial cucumber. I had an interesting talk to him before we left the ship; he said frankly that, for the first time in his life, during six nights of the late crisis he had not been able to sleep, and that he had been worried to death.
Cucumber, wasn't there a judge about here of that name, hey? 'To be sure there was, Vassily Fomitch, your honour, responded Cucumber, who treated him altogether as a child. 'There was, certainly. But let me have your hook; your worm must have been eaten off.... Yes, so it is. 'Did you know the Lomov family? the brigadier suddenly asked me in a cracked voice. 'What Lomov family is that?
At that, the visitor got calm and cool as a cucumber, all of a sudden, and began to question Mr. Mallowe. It seems from what I heard I can't recall the exact words that not very long ago, the night watchman in the offices was chloroformed and the safe ransacked, but nothing was taken except a letter. "'You're mad! the strange man said.
Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab. Wife well? Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you? Yes, sir.
The castle is a ruin, still capable of partial habitation, and now undergoing repair the state in which a ruin looks most sordid and forlorn. How strange it is, too, that, to enforce this sense of desolation, sad dishevelled weeds cling ever to such antique masonry! Here are the henbane, the sow-thistle, the wild cucumber. At Avignon, at Orvieto, at Dolce Acqua, at Les Baux, we never missed them.
She was always so terribly sleepy at seven o'clock, and so positive that she could whisk through her dressing in ten minutes, and that it was quite unnecessary to get up so soon: even when the others mercilessly pulled the bed-clothes from her, and pointed to their watches, she would dawdle instead of "whisking," and spend much superfluous time over manicure or dabbing on cucumber cream to improve her complexion.
BOSTON, Sept. 20, 1858. MY DEAR FRIEND, Dr. Jackson is fast turning me into a vegetable,-homo multi-cotyledonous is the species. I eat nothing but these things, and I am fast becoming nothing else. I am potatoes and corn and cucumber and cabbage, like the chameleon, that takes the color of the thing it lives on. Dr. Jackson will have a great deal to answer for to the world.
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