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Then, when a lady sees that cape in the winder, she wants to buy one just like it, so she goes into Louis' store and they show her one just like it, only three inches shorter, a yard less goods into it, about half the soutache on to it and a dozen buttons short, Abe; because that winder garment what we make for Louis costs us ourselves twenty-five dollars, and Louis retails the garment what he sells that lady for eighteen-fifty.
"That garment what you seen it is the winder sample what I made it up for Louis Feinholz's uptown store. Louis give me a big order while you was in Boston last week, a special line of capes what I got up for him to retail at eighteen-fifty.
Twice remarks were flung after her from passing figures in slouch-hats furtive remarks through closed lips. At five minutes past one she was at the ticket-office grating of a train-terminal that was more ornate than a rajah's dream. "Adalia please. Huh? Ohio. Next train." "Seven-seven. Track nine. Round trip?" "N-no." "Eighteen-fifty." She again bit open the corner knot of her handkerchief.
A world with the immensity, the profundity, the darkness of the brooding sea; where the spirit of a woman moves, troubling the waters; for Charlotte Brontë has before her the stupendous vision of the world as it was, as it yet is, and as it is to be. That world, as it existed from eighteen-twelve to Charlotte's own time, eighteen-fifty, was not a place for a woman with a brain and a soul.
The hat on my head cost me eighteen-fifty wholesale, without having to be beholding to nobody, and " "Ma don't mean those things, Clara. It's just when she hears the price girls pay for things nowadays she can't help being surprised the way things have changed." "I'm not a small potato, Sam. I never could live like a small potato."
And seeing as you come back and paid up like a man I'm going to charge that gun up against wages you earned when you was working for me, and credit you with the eighteen-fifty on the new rig. Now you fan it back to Montoya and tell him what you aim to do and then if you got time, come over to-morrow and pick out your rig. You don't have to take it till you get your job."
To his astonishment, Fred Ripley, an ugly sneer on his face, turned his back on the bidding. "Are you through, gentlemen?" demanded the auctioneer, after a keen look in the direction of the lawyer's son. "I am," Ripley growled over his shoulder. "I am offered eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen! Who says nineteen? Make it eighteen-fifty! Who says eighteen-fifty? Eighteen and a quarter!
What is more, many of the poems of eighteen-forty-six and of eighteen-fifty are Gondal poems. For in the Gondal legend the idea of the Doomed Child, an idea that haunted Emily Brontë, recurs perpetually, and suggests that the Gondal legend is the proper place of "The Two Children", and "The Wanderer from the Fold", which appear in the posthumous Selections of eighteen-fifty.
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