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As the Abban did not keep his promise, and none of us knew the road, I now tried to prevail on his mother Awado, who was tending her flocks close by, to be my guide, which she readily consented to do, as she was anxious herself to go to Bunder Gori.
But before getting to the reply, the carpenter again looked up from his paper and, with a smile of canny superiority, observed to his speechless expectant audience: "That is a d d lie!" Though the Rector had also spent whole afternoons at the feet of that man of letters, he now failed to notice tio Gori at all.
This Gori, a young Sienese of the middle class, extremely cultured, of "antique uprightness," to use the eighteenth-century phrase, seems to have taken to his heart, as one might some wild younger brother, or some eccentric, moody child, the strange, self-engrossed, passionate Piedmontese.
The local doctor happily looked in during the evening, and I played him a game at billiards. In impatient curiosity I waited until next day, when, punctually at six o'clock, Signor Gori was shown into a little room adjoining the great hall, and there I joined him in the capacity of a busy man's secretary. "I much regret, Signor Gori," I said, after we had bowed, "but Mr.
During my peregrinations at this place, I often dropped bits of paper about the jungle, little suspecting what would become of them; and, to my surprise, one day the interpreter came to me in some alarm, to say that several Dulbahantas had arrived at Bunder Gori, and were sharply canvassing amongst themselves the probable objects of my visit.
So, to the scruples of Alfieri, Francesco Gori had answered: "Return to Florence." Alfieri's fears had been groundless.
But he had not forgotten her; and on his passage through Siena, returning to Florence, he had explained his feelings, his fears, to his friend Francesco Gori.
More touching still, bringing home what each of us, alas! must have felt in those long, dull griefs for one who is not our kith and kin, whom the thoughts of our nearest and dearest, of our work, of all those things which the world recognises as ours in a sense in which the poor beloved dead was not, does not permit us to mourn in such a way as to satisfy our heart, and the longing for whom, half suppressed, comes but the more pertinaciously to haunt us, to make the present and future, all where he or she is not, a blank; more touching than any letter in which Alfieri gives free vent to his grief for poor Gori, is that note which he wrote upon the manuscript of his poem on Duke Alexander's murder, after the annotation saying that this work was resumed at Siena, the 17th July 1784 "O God! and the friend of my heart was still living then"; the words which a man speaks, or writes only for himself, feeling that no one, not those even who are the very flesh and blood of his heart, can, since they are not himself, feel that terrible pang at suddenly seeing the past so close within his reach, so hopelessly beyond his grasp.
P. "Then why did you not land it at Goriat, and give it me there, or why did you even buy it at all at Aden if it was of no use?" D. "Because the Nahkoda took it to Bunder Gori." P. "Where are the bales of cloth which by my account and Imam's are missing?" D. "I did not take them; somebody else must have."
The buggalow in which I came from Aden was now anchored in Bunder Gori. It had made a voyage somewhere in the meanwhile, but the captain had been afraid to go to Aden in consequence of the salt question, in which Sumunter had made him confederate, fearing lest I might have since written to the authorities there about it.
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