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"Ye can git a parrut, man—a grane parrut—to kape ye coompany while ye’re aiting—" Simpson interrupted with an oath. "Don’t be hard on old Simmy; remember he’s studied for the ministry! How did I savey that Simpson aimed to be a sharp on doctrine?" A cow-puncher with a squint addressed the table in general.
"Bless the boy," said she, "I mind jest how he looked when I cut this har from his head, the very day his mother was buried. Poor Marster William," continued she, "most likely he’s gone to ’tarnity ’fore this time."
“You see, tenderfut, it’s like this,” he said, “when a man goes out to kill a deer for the fun of blood-spilling or to get th’ poor critter’s head to hang in his shack, he’s nothing more than a wolf or butcher; hain’t half as good a man as the one who never shot a deer, but goes back home and lies about it. The liar hain’t harmed nothin’ with his lies.
"Slap him anywhere," said Mitchell. "On his mouth would be the proper place. Such poor manners,—coming down to a company lunch in another man’s bath-robe and then trying to preach and eat dry toast at once." Burnett gasped and recovered. "There," said Clover, who had risen to administer the proposed slap, "he’s off our minds and we may again pick up Aunt Mary and put her back on."
If I wuz to go to him and say, Eleanore Jordan is willing, I believe the old codger would give me a bag of gold. Cross my heart, Eleanore, and he’s a fine man too. He can play the piano just as good as Daniel, if not better. When he plays you can see the sparks fly.”
But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?”
I omit also that glorious outbreak of newspaper eloquence, in which the delight of his friends is expressed the tears of joy from his sisters the cambric handkerchiefs that floated in the air the innumerable and reiterated cries of “Well done! he’s a trump! the right sort!” &c. &c., so profusely employed by the crowd, because I am fully satisfied with what general approbation such proofs of ability are witnessed.
"From Fontanes corral," they replied, surprised to hear their own tongue spoken. "Do you know Jack Burley, one of your people?" "Sure. He’s just been winged bad." "The Huns done him up something fierce," added the other. "Very bad?" Maryette came back with a loaf and two bottles. "I seen him at Fontanes," replied the muleteer, taking the provisions from the girl.
Chugg’s mind, still submerged in local Lethe waters, grappled in silence with the problem of the feminine invasion, and then he muttered to himself rather than to the fat lady, "Nowhere’s safe from ’em; women and house-flies is universally prevailing." The fat lady dropped his arm as if it had been a brand. "He’s no gentleman. As for Mountain Pink, she was drove to it."
He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: ‘Credo, but I don’t know in what.’ ” “Really?” “He really did. But I respect him. There’s something of Mephistopheles about him, or rather of ‘The hero of our time’ ... Arbenin, or what’s his name?... You see, he’s a sensualist. He’s such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him.
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