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At the conclusion Miss Jenkyns said to me, with mild dignity, "Fetch me 'Rasselas, my dear, out of the book-room." After delivering one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac in a majestic, high-pitched voice, Miss Jenkyns said, "I imagine I am now justified in my preference for Dr. Johnson over your Mr. Boz as a writer of fiction."
A dressing room she finally found, jammed with three other amateur "ladies," who were "making up" with much noise, high-pitched voices, and squabbling over a lone mirror. Her own make-up was so simple that it was quickly accomplished, and she left the trio of ladies holding an armed truce while they passed judgment upon her.
And Rabelais showed him, beneath the letter, the Tourainian sun shining on the hot rock above Chinon, on the maze of narrow, climbing streets, on the high-pitched, gabled roofs, on the grey-blue tourelles, pricking upward from the fantastic labyrinth of walls.
They turned among wind-bitten Cornish elms, leaning inland, and Gregory saw among them the glimmer of Les Solitudes. It was a white-walled house with a high-pitched roof of grey shingles, delicately rippling; a house almost rustic, yet more nearly noble, very beautiful; simple, yet unobtrusively adapted to luxury.
His soft felt hat with the gold braid was tilted forward, and his feet, booted and spurred, were crossed. Small wonder that the Englishman who sought the typical American found him in Sherman. The sound that had caught Stephen's attention was the General's voice, somewhat high-pitched, in the key that he used in telling a story. These were his closing words.
Hannay plucked her husband by the sleeve, and he lowered an attentive ear. Mrs. Ransome covered the confidence with a high-pitched babble. "You find Scale a very sociable place, don't you, Mrs. Majendie?" said Mrs. Ransome. "Go," said Mrs. Hannay, "and take her off into the conservatory, or somewhere." "More sociable in the winter-time, of course."
From far up the slope came a faint, wild cry, high-pitched and sweet, to create strange echoes, floating away to die in the ravines. "She's after him!" declared Dale, grimly. "Bo's got your rifle," said Helen. "Oh, we must hurry." "You go back," ordered Dale, wheeling his horse. "No!" Helen felt that word leave her lips with the force of a bullet. Dale spurred Ranger and took to the open slope.
Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.'s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins's banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept "Sammy." Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr.
But there seemed no other sound. There was no other motion. There was absolute stillness all around. But when Calhoun switched on the outside microphones a faint, sweet melange of high-pitched chirpings came from tiny creatures hidden under the vegetation of the mountainsides. Calhoun put a blaster in his pocket and stood up.
The eyes that regarded them, as the creature stood dripping before them, were bright and mild in expression, and the queer addition to their party made no attempt to attack them and seemed quite as surprised by the meeting as they were. "I wonder," whispered Trot, "what it is." "Who, me?" exclaimed the creature in a shrill, high-pitched voice. "Why, I'm an Ork." "Oh!" said the girl.
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