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'I find, by Jove, he continued, 'that I wrote the thing myself. 'It's not a patch on The Merry Widow, said Mr Prosser. Owen thumped the table. 'I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself. 'What thing? 'This play I'm telling you about. This White Roses thing. He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr Prosser seemed genuinely interested. 'What do you mean?
In Germany, the land of philosophy, when the savants sail into a sea of doubt, some one sets up the cry, "Back to Kant!" In America, when professed democracy grows ambitious and evolves a lust for power, men say, "Back to Jefferson!" In business, when employer forgets employee and both forget their better manhood, we say, "Back to Robert Owen!"
She grew to like her employment in the quiet, mediæval-looking room. Her employer, a gentle, sad-eyed elderly man with an invalid daughter, treated her with the utmost kindness; and if it had not been that every fibre in her being cried out incessantly for Owen, she might in time have been content.
Owen, sir?" "I don't deserve your taunt," I replied, "though I respect your motive, and am too grateful for the assistance you have afforded Mr. Owen, to resent it. Owen in the management of my father's affairs. My dislike of the commercial profession is a feeling of which I am the best and sole judge."
Bring her home, and we will take care of her and her child, though I would rather lose a thousand pounds than have to see her as she is. Mother wants to go up and nurse her, but as that would kill her, I don't choose to let her go. If you can't bring her down, Owen shall fetch her. I always said how it would all end. Netta will believe me now it's no good; but no need to tell her that.
The bells throughout the city were set ringing, and there was public rejoicing through the length and breadth of the land, for all were glad exceedingly that their dear lady was happy, and that their lord was come to his own again. Never again did Sir Owen leave his lady while she lived.
"You said just now that you were." "Did I say so? Father, you must keep your appointment with Monsignor, and you must say nothing to Owen if you should meet him; you promise me that? It rests with me, father, it is all in the heart." He stood looking at her, twisting his beard into a point, and while she wondered whether he would go or stay, she admired the delicacy of his hand.
The black and the two seamen then, shouldering the chests, followed O'Harrall and Owen, the former conducting them directly inland, passing some groves of cocoa-nut and other trees, and avoiding any of the huts which were scattered about here and there.
He had enlisted from Owen county "Sweet Owen," as it used to be called and came of good stock, his father, Col. Harry Holman, in the days of aboriginal fighting and journalism, a frontier celebrity.
Again Jacob, shouting from his boat, declared that the boat must have gone down, as not a sign of her appeared. "Perhaps I mistook her position," suggested Owen. "Well, we will push on further," said Mynheer Van Wijk. "Let us give one more hearty shout together." All three, joined by the natives, raised their voices. Just then a faint sound came from the southward.
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