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"Oh, that's real kind of Your Highness," she exclaimed, her small gray person fluttering, more than ever like a mouse. "I must say that's real kind. I just dote on pictures. Do you like crayons? Well, I like oils best myself, but there are some who have a taste for crayons. The photographer's son out where I live he is real talented. He did some beautiful portraits.
Such instructions no more make for easiness of attitude than the photographer's behest to "look natural"; and in a creature as unconscious as poor Dorset of the appearance he habitually presented, the struggle to maintain a pose was sure to result in queer contortions. It resulted, at any rate, in throwing Lily strangely on her own resources. She had learned, on leaving her room, that Mrs.
Payson cut off the address!" cried Amelius, bursting out with the truth in the impulse of the moment. Sally turned over the photograph, and pointed to the back of the card, on which the photographer's name and address were printed. "Mrs. Payson didn't think of this," she said shyly. "Did you think of it?" Amelius asked. Sally shook her head. "I'm too stupid," she replied.
It was the sudden flash of the photographer's magnesium light, plainly felt by him through his closed lids, that somehow instantly inspired Edward Henry to a definite and ruthless line of action.
"I don't see how you can help having your picture taken in these days," I said; "even if you refuse to go to a photographer's, you can't escape the kodak people. You have a striking presence." "Oh, I can't get away from photographers," he answered. "I have had a number of pictures taken, at the request of my wife and other people.
Indeed, the only drawback to their delightful home was the general unpleasant smell that pervaded it a smell that arose partly from the photographer's chemicals, partly from the cooking in the little kitchen, and partly from the ether and creosote of the dentist's "Parlors."
They were a little inclined to sadness, for they had all been busy with those extra duties that point directly to the closing days of college life. Some had posed before the class photographer's camera, some had borne the weariness of having gowns fitted, and at least two had practiced their parts for the commencement exercises.
In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your charges? All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said. How many has she? No other in sight. You're in black, I see. You have no... No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral. Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny. O, dear me, Mrs Breen said.
He had accompanied some female relatives to the photographer's, and, hotels and restaurants being deemed impossible in those days for ladies, had taken them to Sewell's to lunch. Mary Sewell waited upon the party; and now as many of that party as are above ground wait upon Mary Sewell." "He showed good sense in marrying her," I said, "I admire him for it."
Treat her as she deserves, my chuck, and make no bones about it. Just let her rip and you stick to me!" One cold, windy afternoon, when dust was stirring and rain seemed imminent, Maurice Guest walked with bent head and his hat pulled over his eyes. He was returning from the ZEITZERSTRASSE, where, in a photographer's show-case, he had a few days earlier discovered a large photograph of Louise.
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