United States or Brunei ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
But I call him Don Pickwixote." "Dear me, do you indeed? Have you noticed anything very eccentric about him?" "That depends on what you call eccentric. Wearing a nightshirt, for instance? I don't know what your standard is, you see." The old lady was about to reply when a voice from the adjoining garden was heard saying: "Blink! Don't touch that charming mooncat!"
Take the word 'Liberty, for instance; would you deprive us of it?" The young lady fixed on him those large grey eyes which had in them the roll of genius. "Dear Don Pickwixote," she said, "I would merely take it from the mouths of those who don't know what it means; and how much do you think would be left?
He was about to say so when he noticed a gentleman in khaki scrutinizing him with lively eyes slightly injected with blood. "Don Pickwixote," said the young lady; "my father, Major Scarlet." Mr. Lavender's hand was grasped by one which seemed to him made of iron. "I am honoured, sir," he said painfully, "to meet the father of my charming young neighbour."
So saying, he threw his arms round the lamppost and closed his eyes, expecting every moment to be drawn away against his will into a life of vice. A well-known voice, strangled to the pitch almost of inaudibility, said in his ear: "Oh, Don Pickwixote, Don Pickwixote, you will be the death of me!" Electrified, Mr.
"Have you had any adventures lately you and Samjoe? "Samjoe?" repeated Mr. Lavender. "Your chauffeur I call him that. He's very like Sam Weller and Sancho Panza, don't you think, Don Pickwixote? "Ah!" said Mr. Lavender, bewildered; "Joe, you mean. A good fellow. He has in him the sort of heroism which I admire more than any other." "Which is that?" asked the young lady.
"Dear Don Pickwixote," cried the young lady, assisting him to rise, "have you hurt your nose?" "It is not that," said Mr. Lavender, removing some mould from his hair, and stifling the attentions of Blink; "but rather my honour, for I have allowed my duty to my country to be overridden by the common emotion of pity." "Hurrah!" cried the young lady. "It'll do you ever so much good."
"That imperturbable humour in the face of adverse circumstances for which our soldiers are renowned." "You are a great believer in heroics, Don Pickwixote," said the young lady. "What would life be without them?" returned Mr. Lavender. "The war could not go on for a minute." "You're right there," said the young lady bitterly. "You surely," said Mr.
Closing the door behind him, and putting her back against it, she said, gently: "Dear Don Pickwixote, all danger is past. The enemy has been repulsed, and we are alone in safety. Ha, ha, ha!" Her voice recalled. Mr. Lavender from his strange hallucination. "What?" he said weakly. "Why? Who? Where? When?" "You have been dreaming again. Let me take you home, and tuck you into bed."
Lavender's admiration of her magnificent proportions as she bent to pick up her yellow book. "Aurora," he said, "I know not what secret you share with the goddesses; suffer me to go in and give thanks for this hour spent in your company." And he was about to recross the privet hedge when she caught him by the coat-tag, saying: "No, Don Pickwixote, you must dine with us.
Not enough to butter the parsnips of a Borough Council, or fill one leader in a month of Sundays. Have you not discovered, Don Pickwixote, that Liberty means the special form of tyranny which one happens to serve under; and that our form of tyranny is GAS." "High heaven!" cried Mr. Lavender, "that I should hear such words from so red lips!"
Word Of The Day