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"But where do you live when you're home?" Polly insisted. "'T 739 Liberty Street is right down by Union! I can find that easy enough! Say, don't you s'pose your mother 'd let me take Popover and bring her up here? You know Miss Lucy wants me to go out to walk every day now." "Oh, Polly!" the pale face grew pink with joy. "Sure, me mother 'd let her come! Oh, Polly, if you would!" "I will!
An old marquise made use of a term formerly in vogue at court to express the flowery beauty of the fops and beaux of the olden time, whose language and demeanor were social laws: she called him "the pink of fashion." The liberal clique caught up the word and used it satirically as a nickname, while the royalist party continued to employ it in good faith.
The sunlight, lingering on the higher peaks, cast great shadows into the depths beyond. There had been much snow all winter, and the summits sparkled and shone out dazzlingly, then went pink and crimson and purple as the radiance slowly faded.
He failed, and Perkins asked him what he meant by such murderous conduct. "You come out here, and I'll show you what I mean, you scoundrel!" said the man. "You step out here for a minute, and I'll blow the head off of you for selling me hair vigor that has gummed my head up so that I can't wear a hat and can't sleep without sticking to the pillow-case. Turned my scalp all green and pink, too.
"I am for Clayborough," I replied, holding out the tiny pink card. He took it, glanced at it by the light of his little lantern, gave it back, looked, as I fancied, somewhat sharply at my fellow-traveller, and disappeared. "He did not ask for yours," I said, with some surprise. "They never do," replied Mr. Dwerrihouse; "they all know me, and of course I travel free." "Blackwater!
The flush on his face had been imperceptible to her in the roseate light of the pink candle-shades, he was glad to think; but he waited until it had subsided before he spoke with a hint of reproof. "I say, don't try sarcasm. Sarcasm in a woman jars, somehow." "I wasn't sarcastic, really." Her tone was of raillery and somehow he didn't like that she should speak so lightly.
Poor Melissa! how could she know that yesterday, in all the limp forlornness that had made her hang her head when Sterling spoke to her, she had been a part of the beauty of the cañon, while to-day, in all her pink and rigid glory, she was a garish spot of discordant color in the landscape? How, indeed, do any of us know that we are not at our worst in our most triumphant moments?
Dean played on the piano for them. At seven o'clock Mr. Underhill walked up for his little girl, whose cheeks were pink and her eyes shining like stars. He sat on the stoop and talked a little while with Mr. Dean, and said most cordially the other girls must come and take tea with Hanny. And if they liked he would take them out driving some day. That was a most delightful proposal.
He watched every evening for the moon, with her silvery light, and for the twinkling stars. At one time, a cousin of his called to see him. He brought a basket with him. Raising the cover, he said "Willie, come, look in my basket." Willie came as requested. "Oh! I know what it is! It is a rabbit for me!" So it was. George opened the basket, and out jumped a white rabbit, with pink eyes.
In one corner stood a high, old-fashioned chest of drawers, covered with a white cloth worked in red to match the "Sweet Dreams" on the pillows. It held a small looking-glass flanked by a couple of china figures; a gay Red Riding-Hood, with a pink wolf, set primly opposite a striped Bo-peep and a sky-blue lamb.
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