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"Why, that is an agreeable addition to this horrible weather, that my wife should pout!" exclaimed Blucher, casting a despairing glance at the sky. He then looked again at his wife. She was still bending over her embroidery and remained silent. He approached, and seizing both her hands with gentle violence, took the embroidery and threw it away.
If corrupt, she maybe brought to answer to it all the same, and she will do her part of the play, and babble words, and fret and pout deliciously; and the old days will seem to be revived, when both know they are dead; and she will thereby gain any advantage she is seeking. But Dahlia's sorrow was deep: her heart was sound.
Chichester, whose manners are not her strong point. She is sitting on a garden chair behind him, and she gives him a little dig in the back with her foot as she speaks. "Don't! I'm bad there!" says he. "I believe you are bad everywhere," says she, with a pout. "Then you believe wrong! My heart is a heart of gold," says Mr. Gower ecstatically. "I'd like to see it," says Mrs.
What news hast thou, my sweet? ... Is there fresh havoc in the city? ... more deaths? ... more troublous tidings? ... nay, then hold thy peace, for thou art not a fit messenger of woe thou'rt much too fair!" Irenya's red lips curled disdainfully, . . the "naughty pout" was plainly visible.
"I'll prepare him," said Blondet. "They have killed the dog," said Olympe, in tears. "You loved the poor greyhound, dear, enough to weep for him?" said the countess. "I think of Prince as a warning; I fear some danger to my husband." "How they have ruined this beautiful morning for us," said the countess, with an adorable little pout. "How they have ruined the country," said Olympe, gravely.
"Do not talk so, de Sigognac! you vex me by such extravagances," said Isabelle, with a little pout that was as charming as her sweetest smile; for in spite of herself her heart beat high with joy at these fervent protestations of a love that no coldness could repel, no remonstrance diminish.
All that she wants to make sure of is that they're young men or old ones, even." March laughed, but not altogether at what his wife said. "I've been having a little talk with Papa Triscoe, in the smoking-room." "You smell like it," said his wife, not to seem too eager: "Well?" "Well, Papa Triscoe seems to be in a pout. He doesn't think things are going as they should in America.
Certainly the duchess did not look very alarmed. But in regard to what she said, the old lady was bound to have a word. "What is Mr. Aycon to you, my child?" said she solemnly. "He is nothing nothing at all to you, my child." "Well, I want him to be less than nothing to Mlle. Delhasse," said the duchess, with a pout for her protector and a glance for me. "Mlle.
And, in your jargon, you call this having character. Oh, how much better we are!" She goes and sits down in Adolphe's lap, and Adolphe cannot help smiling. This smile, extracted as if by a steam engine, Caroline has been on the watch for, in order to make a weapon of it. "Come, old fellow, confess that you are wrong," she says. "Why pout?
Could those laughing lips hang in a heavy pout? Could that delicate and mild voice be harsh? Could those burning eyes be coldly inimical? Never! The idea was inconceivable! And Mr. Gerald Scales, with his head over the top of the boxes, yielded to the spell. Remarkable that Mr. Gerald Scales, with all his experience, should have had to come to Bursley to find the pearl, the paragon, the ideal!
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