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"Usually Milton." He looked at me. "It was Milton," he certificatively added, "who converted me to diabolism." "Diabolism? Oh, yes? Really?" said I, with that vague discomfort and that intense desire to be polite which one feels when a man speaks of his own religion. "You worship the devil?" Soames shook his head. "It's not exactly worship," he qualified, sipping his absinthe.
‘It has always done so,’ said the man in black, coolly sipping. ‘Our Church has always armed the brute population against the genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so.
I wish I might think only of Bianca as the shadows dissolve from the streets and the grey morning light strikes the great steeple of Stefans-Dom. But another picture presents itself. I see a little French girl, out of touch with all the merriment around her, sipping her Dubonnet in solitude a forlorn girl with pink cheeks, pale blue eyes and hair the colour of wet straw.
"There is one," she had said, "at twelve-fifteen time for a little something in the cafe, and who knows? If you are agreeable I might forgive everything and dance with you once, Bobby, on the public floor." So he sat for some time, expectant, with Paredes, watching the boisterous dancers, listening to the violent music, sipping absent-mindedly at his glass.
The Signal Officer and I were sitting in the Headquarters Mess, sipping an eleven o'clock cherry brandy, and wondering why the General and the Brigade Major had not returned from their tour of the trenches. Headquarters were situated in Gully Ravine, that prince among ravines on the Peninsula.
We felt quite at home when we sat down on our black bear-skin, gay Persian carpet and clean new mats, to rest with our backs to the wall, sipping our tea with the air of comfortable men, and chat over the incidents of the "picnic," as Livingstone persisted in calling our journey to the Rusizi.
"No," said Dotty, helping herself; "it's nectar; that's what Susy says they drink; now I remember." "Stop!" said a small voice in the ear of Dotty's spirit; "that is what I should call taking other people's things." "Poh!" said Dotty, sipping again; "it's grandpa's cow. When Jennie Vance takes cake, it's wicked, because because it is. This is only play, you know." Dotty took another draught.
There was a slightly convulsed look about the mouth, but the features were otherwise calm and childlike, for all the dead are innocent. The three women with demure faces were sipping Benedictine and talking among themselves, and Polly's pug dog was coiled up on the bare bolster and snoring audibly. "Pore thing! I don't know how she could 'a done it. But there, that's the worst of this life!
In the French Madame's on Thirty-first street, which is ostensibly a restaurant, the girls come in from the street, and while sipping black coffee, are ready to accept an engagement to dance the cancan, which is performed up-stairs in rooms paid for by those desiring to see the questionable performance.
The anguish he had exhibited on the moor subsided as soon as ever he entered Wuthering Heights; so I guessed he had been menaced with an awful visitation of wrath if he failed in decoying us there; and, that accomplished, he had no further immediate fears. 'Papa wants us to be married, he continued, after sipping some of the liquid.
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