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In his haste to obey, Walker knocked over a pitcher of water that had been left on the floor beside the wash-stand. Then the Colonel yelled at him to be quick about mopping it up, so that by the time the door was finally opened, Lloyd was finishing her story. The Colonel looked in just in time to see her put her hands to her temples, with her forefingers protruding from her forehead like horns.
At night Ivra told Eric World Stories, World Story after World Story until sleep made them forget. The fifth morning of their search dawned blue and clear and windy. "The Wind Creatures will be happy to-day," said Ivra when she opened her eyes and heard the wind pushing at all the windows of the house and saw the blue morning sky. "Wild Star will be circling the world."
"About myself?" "Yes. I think that would go pretty well with the pie." But the man shook his head. "I could go back and tell you about many of my plans and high hopes when I was a lad of your age; but it would be too much like your own story over again. Life isn't what we think it will be, when we are young. You'll find that out soon enough.
Perhaps now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep, then, child, sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet above the Veil. This is the story of a human heart, the tale of a black boy who many long years ago began to struggle with life that he might know the world and know himself.
The story is told of that unfortunate hare who had hollowed out in the snow a burrow with two entrances. Two of these birds having recognised his presence, one entered one hole in order to dislodge the hare, the other awaited him at the other opening to batter his head with blows from his beak and kill him before he had time to gain presence of mind.
When one has lived into the experience of somebody in the story and received the full sense of it, to be wrenched out of the story and stationed at a distance is a shock that needs to be softened and muffled in some fashion.
He swears he will have Mlle. Campuzano's hand, or Ernest Dalton's heart-blood at least this is the story I have heard; she, in all her rich southern foreign loveliness, plays a becomingly passive part, and is wooed, they say, first by one and then by the other.
Harry Oswald rose from his seat on the block of ice unwillingly, and proceeded on his road up the mountain with a distinct and decided feeling of nervousness. Was it the guide's story that made his knees tremble slightly? was it his own inexperience in climbing? or was it the cold and the fatigue of the first ascent of the season to a man not yet in full pedestrian Alpine training?
Of course there is another side to the story, when one is caught out in bitter weather in a blizzard of driving snow and sleet, and loses the way, or perhaps has to stay out in the open through the night.
Well, he was not responsible for her, he had paid for the privilege of immunity; he had but listened to her story, volunteering nothing. John Woolfolk wished, however, that he had said some final, useful word to her before going. He was certain that, looking for the ketch and unexpectedly finding the bay empty, she would suffer a pang, if only of loneliness.
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