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She exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature: "Oh! dear! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street. I was never more astonished. He turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.
Any thief could easily come by a uniform, and, as his mind glanced rapidly backwards over the various points of the scheme, he saw how effectual the plan was: first, the incredible remissness of the woman in leaving her gold on the counter; second, the impetuous disappearance of the man with the money; and, third, his own heedless plunge into the street after them.
In the narrow cobbled street beyond the station he had happened upon a woman who knew no English, but who took him to a priest, and the priest had hidden him. Letty did not piece together the whole story at first. She did not want the story very much; she wanted to know about this hand and arm. There would be queer things in the story when it came to be told.
The night was dark and cloudy and a strong wind was blowing, which produced a peculiar whistling sound that was most unpleasant to the ear. Ivan helped his son to mount his horse, which, followed by a colt, started off on a gallop. Ivan stood for a few moments looking around him and listening to the clatter of the horse's hoofs as Taraska rode down the village street.
Yet in these streets, monastic in their aspect, you have all the glitter of Regent Street or the Burlington Arcade.
Abernethy, the great surgeon, formerly lived in this street, and Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, was born here; Bishop Warburton, the learned theologian and writer of the eighteenth century, and Elizabeth, daughter of Oliver Cromwell, are also said to have been among the residents. Ralph, the author of "Publick Buildings," admired it prodigiously, naming it one of the finest streets in London.
So it was with a battery in the open fields beyond Kemmel village, where I went to see a boy who had once been a rising hope of Fleet Street.
I then went up to the South End and on Decatur Street found a man who promptly responded to my inquiries: 'Gad! that's Henri Cazot fast enough, in all but the height and gait. Dick there, he'll tell you all about him. He owes him a little debt of honour of about a hundred plunks.
The excitements, troubles, even the passions of others had generally stirred her no more than a distant puppet-show stirs an absent-minded passer in the street. In Africa it seemed that her whole nature had been either violently renewed, or even changed. She could not tell which.
Suddenly, as by a simultaneous impulse, their voices rang out in the Internationale the terrible Marseillaise of the workers: "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! Arise, ye wretched of the earth!" And the refrain was taken up by hundreds of throats: "'Tis the final conflict, Let each stand in his place!" The walls of the street flung it back.
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