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My prince shall be tall like you, shall have your golden curls and blue eyes, and your rich, royal dress shall adorn his noble figure. Your generous heart, your love of truth, and your beautiful reverence for the gods, your courage and heroism, in short, every thing that I love and honor in you, I shall give to the hero of my tale.
And home he rode, to his master's house, and had his old clothes on and the mare in the stable before his master came back. When his master came back, he had a great tale for Billy, how the princess's champion had run from the dragon, and a strange knight had come out of the clouds and killed the dragon, and before anyone could stop him had disappeared in the sky.
I should like to know what you'd do I suppose you'd give me in charge of the head waiter? I guess you'd shirk your responsibilities more than I would." And as he talked, he emptied the bottle into her glass beneath the fringe of the conversation. "Ever hear that story," he began again, and caught her attention once more with an idle tale that had worn its way through half the clubs in Town.
It was poor bread sometimes, even for war bread, and there were many tomorrows that promised to be breadless, but no one of those tomorrows ever came. I have dropped the thread of my tale.
Some time after that there came a tale of Evelyn Darrah, but, as the best authority would say, "that's another story." With Case, however, life seemed to have lost its inspiration. He wandered more and more from the paths of rectitude to those which meandered through the willows and the old ghost walk.
The latter is a tale of match-making intrigue and money-worship in Toorak, but the main interest of the plot apart, the account of fashionable Melbourne is a singularly colourless one. As for Mrs.
But for the feverish brightness of her eyes, she would have looked like a corpse. Her wrinkled forehead, her hollow cheeks, her white lips told their terrible tale of the suffering of years. The ghastly appearance of her face was heightened by the furnishing of the room. This doomed woman, dying slowly day by day, delighted in bright colors and sumptuous materials.
Then he switches off from the artillery, and tells a blood-curdling tale of Boer treachery and cowardice. He tells how the enemy held out the white flag to coax our men to stop firing.
Your lordship has now heard the cause of my discomposure, and of my sudden desire to leave your hospitable castle. In other places I trust we may often meet, but God protect me from ever spending a second night under that roof!" Strange as the General's tale was, he spoke with such a deep air of conviction that it cut short all the usual commentaries which are made on such stories.
Christie. Lizzie Johnstone. "Oh! but ye're a fearsome lass." Christie. "Wha'll give me a sang for my bonny yarn?" Lord Ipsden, who had been an unobserved auditor of the latter part of the tale, here inquired whether she had brought her book. "What'n buik?" "Your music-book!" "Here's my music-book," said Jean, roughly tapping her head. "And here's mines," said Christie, birdly, touching her bosom.
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