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Updated: June 11, 2025
I declare I'm 'shamed to take you along, Tom Perkins." "Have you no soul or eyes for the higher things, Mr. Perkins?" inquired a large, black-clad lady reprovingly. "With all this beauty about us, and the inspirin' scenery, I should think " "Well, that's all right, Mrs. Caine, what you think," interrupted Mrs. Perkins sharply.
She appears almost colossal, and the twisted and inflated folds of her long dress increase her volume. In the background the straight line of black-clad, black-hatted, white-shirted musicians projects shadows against the wall, on which placards, guitars, and dirty finger-marks display themselves.
Then he peered into the dim little room and saw two things: first, that the short, black-clad man was dressed like a clergyman; and, second, that the window of the room behind him was burst, as if someone had passed violently through. "Valuable things to deposit in a cloak room, aren't they?" remarked the clergyman, with cheerful composure. "Did did you steal those things?" stammered Mr.
There was a neat, compact, black-clad woman with shining, immaculate coiffure, an old, florid, bald-headed man sluggishly fat, and a youth, long-limbed and pale, with the face of an apache and a dank lock of black hair dipping into his eyes.
One white-coifed, tall, black-clad figure sprang lightly down from the waggon-box, and hurried across to where the body was lying. A mellow, womanly cry of pity came from under the starched coif. She turned and beckoned. Then she knelt down by the girl's side, opened the torn garments, and felt with compassionate, kindly touches about the still heart.
Harley had shrewdly guessed that the white-faced child he had married, whose pathetic beauty was of so haunting a type, and whose big eyes were so quick to reflect emotions, would be a valuable asset to set against the black-clad widow of Vance Edwards. For its effect upon himself, so far as the trial was concerned, Simon Harley cared not a whit. He needed no bolstering.
Stafford bit his lip and tried to pull himself together; but his eyes were still fixed on the pale face, the girlish, black-clad figure, and his voice was shaky, as he said: "You're right, Mr. Joffler. It is too late now. I I thought I saw someone on the quay there. But it must have been fancy; it is impossible, quite impossible!" "That's it," said Mr. Joffler, with a sympathetic wink.
There was a hardness in the big-shouldered figure's words that he did not like; a directly simple, unmistakable rebuke for the sneer concealed in Hogarty's question that could not be misinterpreted. And something utterly bad flared up in the lean-faced black-clad proprietor's eyes something of enmity that seemed to Ogden all out of proportion with the provocation.
On my way to the Sinn Fein headquarters in Harcourt street, I passed the Mansion House of the Lord Mayor and found two long-coated Dublin Military Police stripping the new wet poster from the yellow walls. When I arrived at Number 6, Harcourt street, I saw black-clad Mrs. Sheehy-Sheffington, in somewhat agitated absorption of thought, coming down the worn steps of the old Georgian house.
He came out of the crouch facing a black-clad Planeteer sergeant who snapped to rigid attention. "Koa," Rip barked. "Where can I find him?" "He's not here, sir. He and eight men left fifteen minutes ago. I don't know where they went, sir." Rip shot a worried glance at his wrist chronometer. He had two minutes left before the cruiser departed. No more time now to search for his men.
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