Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 5, 2025
The governor of his State, a stray congressman, and a citizens' committee gave him enormous smiles and "By God, Sirs" on the dock at Hoboken; there were newspaper reporters and photographers who said "would you mind" and "if you could just"; and back in his home town there were old ladies, the rims of whose eyes grew red as they talked to him, and girls who hadn't remembered him so well since his father's business went blah! in nineteen-twelve.
"Blah! That stinks," said Jerry. "But I liked it when Miss Kitteridge read us 'Casey at the Bat. That's good poetry." "Not as good as poetry by Sara Teasdale." "It is, too." "It is not." "There's no law that says that everybody has to like the same kind of poetry," said Mrs. Martin from the doorway. "You twins don't have to show dispositions to match the weather.
A third group of Klemantan tribes such as the Long Kiputs, the Batu Blah, and the Trings, scattered through the northern part of the island, resemble more nearly the Muruts; and among these are found communities whose culture marks them as descendants of nomads who have assimilated the Murut culture in various degrees. The Muruts
"Besides, it is very hot, and Cora isn't as strong as she looks. She said she felt morbid and " "Morbid? Blah!" interrupted the direct boy. "She's started after this Corliss man just like she did for Vilas. If I was Dick Lindley I wouldn't stand for Cora's " "Hedrick!" His mother checked his outburst pleadingly. "Cora has so much harder time than the other girls; they're all so much better off.
Oh, blah! `Henry Esmond! Been readin' `Henry Esmond! Oh, you be-yoo-tiful Cora-Beatrix-a-lee! Magganifisent torso! Gullo-rious figgi-your! Bel air! Oh, slush! Oh, luv-a-ly slush!" He cast himself convulsively upon the floor, full length. "Luv-a-ly, luv-a-ly slush!" "He is thirty, I should say," continued Cora, thoughtfully. "Yes about thirty. A strong, keen face, rather tanned.
Flatter than a hoecake was the captain. "Farewell, my bluebell, farewell to thee," sang the captain as the iron crept cautiously over the great trouser leg of his Gargantuan full-dress suit. African mines blown up. Two inheritances shot. A last remittance blah. Rent bills, club bills, grocery bills, tailor bills, gambling bills. "Ho, Britons never will be slaves," sang the intrepid captain.
You are so profound about temporary families, selfish children, marriage as weak people running away from the solitude that is part of inhabiting one's head, that work is prostitution, things as ball and chains to carry around, claiming one's essence, blah blah, but life isn't objective. It is subjective so you miss your husband, son, and things because being without them would make you naked."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking