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Updated: June 17, 2025
And going over to the book-shelf she took down a volume and began to finger the leaves absently. Presently she came back, and fixing her eyes upon him, she went on: "It made me think of it, what you said down to the saloon to-night about livin' so you didn't care what come after.
They began as cave-dwellers and they end by occupying suburban villas the captain's dug-out has a roof of corrugated iron, a window, a book-shelf, a table, and even chairs, and his table manners have vastly improved. They have progressed from candles stuck in bully-beef tins to electric reading-lamps.
How do you like my idea of a book-shelf by the bed, and a drop-light?" "Pampering pure pampering of your bachelors. You'll never be rid of them. But he can be jealous, Ellen." "What makes you think so? I never saw a trace of it," cried Martha Macauley. "It's there you mark my words. He couldn't help it with his hair and eyes." Ellen laughed. "Hair and eyes! What about my black locks and eyes?
He works more fearlessly, frankly, and faithfully than the novelist ever worked before; his work, or much of it, may be destined never to be reprinted from the monthly magazines; but if he turns to his book-shelf and regards the array of the British or other classics, he knows that they, too, are for the most part dead; he knows that the planet itself is destined to freeze up and drop into the sun at last, with all its surviving literature upon it.
A painting hung on the wall, which represented the interior of the theatre in London, where she stood forward on the stage, and flowers and garlands were thrown to her across the orchestra. Below this picture hung a pretty little book-shelf, holding what I call "the high nobility among the poets," Goethe, Schiller, Calderon, Shakspeare, &c.
From the bed, the ribbon guided Anne to the window-seat, and there "from Aunt Sarah" was a book-shelf with Little Lord Fauntleroy first in a row of beautiful books. Anne clapped her hands and danced and ran to hug and kiss Miss Drayton who was standing in the doorway, enjoying the gift-hunt.
Villiers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Alwyn rose, and glancing along an evidently well-remembered book-shelf, took from thence "Sartor Resartus" and turned over the pages quickly. "Here it is," and he read out the following passage.. "'Cease, my much-respected Herr von Voltaire, . . shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed thee seems finished.
There was a brown combination writing desk and book-shelf which was arrayed with some of the most curious volumes Pater's "Marius the Epicurean," Daudet's "Wives of Men of Genius," Richard Jefferies' "Story of My Heart," Stevenson's "Aes Triplex," "The Kasidah" of Richard Burton, "The House of Life" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "Also sprach Zarathustra" by Friedrich Nietzsche.
He took a volume from the book-shelf, and sitting down beside the bed began to read. But his mind was not on the book, though at another time he would have enjoyed it. He watched Frank, and in less than fifteen minutes had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep. Then he left the room, Juba being occupied in the kitchen.
The floor was a polished parquet. The bed was comfortable. There was a table, even a book-shelf. The toilet arrangements were in no way repulsive or obvious. Vivie insisted on Bertie lying down on the bed; she would sit on the chair by his side. He must be so exhausted.... "And what about you, miss? I'll lay you ain't slept these last three nights. What a mess I've made of the 'ole thing!"
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