Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: July 23, 2025
Brownell soon became known as a writer of verse, both grave and humorous, it was not till the coming on of the Civil War that his muse found truest and noblest expression. With a poet's sensitiveness he foresaw the coming storm, and predicted it in verse that has the ring of an ancient prophet; and when the crash came he sang of the great deeds of warriors in the old heroic strain.
The white villagers came marching through his mind as beings austere, and the very cranks and quirks of their characters somehow held that austerity. There were the Brownell sisters, two old maids, Molly and Patti, who lived in a big brick house on the hill.
I am Henry Brownell, of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank into the palms of his hands. "And I'm tired tired," he moaned. "I am sick of not knowing, sick of running away. I give myself up." The detective breathed a sigh of relief that seemed to issue from his soul. "My God," he sighed, "you've given me a long chase! I've had eleven months of you, and I'm as sick of this as you are."
Brownell, the critic, entered through the front door and moved to the elevator. There stepped from the elevator car a somewhat portly little man who joined Mr. Wharton. He wore a rather queer looking, very big derby hat, oddly flat on top. His shoulders were hooped up somewhat like the figure of Joseph Choate. A rather funny, square, box-like body on little legs. An English look to his clothes.
Brownell studied the diagram and nodded. "Right. We can have it set up in twenty-four hours." As Brownell left the office, the telephone jangled. Tom reached for it. "Admiral Walter calling." His voice was tense. "Important news, Tom. One of our subs has picked up a clue that someone has been operating in the missile search area." "What sort of clue, sir?" Tom asked.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking