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Updated: May 14, 2025
Even the children, white-faced and melancholy, with deep expressionless eyes and drooping noses, seem to have realized too soon the gravity of life, and rarely indulge in games. He whom the butter-merchant described as Professor von Holzen passed quickly along the middle of the street, with an air suggesting a desire to attract as little attention as possible.
So he passed on, giving good-humoured Denis Flaherty, the son of the butter-merchant of Kildrum, a wide berth and sea-room, lest he should pounce down upon him unawares, and with Jesuitical argument and silken softness of speech, convert him by force to his own state of error as was the well-known custom of those intellectual gladiators, the Priests of the Catholic Faith.
He died at Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier too." "So you shall, my boy. So you shall." "Thank you, grandfather. Aunty doesn't want me to be a soldier for fear of being killed." "Bless my life! Would she have you get into a feather-bed and stay there? Why, you might be killed by a thunderbolt, if you were a butter-merchant!" "So I might. I shall tell her so.
He died at Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier too." "So you shall, my boy. So you shall." "Thank you, grandfather. Aunty doesn't want me to be a soldier for fear of being killed." "Bless my life! Would she have you get into a feather-bed and stay there? Why, you might be killed by a thunderbolt, if you were a butter-merchant!" "So I might. I shall tell her so.
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