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Updated: June 9, 2025
"I have known of such cases," assented the professor. "Eight and a quarter, Miss Dabstreak. Say eight, I dare say it will do as well." "Marchetto," said Chrysophrasia sadly, "I am afraid your embroidery is only worth eight pounds." The Jew was kneeling on the floor, squatting upon his heels. He put on an injured expression, and looked up at Miss Dabstreak's face.
In truth, it was horrible enough. Paul and Cutter were very self-possessed, and their first care was to see that all the four ladies were safe. They had Hermione and her mother with them, and, taking the direction of the fountain, they found Chrysophrasia upon the bench where I had left her, in a violent fit of hysterics. Madame Patoff was not there.
With many expressions of joy he backed into the interior, and immediately went in search of the famous piece of Persian embroidery which Chrysophrasia had admired during her last visit to the bazaar. "Upon my honor" began Marchetto, launching into praises of the stuff.
It is undignified to make an exhibition of sorrow for the benefit of one's neighbors." "Perhaps. But I almost think aunt Chrysophrasia is right: the world was a nicer place, and life was more interesting, when everybody showed what they felt, and fought for what they wanted, and ran away with people they loved, and killed people they hated."
As for Mrs. Carvel, she is silent when Chrysophrasia holds forth concerning pots and plates, though I have seen her raise her gentle face and cast up her eyes with a faint, hopeless smile when her sister was more than usually eloquent about her Spanow-Morescow things, as she calls them, her Marstrow-Geawgiow and her Robby-ah.
I picked her up and carried her down as fast as I could, and out into the garden. "Come away from the house!" I cried. "Away from the trees!" Chrysophrasia was senseless with fear, and I bore her hastily on till I reached the fountain, some twenty yards down the hill. There I put her down upon a bench.
Oh! you mean it is one word, yes; I dare say," she added quickly, in some confusion. "Of course, I don't speak Turkish." "It is Arabic," observed the implacable Macaulay. "John," said Chrysophrasia, ignoring the correction with a fine indifference, "we must see everything at once. When shall we begin?"
"It is true that there cannot be much boredom among barbarous tribes who are always scalping their enemies or being scalped themselves; those things help to pass the time." "Yes, scalping must be most interesting," murmured Chrysophrasia, with an air of conviction. Hermione laughed. "I really believe you would like to see it done, aunt Chrysophrasia," said she.
"Dear me, Mary, what in the world has charity to do with the matter? Can you look at me and say that it has anything to do with it?" No. Mary could not look at her and say so, for a very good reason. She had not the most distant idea what Chrysophrasia was talking about. On general principles, she had made a remark about being charitable, and was now held to account for it.
Carvel's gentle temper was not ruffled by the confusion of landing, and she greeted me as ever, with her sweet smile and air of sympathetic inquiry. Chrysophrasia held out her hand, a very forlorn hope of anatomy cased in flabby kid. She also smiled, as one may fancy that a mosquito smiles in the dark when it settles upon the nose of some happy sleeper.
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