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Updated: May 13, 2025
Why, you work like a nigger like a nigger is supposed to work, but doesn't. No one whatever we paid him would do half as much. I don't want to make your head more swollen than it is, young woman, but you have talent; I am not sure it is not genius." Peter felt the little hands tighten upon his arm. "I do want this paper to be a success; that is why I strum upon the piano to please Clodd.
Not the people that glance through a paper when it is lying on the smoking-room table, and tell you it is damned good, but the people that plank down their penny. That's the sort we want." Peter Hope, able editor, with ideals, was shocked indignant. William Clodd, business man, without ideals, talked figures. "There's the advertiser to be thought of," persisted Clodd.
Clodd, a heavy thud upon the floor above having caused him to start out of his chair. "'E came in an hour after you'd gone," explained Mrs. Postwhistle, "bringing with him a curtain pole as 'e'd picked up for a shilling in Clare Market. 'E's rested one end upon the mantelpiece and tied the other to the back of the easy-chair 'is idea is to twine 'imself round it and go to sleep upon it.
Raspall was crying more for the accident than for his injured house, which was still smouldering, though the engine had at last put out the fire. His child was safe, but he felt almost guilty for rejoicing that her life had been spared. Binks and Clodd sat patiently on the fence opposite the vicarage talking in low tones. At last the vicar came out to them and told them to go home.
Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don't you think that hearing the effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?" Clodd's opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battled with. Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion. "Well, I'm going across to the printer's now," explained Clodd, taking up his hat.
Also he left behind him his gold-handled umbrella, taking away with him instead an old alpaca thing Clodd kept in reserve for exceptionally dirty weather. Peter pronounced the essay usable. "He has a style," said Peter; "he writes with distinction. Make an appointment for me with him." Clodd, on missing his umbrella, was indignant. "What's the good of this thing to me?" commented Clodd.
This artful deception William Clodd had screwed upon a cottage piano standing in the corner of the editorial office of Good Humour. Half a dozen real volumes piled upon the top of the piano completed the illusion. As William Clodd had proudly remarked, a casual visitor might easily have been deceived.
Yes, you've got it quite right without a single blunder. I do want to get rid of 'im." "Then," said Mr. Clodd, reseating himself, "it can be done." "Thank God for that!" was Mrs. Postwhistle's pious ejaculation. "It is just as I thought," continued Mr. Clodd. "The old innocent he's Gladman's brother-in-law, by the way has got a small annuity.
"Give him rope, and possibly he'll have a week at being a howling hyaena, or a laughing jackass, or something of that sort that will lead to a disturbance," thought Mr. Clodd, "in which case, of course, you would have your remedy." "Yes," thought Mrs.
Nietzsche imagined he was rebelling against ancient morality; as a matter of fact he was only rebelling against recent morality, against the half-baked impudence of the utilitarians and the materialists. He thought he was rebelling against Christianity; curiously enough he was rebelling solely against the special enemies of Christianity, against Herbert Spencer and Mr. Edward Clodd.
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