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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Then," quoth she, "who is my husband, thou or he?" When the Lady of Beauty heard these words she smiled and rejoiced and laughed a pleasant laugh. Then she whispered him, "By the Lord thou hast quenched a fire which tortured me and now, by Allah, O my little dark-haired darling, take me to thee and press me to thy bosom!" Then she began singing:
The girl was a pretty dark-haired slip of fifteen or so, with the light manner and the gay laugh you may have noticed, gay but empty, and could give no account of herself; the child not as bad as she has since grown to be, but already strange looking, and some thought as stupid as the girl." An exclamation of dismay escaped from Ringfield. "Better if it had been!" he cried.
"What sort of thing?" he said. "Nothing foolish! Do look at things dispassionately." "I won't!" she said. Her face was upraised to the stars. "I won't give you up to that dark-haired girl." He swung round and spoke roughly. "Don't you know I can't be yours, and you can't be mine?" "And you want me not to be a dog in the manger, while you enjoy the next best thing that comes along!"
"I think," said he, "that in this dark-haired fop, with his fashionable costume, no one will recognize the emperor. I suppose that in this disguise I may go undetected in search of adventures. If I am to be of use as a prince, I must see all things, prove all things, and learn all things.
Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindliness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes.
Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa opposite. They both held their sides, and roared with laughter. It was funny. Ivan Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa opposite, smiling. Two dark-haired ladies and Mishutka were standing below, under the verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly talking French. "French women," observed Groholsky.
“Is that one of the new submarine crafts?” hailed a voice from the bow of the boat. “Yes, sir,” Jack answered, courteously. No more was said until the boat had come up alongside. “I thought maybe you’d be willing to let me have a look over a craft of this sort,” said the man in the bow. He appeared to be about forty years of age, dark-haired and with a full, black beard.
Her name was Atropos, and she held a pair of sharp shears in her hand. "I give him a brave heart," said the youngest and fairest. Her name was Clotho, and she held a distaff full of flax, from which she was spinning a golden thread. "And I give him a gentle, noble mind," said the dark-haired one, whose name was Lachesis.
When we secured the attention of the chief shopman, a nattily dressed, dark-haired young man who would not have discredited the largest "store" in Grand Street or the Bowery of New York, we asked him to show us some of the home-made woollen goods of the country. These, he assured us, had no sale in Dungloe, and he did not keep them.
Her Scotch great-grandfather, the little Irish great-grandmother; her copper-headed grandfather, his English wife, her own mother, pale and dark-haired and of Huguenot strain, her own dear father. From each of these something had been given her, some fault, some virtue. If any of them had been brave, there must have been handed down to her some bit of bravery if any of them had been cowards
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