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I do' know nothin' about it, nor I 'a'n't seen nothin' of it." Oh, no, my Gnome, you knew nothing of it; you did not take it. But since no one accused you or even suspected you, why could you not have been less aggressive and more sympathetic in your assertions? But we will plough no longer in that field. The ploughshare has struck against a rock and grits, denting its edge in vain.
"Like to come over to your grandfather's, eh?" remarked Captain Rheid, looking around at the broad-brimmed hat among the full bags. "Yes, sir," said Marjorie, denting one of the full bags with her forefinger and wondering what he would do to her if she should make a hole in the bag, and let the contents out. She rarely got beyond monosyllables with Hollis' father.
The magnet lifts up the hot, soft metal without denting it or damaging it and drops it down where it is wanted. The power which moves trolley cars through the streets is nothing in reality but an application of the force of the magnetic principle. That the earth itself is a great magnet cannot be questioned.
"What this household requires," he said, "is economy." He spread his legs, denting the Aubusson carpet with his boot-heels, and glanced askance at his wife. "Economy," he repeated, furtively wetting his lips with a heavily coated tongue; "that's the true solution; economical administration in domestic matters. Retrenchment, Leila! retrenchment! Fewer folderols.
Denting the top of my hat I poured in as much water as it would hold and gave him to drink. Four times he emptied my improvised cup before he was satisfied. Then with a sigh of relief he lay down again. The three of us rested there for perhaps half an hour, Don and I sitting quietly on the wall of the canyon, while Foxie browsed on occasional tufts of grass.
Unfeared and unfearing we'll traverse the wood, Where pours the rude torrent its turbulent flood: The forest's red children will smile as we scour By the log-fashioned hut and the pine-woven bower; Thy feathery footsteps scarce bending the grass, Or denting the dew-spangled moss where we pass "What startles thee?
"Is that what you call him Wolf?" the man asked. Madge nodded. "But I can't understand his friendliness toward you unless it's because you're from the Klondike. He's a Klondike dog, you know." "Yes'm," Miller said absently. He lifted one of Wolf's forelegs and examined the footpads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "Kind of soft," he remarked.
"Is that what you call him Wolf?" the man asked. Madge nodded. "But I can't understand his friendliness toward you unless it's because you're from the Klondike. He's a Klondike dog, you know." "Yes'm," Miller said absently. He lifted one of Wolf's fore legs and examined the foot-pads, pressing them and denting them with his thumb. "Kind of soft," he remarked.
"I don't know I don't want to talk as much," she said, denting her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. "It's nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one's heart, like treasures. I don't like to have them laughed at or wondered over. And somehow I don't want to use big words any more. It's almost a pity, isn't it, now that I'm really growing big enough to say them if I did want to.
She is lying back in a deep arm-chair, her silky head gently denting the flowered cushion, the points of two pretty shoes slightly advanced toward the fire, and a large feather fan leisurely waving to and fro, in one white hand. Beyond the fan movement she is not doing any thing that I can detect. "How do you do?" say I, bustling in, in a hurry to reach the fire.
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