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Updated: June 11, 2025
There was a look of haggard anxiety about Denham that gave color to her suspicions. He felt that it was now or never. "Then why don't you answer it, Miss Gale?" he said gruffly. She backed away from him. "Answer it?" she repeated faintly. "Certainly. If I got a letter twice, I would answer it." "What do you mean?" she cried, with her hand on the door-knob. "Exactly what the letter says.
He made several notes and picked up some trifling articles, for which he gave Mr. Matchin receipts. Corning out of the room, he looked carefully at the door-knob. "Seems all right," he said. Then turning to Matchin, he said, with professional severity, "What door did he generally come in by?"
Siegmund did not start. He merely pulled himself together. Gwen pushed open the door, and stood holding on to the door-knob looking at him. 'Dad, Mam says dinner's ready, she announced. Siegmund did not reply. The child waited, at a loss for some moments, before she repeated, in a hesitating tone: 'Dinner's ready. 'All right, said Siegmund. 'Go away.
Unable to construct a single sentence, he drew circles and meaningless figures on the white paper, scribbled insignificant words, only to cross them out immediately afterwards, and repeated again and again: "This means war." Outside in the halls people hurried past; some one seized the door-knob, so he got up and locked himself in. Then he sat down again.
"She might have told me in a different manner so as not to wound me so heartlessly. She isn't a lady." "Please." Bea twirled the door-knob in worried protest. "Don't talk that way. She is my friend. We live in the same town. She's nice, really. You've only seen the outside. Please!" "Oh, well!" Lila raised her shoulders slightly. "She isn't worth noticing, I dare say. Such people never are.
'Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby," he sang in a whisper as he clung to the door-knob, dancing a noiseless war-dance. King went down-stairs again, and Beetle and McTurk lit the gas to confer with Stalky. But Stalky had vanished. "Looks like no end of a mess," said Beetle, collecting his books and mathematical instrument case. "A week in the form-rooms isn't any advantage to us."
Between the careers of Cavour and Thiers no sound parallel can easily be traced, but in their characters or rather in their diplomatic methods and arts there would seem to be some curious and almost ludicrous points of resemblance, if we may accept as true a sketch of the great Italian statesman made by M. Plattel, the author of "Causeries Franco-Italiennes," fifteen years ago. M. Plattel, who wrote from close personal observation, at that time described Count Cavour as being physically "M. Thiers magnified;" or, if you prefer, M. Thiers is the count viewed through the big end of an opera-glass. The count, says M. Plattel, "has the spectacles, and even a similar expression of finesse. When things take a serious turn, the count puts both hands in his pockets; and if you see him do that, expect to hear this threat: 'If you do not pass this bill, signori deputati, I consider you incapable of longer managing the affairs of the country: I have the honor of bidding you good-evening. For (and this is a strange peculiarity) this first minister is never steadier than when in danger of falling; and his grand oratorical, or rather ministerial, figure of speech is to seize his hat and his cane, whereupon the chamber rises and begs M. de Cavour to sit down. M. de Cavour lets them plead a while, and then he sits down again! Reading his speeches now in Paris, I can fancy the count with his hat by his side and his hand on the door-knob. Heaven knows how many times that comedy-proverb of Musset called 'A door must either be open or shut, has been gravely played by the Sardinian Parliament and the prime minister!" It is with a very droll effect that a French paper has revived this curious description,
Toward morning he dozed off into a fitful sleep which lasted until ten o'clock when he arose and dressed. As he was about to go out a knock on the door of the room next to his recalled the incident of the night. He listened. Another knock followed, somewhat louder, but no response came from within. "Say, you in there," cried a voice Lane recognized as the landlady's. She rattled the door-knob.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, you wouldn't do that!" ejaculated the traffic man, now thoroughly alarmed. "Land of glory, Evan! you know too much a great deal too much!" The young man who knew too much got up and relighted his cigar with a match taken from Gantry's desk box. "It's up to you," he said, with his hand on the door-knob.
Emery was one of the women who are always well served by "tradespeople," as she now called them, "and a good reason why," she was wont to explain with self-gratulatory grimness. The Judge waited, one hand on the door-knob, squaring his jaw over his muffler, and listening with a darkening face to the interminable succession of purchases.
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