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It was like a place on which decay had fallen because there was no indwelling spirit. The mud of years was baked upon its door, and no faces looked out of its dusty windows. "How then could she be the most celebrated beauty of Prague? How then was it that Heinrich Hoellenrachen knew her the moment he saw her?
He's layin' in a Greaser hole over here. Likely the Greasers hev been kind to him. But they're shore a poor lot." Madeline did not hesitate a moment. "Thank you, Nels. Take me at once. Come, Florence." They left the car, now surrounded by gaping-eyed Mexican children, and crossed the dusty space to a narrow lane between red adobe walls.
And then there was a moment's pausing upon the threshold of a yawning black door beyond which things smelled mustily sweet, with dusty shadows that crept across the matting from a shielded lamp; and later a most delicious yielding of one's self to the cool envelope of soft white sheets, and a moment's wide-eyed staring at the ceiling; and then forgetfulness.
Granny Thornton, peering out an attic window at the boy and girl, going up along the brook, turned and felt along a dusty beam until her fingers rested on a key. With this she unlocked a drawer of an old bureau, that stood in a dark, out-of-the-way corner. There were some odds and ends of clothing there, and some boxes and papers.
Even behind the hedge which enclosed the abbey orchard Matheline and Pol were hidden to see her pass; and she heard Pol say, "Will you come to-night to see the wolf run around?" "Without fail," replied Matheline; and the sting of her laughter pierced Josserande like a poisonous thorn. The grand abbot received her, surrounded by great books and dusty manuscripts.
"Well, I have found out one thing," said Jack as, hot, tired, and dusty, he came to his mother. "What is that?" she asked. "That there are a great many boys in the world." "Didn't you know that before?" "Partly; but I didn't know there were so many more boys than are wanted." "Why do you think there are more than are wanted?"
Towards the end of that very January, one evening when Giardini was chatting with a girl who had come to buy her supper, about the divine Marianna so poor, so beautiful, so heroically devoted, and who had, nevertheless, "gone the way of them all," the cook, his wife, and the street-girl saw coming towards them a woman fearfully thin, with a sunburned, dusty face; a nervous walking skeleton, looking at the numbers, and trying to recognize a house.
She felt that another little while in this heated, horrible place would drive her mad. She was almost at the door when she came suddenly upon a sight that made her pause. An elderly lady in widow's black was kneeling beside a man groaning in mortal agony, fanning away the flies already gathering about his face. He wore the uniform of a Union sergeant, dusty and splotched and torn.
Don't let him escape. It's a dacoit!" My brain in a confused whirl; my mind yet disposed to a belief that my friend had lost his senses, the word "dacoit" was sufficient. I started down the road after the fleetly running man. Never once did he glance behind him, so that he evidently had occasion to fear pursuit. The dusty road rang beneath my flying footsteps.
He was slender and sinewy, with beautiful, glimmering, silvery hair which he wore in long curls and kept as carefully combed as any dandy that ever pranced at the court of a king. It was his one vanity, his dusty, greasy raiment being his last thought.
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