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Updated: May 14, 2025
But there are certain things that my delicacy compels me to point out to you, which I do frankly, feeling certain that a man like you is not the slave of narrow prejudices." An expression of pain passed over his face, and he clasped his jaw with both hands. "You suffer?" Saniel asked. "Yes, from my teeth, cruelly.
At table, he was opposite Veronica, and he reminded her more than ever of Van Dyck's portraits, so that she wondered why she had never before thought of the general resemblance. He talked less than at luncheon, and sometimes his eyes rested on hers with an expression which she could not understand. But there was admiration in it, as well as something else.
"Since the spies of the French governor of Vienna, Count Andreossy, have watched my door and pursued my every step," replied the count, smiling. "But now speak, my dear Kraus. You went to Totis? You talked with the Emperor Francis?" "I went to Totis and talked with the Emperor Francis." "Good heavens! you say it with such a gloomy, solemn expression. Has the emperor become irresolute?"
It is too limited a field, here, to learn absolutely, but it may give us some idea, and then " Mr. Dalton had settled back into his chair with a non-committal expression, and was drumming on the desk before him. "I'm afraid," he murmured in a concise tone, "that you are talking above my head."
Mother and father came to Aberdeen to hear me speak, and as I looked down on them from the platform of the opera house, I detected on their faces an expression which was not so much attention, as preoccupation.
The young are wild, and even Arthur could have slipped from grace in that interval of his life. Curran hoped that Arthur could prove his identity without exposing the secrets of the past. "For example," said he smoothly, with an eye for Judy's expression, "could you go to court to-morrow and swear that Arthur is the same lad that ran away from his mother fifteen years ago?"
But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual, she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion.
The old lady soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon bring them some refreshment, of which they evidently stood much in need. Mr. Humphrey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room; a kind expression was upon his countenance when he entered the room where were the strangers.
"And yet you could live alone! Shut in here for days with a book" at that moment he was positively jealous of old Dante, gone to his rest five hundred and seventy-four years ago "you're perfectly happy." "The 'Paradiso' isn't an ordinary book," she said, very gently, and looking at him with a kind, almost beaming expression in her yellow-brown eyes.
And this, of course, is what good poetry does. It seizes the moment, the situation, the thought; drags it palpitating from life and flings it, quivering with its own rhythmic movement, into expression. The thing cannot be done in mere prose, for there is more than explanation to the process.
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