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Updated: May 8, 2025
Besides these, from the windows of a greenhouse that stretched back along the street, there looked over a brilliant array of other beauty; I could not tell what; great bunches of scarlet and tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made me long to be there. "Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening.
Their perceptions of truth are not mere gleamings and streaks of divine radiance thrown across the obscurity of the mind, but all is light. Nor is it merely new light diffused over objects familiar to the thoughts, but a discovery of new scenes.
Notwithstanding all this, and the many gleamings he had had of the facts during their late intercourse on board the brig, Spike did not guess at the truth. He appeared astounded, and his terror seemed to increase. "I have another thing to tell you," continued Jack, pausing but a moment to collect her own thoughts.
As they went on, the moon gradually rose and lifted up the dark path by little gleamings which stole in through the thick leaves and close-turning branches of the lofty vegetation. On, on they press; and now they pause at a sign from Maud, and listen to the sound of voices, which have a strange and echo-like sound in that wild and tangled spot.
I did not move. I felt distinctly frightened; but could think of nothing better to do than wait. For perhaps a minute, I kept my glance about the room, nervously. Then I noticed that the lights had commenced to sink, very slowly; until presently they showed minute specks of red fire, like the gleamings of rubies in the darkness.
Besides these, from the windows of a greenhouse that stretched back along the street, there looked over a brilliant array of other beauty; I could not tell what; great bunches of scarlet and tufts of white and gleamings of yellow, that made me long to be there. "Who lives in that house?" Miss Bentley asked one evening.
In order to obtain a faithful portrait of a man so intimately connected with our tale, the reader will fancy him one who had numbered four-score and ten years, with a visage on which deep and constant mental striving had wrought many and menacing furrows, a form that trembled while it yet exhibited the ruins of powerful limb and flexible muscle, and a countenance in which ascetic reflections had engraved a severity, that was but faintly relieved by the gleamings of a natural kindness, which no acquired habits, nor any traces of metaphysical thought, could ever entirely erase.
Trigger realized she was twisting her hands together. She looked down at them. The little jewel in the ring Holati Tate had given her to wear blinked back with crimson gleamings. Crimson! She drew a long, slow breath. "Brule," she said. "Yes?" said Brule. At the edge of her vision she saw the smile turn eager. Trigger said, "Give me the plasmoid." She raised her eyes and looked at him.
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