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Cis in her white, Sylvia in fluffy grey; his impassive brother-in-law's tall figure; Gordy looking queer in a black coat, with a very yellow face, and eyes still half-closed. The rotten part of it all had been that you wanted to be just FEELING, and you had to be thinking of the ring, and your gloves, and whether the lowest button of your white waistcoat was properly undone.
But this did not matter, for even if he could have read the words, he would not have known what they meant, seeing that he was thinking how he could make a certain petition to a certain person sitting just behind at a large bureau with a sliding top, examining artificial flies. He fixed at last upon this form: "Gordy!" "Not a bit." Mr.
"Are you his cousin?" "No. Gordy is only Mark's uncle by marriage; my mother is Gordy's sister so I'm nothing." Nothing! "I see just what you English call 'a connection." They were silent, seeming to examine the night; then the girl said: "I wanted to see you awfully. You're not like what I thought." "Oh! And what DID you think?"
And Sylvia, at any rate, was happy, blooming in these old haunts, losing her fairness in the sun; even taking again to a sunbonnet, which made her look extraordinarily young. The trout that poor old Gordy had so harried were left undisturbed. No gun was fired; rabbits, pigeons, even the few partridges enjoyed those first days of autumn unmolested.
The English reader may be referred, also, to Mahaffy's Descartes, 1880, in Blackwood's Philosophical Classics; to the article "Cartesianism," Encyclopedia Britannica, 9th ed., vol. v., by Edward Caird; and, for a complete discussion, to the English translation of Fischer's Descartes and his School' by J.P. Gordy, 1887.
"Sit down, Gordy," he suggested, "and tell me all about what you've been doing and what you're doing now and everything." Gordon collapsed unexpectedly upon the bed; lay there inert and spiritless. His mouth, which habitually dropped a little open when his face was in repose, became suddenly helpless and pathetic. "What's the matter?" asked Dean quickly. "Oh, God!" "What's the matter?"
"The bullet hasn't been cast yet that will stop my wind." "Perhaps it has, my boy. It may be in some rebel soldier's cartridge box over yonder, even now. I tell you, boys, you don't know any thing about it. Just afore we went in at Cerry Gordy, a feller by my side said the same thing you did, Ben; and he was the first man that went down.
"Nor I," replied Tom, dropping upon the ground with exhaustion. "I know something about this business. I thought Cerry Gordy was consid'able of a battle, but 'twas nothin' like this." "It's awful," sighed Tom, as he thought of the good fellows he had seen fall upon the field. "Heaps of our boys have gone down!"
Just then the men came out from the dining-room; her husband with the look on his face that denoted he had been well listened to; Squire Trusham laughing as a man does who has no sense of humour; Gordy having a curly, slightly asphyxiated air; and the boy his pale, brooding look, as though he had lost touch with his surroundings.
"Gordy," said the promenader with the prominent teeth, "Gordy." "Hello," said the man with the stained shirt thickly. Prominent teeth shook his finger pessimistically at the pair, giving the woman a glance of aloof condemnation. "What'd I tell you Gordy?" Gordon stirred in his seat. "Go to hell!" he said. Dean continued to stand there shaking his finger. The woman began to get angry.
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