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Updated: May 8, 2025
Throw the fragments of your guitar in the wood-box there, and proceed with the opening proposition." "What I was going to say was this," said Bert, with a half-desperate enunciation; "I'm getting tired of this way of living clean, dead-tired, and fagged out, and sick of the whole artificial business!" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed John, with a towering disdain, "you needn't go any further!
Far better and more characteristic are the ballad-singers, who generally go in couples, an old man, dim of sight, perhaps blind, who plays the violin, and his wife or daughter, who has a guitar, tamborello, or at times a mandolin. Sometimes a little girl accompanies them, sings with them, and carries round a tin box, or the tamborello, to collect baiocchi.
For the second time that day Kay saw Don Mike's face light up with that insouciant boyish smile. Then he skipped blithely across the garden thrumming the guitar and singing: Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord! At seven o'clock next morning, while Miguel Farrel was shaving, John Parker came to his door, knocked, and without further ado came into the room.
Fortunately, my aunt Allison visiting us from Canada gave me a walkman which enabled me to play my music without disturbing the others. I thought about starting to learn the guitar but my parents advised against starting guitar lessons immediately as I had plans to travel out of Goa in the coming months. Letter writing is not one of my favourite things.
Dickens as an imaginative writer, and I love the Americans I cannot possibly admire or love this book. Does Mr. Martin? Do you? Henrietta would send her love to you if I could hear her voice nearer than I do actually, as she sings to the guitar downstairs. And her love is not the only one to be sent. Give mine to dear Mr. Martin, though he can't make up his mind to the bore of writing to me.
And taking her guitar, Natalie struck some joyous accords; but Count Paulo lightly laid his hands upon the strings so as to silence them, and drawing the tips of her fingers to his lips, with a slight shaking of his head, he said: "Not now, my charming poetess, I am not worthy of hearing you." "And it is late," added Cecil, coming as it were to the aid of his master. The count rose.
The horses were noble-looking beasts, not so sleek and combed as our Boston stable-horses, but with fine limbs, and spirited eyes. After this had been settled, and fully talked over, the crowd scattered again and flocked back to the town. Returning to the large pulperia, we found the violin and guitar screaming and twanging away under the piazza, where they had been all day.
And all the same I would wander from room to room in pursuit of them the whole night long. Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna and the twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrant spray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse of a fair damsel.
"He only said that it appeared to him a strange time for music. But listen, Monsieur Raoul," added Madame Denis, "the parts are changed now, my dear abbe, it is our Athenais who sings, and it is Emilie who accompanies her on the guitar."
Sometimes, through an open window on the ground-floor, I caught sight of an interior, picturesque and familiar: here a jolly-looking laundress holding her flat-iron to her cheek; there workmen sitting at tables and smoking in the basement of a cabaret, while an old Bohemian with long gray hair, standing before them, sang something about "Liberty," accompanying himself on a guitar about the color of bouillon the scenes of Chardin and Van Ostade.
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