h-s-s-sh

Updated: May 17, 2025

Hilton, with the single desire to prevent him from killing himself, threw himself backward and pulled Harold with him to the stone floor. Harold, as he held him in a grip of iron, thundered out, forgetful in the excitement of the moment the hushed voice to which he had limited himself: 'What do you want? who are you? 'H-s-s-sh! I am Mr.

Bram Stoker - The Man

Mellish has got into a scrape forgery, they say. I hope to heaven he's got away H-s-s-sh!" There was no need of the caution. Auntie, with the grand talent for silence which distinguished her, sat with a sucked-in lip looking heavily after the retreating neighbour, when Grace returned. Grace, bright and pretty in her neat morning blouse, made a laughing dash at the papers in the neighbour's hand.

Mary E. Mann - A Sheaf of Corn