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Updated: June 10, 2025
I can't tell you all that it's not in my line, that sort of talk. But he said, his face all pink under his skin, he said, 'Hapgood, I'll tell you a thing. I've got the secret. I've got the key to the riddle that's been puzzling me all my life. I've got the new revelation in terms good enough for me to understand. Light, more light. Here it is: God is love.
The four girls, whom he found sitting in a row on the edge of the bed, were such good friends of him and of each other, that the five were commonly spoken of as "the V," or, sometimes, as "the quintette." Alan Hapgood, who was regarded as the point of the V, was a wide-awake, irrepressible youth of twelve, who had a large share in the doings of his older sister and her friends.
Hapgood wanted to know. "I had sorta planned some on sleepin' right here." "Right here! You don't sleep on the ground?" The red-headed man, drawing serenely at his cigarette, went about unharnessing his horses. "Bein' as how I ain't et for some right smart time," he was saying as he came back from staking out his horses, "I'm goin' to chaw real soon. Has you gents et yet?"
Now they were an astonishing congregation of lumps where the cotton had succeeded in getting itself rolled into balls and of depressions where the cotton had fled. Light and air had little difficulty in passing through. Lonesome Pete jerked off the piece of rope which had held them in a roll and flung them to the ground, directing toward Hapgood a glance which was an invitation.
She stumbled to the door and faced Dr. Hapgood, hat in hand, keen-eyed, but detached. "You slept heavily?" "Yes, Doctor Hapgood." "I am going to send a night nurse to relieve you. When did you say your next engagement began?" "March fifth." "Well, you will need a week to recuperate. Make your plans accordingly. Do you understand?" "Yes." Did he suspect? Did he warn her?
Single-handed, The Ladies' Home Journal kept up the fight until Mark Sullivan produced an unusually strong article, but too legalistic for the magazine. He called the attention of Norman Hapgood, then editor of Collier's Weekly, to it, who accepted it at once, and, with Bok's permission, engaged Sullivan, who later succeeded Hapgood as editor of Collier's.
This was particularly true of Hapgood, who, more through Tom's preaching and practice than from any strength in his own character, had steadily maintained his purpose to abstain from intoxicating drinks, though occasional opportunities were presented for the indulgence of his darling vice.
"I have not had so much happiness, myself, but that I am greedy of it. This day will stand out from all the days of my life. On it you, Joyce Lavillotte, called me, George Dalton, friend!" The funeral of William Hapgood was over. Death had dignified him, and few ventured to speak of him as "Bill," just now.
"Look out, Tom, that you don't run us into some of those rebel batteries," said Hapgood, after he had watched the rapid progress of the boat for a few moments. "A shot from a thirty-two pounder would be a pill we couldn't swallow." "No danger of that, Hapgood," answered Tom, confidently. "I don't know about that, my boy," answered the veteran, in a tone heavy with dire anxiety. "I know it.
"Hapgood," he answered, his eyes going back to the tumult of water sweeping away the hopes of many men. Mr. Crawford stepped forward and put his hand on Conniston's arm. "We lose, my boy." His voice was as steady as it had been before, but Conniston saw that his lips quivered despite the iron will set to keep them steady. "And it could not be helped.
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