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"I am the old man," he added, "I ... I...." From The Saturday Evening Post Copyright, 1915, by The Curtis Publishing Company. Copyright, 1916, by Fannie Hurst. The figurative underworld of a great city has no ventilation, housing or lighting problems. Rooks and crooks who live in the putrid air of crime are not denied the light of day, even though they loathe it.
"Oh!" said the girl. "Oh, indeed! Very kind of her. Isn't there anything else she doesn't like?" Mr. Hurst stood considering. "She doesn't like the upholstering of the best chairs," he said at last. "She thinks they are too showy, so she's going to put covers over them." There was a long pause, during which Mr. Mott, taking his niece gently by the arm, assisted her to a chair.
"We are very proud of our Record Wall at Hurst. The cost of these tablets is paid by the pupils themselves, and they are put up entirely at their discretion. The teachers have nothing to do with it.
People who are insensible do not suffer, do they, doctor?" "No, my lord; but what do you mean?" "What is the meed of a thief who robs a king? Is it not death?" cried Hurst fiercely; and as he spoke he stretched out one hand and tapped it sharply with the folded warrant that he held.
You know the Fair Rosamond, now lying off Marchwood? she continued, growing every instant paler and paler. 'The trader to St Michael's for oranges and other fruits? 'That is but a blind, sir. She belongs to the same company as the boats you captured at Hurst Castle. She will complete landing her cargo early to-morrow morning, and drop down the river with the ebb-tide just about dawn.
It will be followed with the deepest interest by the profession at large, and especially by medical jurists." "How gratifying that should be to us!" said Miss Bellingham. "We may even attain undying fame in textbooks and treatises; and yet we are not so very much puffed up with our importance." "No," said her father; "we could do without the fame quite well, and so, I think, could Hurst.
Hurst and the rest stole round the cloisters, and out at the south door. Hamish and Arthur followed, more leisurely, and less silently. Ketch came up. "Who's this here, a-haunting the cloisters at this time o' night? Who be you, I ask?" "The cloisters are free until they are closed, Ketch," cried Hamish.
"Oh! no off with you both," said Hurst; "stay, Leicester, you'll find the grey go more pleasantly if you drive him from the cheek; I'll alter it in a second." "Have the goodness just to let them alone, my good fellow; as I'm to drive, I prefer putting them my own way, if you have no objection." "Well, as you please; good-night."
And says Bishop Hurst, urging the vital importance of wise selection in choosing our reading: "If two-thirds of the shelves of the typical domestic library were emptied of their burden, and choice books put in their stead, there would be reformation in intelligence and thought throughout the civilized world." Let us now consider the subject of books fitted for public libraries.
Hugh Alston lingered in London, why, he would not admit, even to himself. In reality he had lingered on in the hope of seeing Joan Meredyth again. How he should see her, where and when, he had not the faintest idea; but he wanted to see her even more than he wanted to see Hurst Dormer. He had thought of going to the city and calling on Mr. Philip Slotman again. But he had not liked Mr. Slotman.
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