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I'll never lose my temper"; the one with the crystal mind, shining and flashing, the mind like a big room filled from end to end with light. But he had never existed. Maurice Jourdain was only a name. A name for intellectual beauty. You could love that. Love was "the cle-eansing fi-yer!" There was the love of the body and the love of the soul.
"Mark's coming to-day." "No.... Mr. Jourdain was married yesterday." "Who to?" "Some girl he used to see in Sussex." She was glad it was the little girl, the poor one. "Do you mind, Mary?" "No, not a bit. I hope they'll be happy. I want them to be happy.... Now, you see that was why he didn't want to marry me." Her mother sat down on the bed. There was something she was going to say.
But Doggie was a simple soul and went through a great many elementary emotions, just as Monsieur Jourdain spoke prose, sans le savoir. Without knowing it, he would have gone to the ends of the earth for Jeanne, have clubbed over the head any fellow-savage who should seek to rob him of Jeanne.
At the bottom are the cellar and almonry, then comes the Salle des Chevaliers and the dormitory, and above all are the beautiful cloisters and the refectory. Jourdain, however, only lived to see one storey completed, but his successors carried on the work and Raoul de Villedieu finished the splendid cloister in 1228.
"It might have been something you don't know about." Grown-up and strong, she wanted to comfort Aunt Lavvy and protect her. "No," Aunt Lavvy said. "It's the house. I knew it would be. She's been trying to get away. She never did that before." "Aunt Lavvy, did Mr. Jourdain really call?" Aunt Lavvy hesitated. "Yes. He called." "Did he see Aunt Charlotte?"
At this rate you will certainly convert me soon; or at least I shall, like M. Jourdain, discover I've been orthodox all my life without knowing it." "I hope so," he said gravely. "But have you Socialistic sympathies?" She hesitated.
Margery Jourdain was arraigned at the same time; and she, as a witch and relapsed heretic, was condemned to be burned in Smithfield.
"He was taken ill this morning; his heart, you know," and I tapped my chest. They nodded, looking at me, nevertheless, with eyes narrow with suspicion. "Yes, monsieur, we know," said Jourdain. "The authorities at the hospital at once notified us." "It is not the first attack," I asserted, with a temerity born of necessity. "He has had others, but none so serious as this."
And though Jaffery has never confessed it, I am absolutely certain that, just as Monsieur Jourdain spoke prose, sans le savoir, so, without knowing it, was Jaffery in love with Liosha when she drove away from Northlands in Mr. Ras Fendihook's car. Perhaps before. Quien sabe? But he imagined himself to be in love with a moonbeam.
In the everyday world, in the city as we find it, what is the working classification of ideas, the method of thought of its citizens? That the citizens no more think of themselves as using any particular sociological method than did M. Jourdain of talking prose does not really matter, save that it makes our observation, both of them and it, easier and more trustworthy.
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