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Updated: June 6, 2025
Science tells us that before becoming cave-dweller he was a brute; Experience daily proclaims that he constantly reverts to his original condition. L'homme est un mechant animal, in spite of your boyish efforts to add pretty girls 'to the list of the good, the disinterested, and the free.
She returns to the subject afterwards too frequently, and enters too minutely into detail of what she discovered in him, not to show on her part a truthfulness stronger than flattery. She never speaks of the King otherwise than as l'homme du monde le plus aimable, as the meilleur ami, and le plus honnête homme du monde.
Chantry was a feminist; a bit of an æsthete but canny at affairs; good-looking, and temperate, and less hipped on the matter of sex than feminist gentlemen are wont to be. That is to say, while he vaguely wanted l'homme moyen sensuel to mend his ways, he did not expect him to change fundamentally. He rather thought the women would manage all that when they got the vote.
Even with the French and English teachers; I observed that they treated me with more consideration. And so I reflected within myself again over Dr. Sandford's observation, "L'habit, c'est l'homme." Of course it was a consideration given to my clothes, a consideration also to be given up if I did not wear such clothes. I saw all that. The world knew me, just for the moment.
We may go the world over, without finding a man who shall present a more striking realization of the beautiful conception of D'Aguesseau: "C'est en vain que l'on cherche a distinguer en lui la personne privee et la personne publique; un meme esprit les anime, un meme objet les reunit; l'homme, le pere de famille, le citoyen, tout est en lui consacre a la gloire du magistrat." Mr.
The Countess snuffed out her cigarette daintily upon the ash tray. "Can one love in vain? Perhaps. /* "'Aimer pour tre aim, c'est de l'homme, Aimer pour aimer, c'est Presque de l'ange." */ "I'm afraid I'm not that kind of an angel." Hilda Ashhurst laughed. "Olga is." "Olga!" exclaimed Hermia with a glance of inquiry. "Haven't you heard?
I have read in a French Eastern tale of an enchanted person called L'homme qui cherche, a sort of "Sir Guy the Seeker," always employed in collecting the beads of a chaplet, which, by dint of gramarye, always dispersed themselves when he was about to fix the last upon the string.
"My dear lady!" cried Darrell "a quite enormous difference! Ashe never took stock of himself or his prospects in his life before." "Well, now you will find he takes stock of a good many things." "Including Lady Kitty?" His companion smiled. "He won't let her interfere again." "L'homme propose," said Darrell. "You mean he has grown ambitious?" Mrs.
"Very ugly; worse than Miss Filberte." "Miss Filberte's not so bad." "Yes, she is, Fritz, you know she is. But I mean ever so much worse; with a purple complexion, perhaps, like Mrs. Armington, whose husband insisted on a judicial separation; or a broken nose, or something wrong with my mouth " "What wrong?" "Oh, dear, anything! What l'homme qui vir had or a frightful scar across my cheek.
Helena, his child, le fils de l'homme, was in a seclusion that would shortly end in the grave, Canning was dead and Byron, Heine was in exile, Chateaubriand, a peer; quotusquisque reliquus qui rempublicam vidisset? who was there any longer to remember Marengo and Austerlitz, Wagram, and Schönbrunn?
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