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Updated: June 24, 2025
One by one I opened and examined the volumes; a few of them were romances of the Laura Jean Libbey school of fiction, but the majority were hymnals inscribed severally on the fly-leaf with the names "Faith Manners," "Hope Manners," "Patience Manners." Across the room the bottles on the mantel shone vaguely in the shadow.
Her thorough course in Libbey heroines and their marvellous escapades had quite prepared her to contemplate such an adventure calmly in the abstract at least. But another obstacle presented itself. "It's impossible," she said again, after her first flash hope. "I haven't a fit dress to wear I've nothing at all but my black cashmere and it is three years old."
Bridesmaids were patting one another's sashes awry and speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks. The minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.
This fastidiousness of the best writers and critics of America is by no means inconsistent with the existence of an enormous class of half-educated readers, who devour the kind of "literature" provided for them, and batten in their various degrees on the productions of Mr. E.P. Roe, Miss Laura Jean Libbey, or the Sunday War-Whoop.
The question was put with an expression of sweet and innocent simplicity. The girl looked at him hard and straight. "I don't think that introductions are necessary." He sighed outrageously. "They Met but to Part; Laura Jean Libbey; twenty-fourth large edition," he murmured. "And I was just about to present myself as Martin Dyke, vagrant, but harmless, and very much at your service.
"And every one of The Duchess and Marie Corelli, and Sir Walter Scott, and George Macdonald, and Laura Jean Libbey, and Charles Reade, and more, besides, than I can think of." "Fanny has read 'most all Tennyson," said Eva, with loyal admiration; "she likes poetry, but I don't very well. She has read most all Tennyson and Longfellow, and we've both read Queechee, and St. Elmo, and Jane Eyre."
He reread the letter and slowly opened the reader's report, which announced: "Millionaire's Daughter." One-act vlle. Utterly impos. Amateurish to the limit. Dialogue sounds like burlesque of Laura Jean Libbey. Can it. Nelly was coming down-stairs. He handed her the letter and report, then tried to stick out his jaw. She read them. Her hand slipped into his.
'She was so startled and nervous after the shock that she sat down near the Java Village, and I came back the moment I could leave her. She shot a glance over her shoulder, and turned her look squarely upon the guard, who had drawn back a pace. 'A chair-boy, she hurried on, 'waiting near the Libbey Glass Works saw you pick up the bag, and told us the way you had gone.
One had a novel by Laura Jean Libbey, the other an old-fashioned tale by Mary J. Holmes, to while away odd minutes of leisure; but it appealed to the imagination of neither that any or all of the girls flitting in and out might be eligible heroines for their favourite authors, stolen at birth from parent millionaires, qualifying through pathetic struggles with poverty to become the brides of other millionaires, or, perhaps, to win an earl or duke.
Visiting the Libbey Glass Works, we obtained a very clear idea of the art of manufacturing glass by following up the different processes of melting, blowing, cutting, spinning, weaving etc. all of which were in full operation in this exhibit. In fact, the endeavor of this company to instruct the spectator in every detail of the work was a complete success and exceedingly satisfactory.
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