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"Probation," suggested Coombe regarding her with an expression of speculative interest. Her airy bringing forth of her glib time-worn little scraps of orthodoxy as one who fished them out of a bag of long-discarded remnants of rubbish was so true to type that it almost fascinated him for a moment. "Yes. That's it probation," she answered.
From this time forward life took on a new complexion for her. She said, "The future is secure I can wait, and enjoy the waiting." The most of her lost interests revived. She took up music again, and languages, drawing, painting, and the other long-discarded delights of her maidenhood. She was happy once more, and felt again the zest of life.
A black beard and a turban and the figure of a man and then white teeth and a saber-hilt and eyes that gleamed moved forward from the darkness. "It is I, Mahommed Khan!" boomed the voice again, and the Risaldar stepped out into the lamplight and closed the door behind him. Then, with a courtly, long-discarded sweep of his right arm, he saluted. "At the heavenborn's service!" "Mahommed Khan!
Matilda waited in the low, dingy room, where the tea-things were still littering the table, and as she paced restlessly about, trying to feel an interest in the long-discarded fashion-plates which adorned the walls, her anger began to cool, and give place to something very like nervousness. She wished she had not come. What, after all, was she to say to this girl when they met?
Several weeks after "friend Dan" returned from a distant town, where he had been teaching school, wearing the lost beaver, and relieving its proprietor from the necessity of covering his head with a battered and long-discarded hat of felt. How like the Daniel Webster of later years, who never could acquire the sense of meum and tuum, supposed to be the basis of civilization! Mr.
Michelet merely hovers on the fringe of his subject; Buchner's treatise is comprehensive enough, but contains so many hazardous statements, so much long-discarded gossip and hearsay, that I suspect him of never having left his library, never having set forth himself to question his heroines, or opened one of the many hundreds of rustling, wing-lit hives which we must profane before our instinct can be attuned to their secret, before we can perceive the spirit and atmosphere, perfume and mystery, of these virgin daughters of toil.
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