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Updated: June 8, 2025
The spectacle at Longman's had filled her eyes with the shadow of longing. She had seen Myra clasped in the arms of the man she loved. Tessibel's thoughts flew to the student. She could imagine her own happiness if she had been in the storm, and Frederick had taken her in his arms, and they should have
Daddy was putting the pickerel and numerous eels in the blind fish cars until they could be cleaned. She looked into "Satisfied" Longman's face. "Air he a carin' for the fish?" Longman shook his head in the negative. "Where air he then?" Tessibel's voice was sharp and penetrating. It awoke Mrs. Longman upstairs and the infant in the box beside the rope cot.
"The other night," wrote Bret Harte, "I took up Longman's Magazine* and began to lazily read something about the Spanish Armada.
"Where ye been, Sandy, an' what ye been doin'?" she asked, simulating an interest she did not feel. Lysander, pleased at the attention, thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and spread out all his fingers, giving a little important twist to each. "I been down to Riker's a searchin' their shack fer Andy Bishop," bragged he, "an' now I air goin' to Longman's."
I hope that Longman's connection with the Review will not prevent you from inserting what I have said on this subject. Murray's copy writers are unsparingly abused by Southey and Lockhart in the Quarterly; and it would be hard indeed if we might not in the Edinburgh strike hard at an assailant of Mackintosh. I shall now begin another article.
Albans," "The Chronicle of Jocelyn of Brokeland," "The Old Road," Hewitt's "Ancient Armour," Coussan's "Heraldry," Boutell's "Arms," Browne's "Chaucer's England," Cust's "Scenes of the Middle Ages," Husserand's "Wayfaring Life," Ward's "Canterbury Pilgrims;" Cornish's "Chivalry," Hastings' "British Archer," Strutt's "Sports," Johnes Froissart, Hargrove's "Archery," Longman's "Edward III," Wright's "Domestic Manners."
Oh, it was a most mortifying and humiliating thing to see men professing liberal and honest principles act so badly. A month ago, when in the very depths of discouragement and low spirits, I set about a little volume for Darton, to be called Birds and Flowers, and have pretty nearly finished it. William, in the mean time, has finished his Rural Life, and sold the first edition to Longman's.
And square on "the bill" the girl got the caress and then eagerly hastened to fry the inevitable fish. "I air coming after ye to Longman's when the nettin's over," broke in Orn Skinner presently, his mouth full of bread and fish, "and ye'd best duck yer head in the lake, Tess, afore ye go. Yer face has a week's dirt caked on it." Tessibel allowed her red lips to spread wide in a loving smile.
Letts, "Ben ain't no likin' for Myry, Ben ain't!" A dull red flush crimsoned Myra Longman's face. She watched Tess enviously as the girl tiptoed through the doorway and disappeared. Ben Letts was stretched out on the rope cot, his massive head and thick neck swathed in bandages. Two huge hands, with patches of plaster here and there lay outside the red Indian blanket.
While Tess was making her call at Longman's, Helen Young was entertaining her fiance, Ebenezer Waldstricker. "I shall never be satisfied until Bishop is back in Auburn, Helen," said he, snipping the end from a long cigar. The girl held up her needle and deftly shot the thread through the eye of it. "He's sure to be, dear," she soothed. "Here's Deforrest!"
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