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Updated: June 18, 2025
Pinky said I was to show it, but I'm so sore on that low-life hound now, I swear I won't even take the trouble and lie about it. No more gold in that crick than there is in my eye. Or than there's flour or pork in the house!" The woman's voice was rising. Her gestures were furious. Claire and Milt stood close, their hands slipping together.
"You're a bloodthirsty kid," marvelled Clint. "I am?" Amy seemed surprised. "Don't you believe it, Clint. I'm as easy-going and soft-hearted as a suckling dove, whatever that is. Only, when some low-life like Dreer says this is a rotten school I don't care for it. And when he does a trick like the one he did with poor old Penny's fiddle I want to fight.
Fightin'? Why now, didn't I tell him this afternoon as he looked like pickin' a quarrel wi' somebody? But, I say, Jane, it's a low-life kind o' thing for to go a-fightin' in the streets. 'Of course it is. What'll he come to next, I wonder? The sooner he gets off to Canada, the better, I sh'd say. But he'll not go; he talks an' talks, an' it's all just for showin' off. Mr. Poole had risen.
Also, the obscure general visitors, who more than made up in enthusiasm what they wanted in distinction. And, finally, the absolute democracy, or downright low-life party among the spectators represented for the time being by Mr. Blyth's gardener, and Mr.
"Be back yeah clean sole out by two 'clock, sine die," he exclaimed, brightly, as he departed. This venture brought him six dollars in debt at the expiration of a fortnight, and after that, by my advice, he abandoned peddling, condemning it as a "low-life trade," and agreeing to stick to legitimate business for the future.
Still, I grant you these low-life scenes by Teniers, Jan Steen or Ostade are better stuff than the frills and furbelows of Watteau, Boucher, or Van Loo; humanity is shown in an ugly light, but it is not degraded as it is by a Baudouin or a Fragonard." A hawker went by bawling: "Bulletin of the Revolutionary Tribunal!... list of the condemned!"
"Very little. Oh D'Annunzio and some Turgenev and a little Tourgenieff.... That last was a joke, you know." "Oh yes," disconcertedly. "What sorts of plays do you go to, Mr. Wrenn?" "Moving pictures mostly," he said, easily, then bitterly wished he hadn't confessed so low-life a habit.
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