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"No, you won't have time it's after five already, and I want to make a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of it. You can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up! I'm behindhand already." So Missy led Gypsy into the yard and took the pail her mother brought out to her. "The peaches aren't quite ripe," said mother, with a little worried pucker, "but they'll have to do.
"Verses of remarkable vigour, variety and ability." Pall Mall Gazette. "MacGill's work is taking the literary world by storm." Morning Leader. "His poems show a power of direct observation and of strong emotion." Spectator. "We are at a loss to understand what manner of youth he is." Manchester Guardian. "The author has a very considerable gift." ANDREW LANG, in Illustrated London News.
MacGill's favourite dishes, and was flushed but triumphant; she came of a devout family that loved to feed preachers well. And everyone was in fine spirits; only Missy, at the first, had a few bad moments. WOULD he mention it? He might think it his duty, think that mother should know. It was maybe his duty to tell. Preachers have a sterner creed of duty than other people, of course.
"In the month of October, 1693, Sir Tristram and Lady Beresford went on a visit to her sister, Lady Macgill, at Gill Hall, now the seat of Lord Clanwilliam, whose grandmother was eventually the heiress of Sir J. Macgill's property. One morning Sir Tristram rose early, leaving Lady Beresford asleep, and went out for a walk before breakfast.
Especially, when as he turned to Genevieve who was tugging at his arm he gave the Reverend MacGill's missionary an open wink. Missy watched the white fox furs, their light-minded wearer and her quarry all depart together; commiseration for the victim vied with resentment against the temptress. Poor Arthur!
Maybe he smokes cigarettes! Why does he fall for light-mindedness? Why doesn't he feel the real beauty of services? the rumbling throb of the organ, and the thrill of hearing your own voice singing sublime hymns, and the inspired swell of Reverend MacGill's voice when he prays with such expression?
MacGill's lot has been cast in strange places, and every incident of his book is pregnant with a vivid realism that carries the conviction that it is a literal transcript from life, as in fact it is. Only last summer, just before he enlisted, Mr. MacGill spent some time in Glasgow reviving old memories of its underworld.
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