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Updated: June 16, 2025
"What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. 'Ammond's?" "It gave me up. Hurt myself." "Who were you with last?" "Martini troupe." "And before that?" "Oh! heaps of 'em." "Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?" "Nobody as I'd care to believe. Some of them called me the one, some of them the other. It depended upon what was wanted." "How old are you?" "I dunno." Mrs.
The victim instinctively felt that its enemy was poising and hovering over head, although he still delayed to strike. Early in the summer Sainte Aldegonde, Recorder Martini, and other official personages, were at Delft, upon the occasion of the christening ceremonies of Frederic Henry, youngest child of Orange.
Here was the home of the famous Padre Martini, the aged composer of church music. Father Martini was almost worshiped by the Italians; he was a most lovable man and looked up to as a great composer. He had long ago given up attending concerts, so that every one was astonished when he was present in the brilliant audience gathered at Count Pallavicini's mansion to listen to the boy's playing.
This time, however, a Martini bullet in the chest and another in the head finished him for good and all; he dropped in his tracks not five yards away from me, and died gamely, biting savagely at a branch which had fallen to the ground.
Five volleys plunged the files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, and the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the bayonet dragged down and to the right arms wearied with holding the kick of the leaping Martini.
Here I filled the large saddlebags made of buckskin with tins of beef, a couple more bottles of beer and a packet of tandstickor matches which I was fortunate enough to find. Also I took the Martini rifle from a dead soldier, together with a score or so of cartridges that remained in his belt, for apparently he must have been killed rather early in the fight.
She was certainly handsome enough, as Martini had said, with a vivid, animal, unintelligent beauty; and the perfect harmony and freedom of her movements were delightful to see; but her forehead was low and narrow, and the line of her delicate nostrils was unsympathetic, almost cruel.
A Submarine Commander of almost legendary fame stood by the fender examining something in a little morocco case. Mouldy Jakes turned a melancholy eye upon the newcomers. "More of 'em," he said in tones of dull despair. "What d'you want Martini or Manhattan?" "Martini," replied the Young Doctor, advancing, "both of us; but why this reckless hospitality, Mouldy?
There was in daily intercourse with Tribolo one Luca Martini, the proveditor at that time for the building of the Mercato Nuovo, who, praising highly the excellence in art and the fine character of Vinci, and desiring to help him, provided him with a piece of marble two-thirds of a braccio in height and one and a quarter in length.
Martini had been quite right in saying that the conversazione would be both crowded and dull. The literary men talked polite small-talk and looked hopelessly bored, while the "nondescript crowd of tourists and Russian princes" fluttered up and down the rooms, asking each other who were the various celebrities and trying to carry on intellectual conversation.
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