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But they're very useful little things, matches. And, after all, does it matter as long as we do what we have to do as well as we can? Old Jupiter up there is a very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn't performing his task any better than the little match performed his. 'Scratch pouf' and the match's work's done.
It glowed beneath the brim of his hat like a portrait executed on a background of velvet varnished by the match's gleam it was the face of Garland the outlaw. His hand again on the rein sent its message and the horse padded softly on through the arch of trees to the open road.
"I hurt your arms," said I, in a dream. "No," said she, hardly moving her lips. She held them out to the match's light for me to look and there was never a scar on them not even that soft, golden down was singed, sir. "You can't hurt my body," said she, sad as anything. "Only my heart, Ray; my poor heart." I tell you again, she took my breath away. I lit another match.
Old Martyn, working at Meg Match's shoes, she was never to wear those shoes, poor Meg! heard, at ten minutes before five, what he thought to be the rumble of an earthquake under his very feet, and stood with bated breath, waiting for the crash. As nothing further appeared to happen, he took his stick and limped out into the street. A vast crowd surged through it from end to end.
The darkness dropped around them like a curtain. But in that instant of light Bill beheld a scene that tore at his heart. Against the cavern wall, lost in the irremediable darkness, he had seen a strange, white shape a ghostly thing that lay still and caught the match's gleam a grim relic of dead years. He turned to the girl, and his voice was almost steady when he spoke.
Pressing the match's diminished head firmly against the wood, he drew it downward vigorously and long. There was a faint crackle, a little splutter, and glory of glories! a tiny flame faltered out into the darkness. "Oh be careful!" Varney cupped his hand about the little flare, and for a moment ceased to breathe. Then it caught more fully, and it was evident to both that the victory was won.
It was only by the match's glare, held close to her face, that he could see the art that, in any less vivid an illumination, concealed the art. He smiled at it all, and her eyes, lifting, as the cigarette glowed, found the smile and sensitively questioned it. "Why the smile?" she said, quickly. "Why? Oh, I don't know. A comparison. I suppose you people really are artists.
Her father was on his bench, mending one of Meg Match's shoes. She pushed it gently out of his hands, sat down upon his lap, and stroked the shaggy hair away from his forehead. "Father!" "Well, what now, Sene? what now?" "Sometimes I believe I've forgotten you a bit, you know. I think we're going to be happier after this. That's all."
Then he took out a cigar and lit it, and his mental readjustment followed quickly. "Mr. Madeira," he said, puffing slowly at the cigar, the match's yellow light on his face showing that he was pale, "I am sorry that you made me do that, sir. Still, I must add this to what I've said, don't, please, ever try to pull me along with you again. I guess I'm going in a different direction.
Match's perpendicular wake, she mounted to the white-panelled room with its gay linen hangings and the low bed heaped with more cushions. "If we'd come here," she thought, "everything might have been different." And she shuddered at the sumptuous memories of the Palazzo Vanderlyn, and the great painted bedroom where she had met her doom. Mrs.