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Updated: May 5, 2025
"She may think it's her name, because her memory's gone, poor kid. But it's the one real and original Jane Finn we've got here." "What?" cried Tuppence. But she was interrupted. With an angry spurt, a bullet embedded itself in the upholstery of the car just behind her head. "Down with you," cried Julius. "It's an ambush. These guys have got busy pretty quickly. Push her a bit, George."
When I saw thee last Trip down the rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had pass'd, I said, "We meet again," I dreamed not in that idle glance Thy latest image came, And only left to Memory's trance A shadow and a name. That is how she affected even the Puritan Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Wondrous transformations snow maturity or decline in the very forms that, to his also changing eye and hand, once wore soft cheeks and silken locks. In his experience, miracle is less than creation and lower than truth. He cannot credit Memory's ever losing her seat, he has such things to remember.
He would hang on to that policeman. With the care of an Arctic explorer establishing his base before going farther into terra incognita, he attached the threads of his wandering mind to that limb of the law, and groped in all the directions of his memory's compass. But it was of no avail.
"HOME!" How that little word strikes upon the heart strings, awakening all the sweet memories that had slept in memory's chamber! Our home was a "pearl of price" among homes; not for its architectural elegance for it was only a four gabled, brown country house, shaded by two antediluvian oak trees; nor was its interior crowded with luxuries that charm every sense and come from every clime.
In the chatter and heat and drought of South France some faint remembrance of a greener, cooler, and more silent country seemed to touch me now and then. But where in England I had lived, or when I had left that country, or whether I had relations there, and why I was doomed to be a foreign girl all these questions were but as curling wisps of cloud on memory's sky.
Polly, I owe you twenty-five hundred dollars. Here's the money." "This is so sudden," she coyly observed. "My memory's poor, though, Johnny." "It's a promise I made myself: If I won this bet half of the winnings belonged to the babies' hotel." "Wait, Johnny," objected Polly, pushing the money away from her.
My thoughts had wandered far away, Borne off on Memory's outspread wing, To where in deepening twilight lay The wrecks of friendship's broken ring. Ah me! of all our goodly train How few will find our banquet hall! Yet why with coward lips complain That this must lean and that must fall?
Alas, I was too young in those days much to care for creature comforts, or to let pure palate have things that would improve it. Anything went down with me, as it does with most of us. Too late we know the good from bad; the knowledge is no pleasure then; being memory's medicine rather than the wine of hope.
If you are a schoolma'am from Peoria, taking your vacation, follow my advice and make your home in the "Bedford District," within easy reach of Stopford Brooke's chapel, and your London visit will stand out forever as a bright oasis in memory's desert waste. All of which I put in here because Larry Hutton forgot to mention it and Mein Herr Baedeker didn't think it worth while.
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