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They scorn and hate you, because they have not your splendid hair, nor the brightness of your eyes, nor your white teeth, nor your fresh smile, nor your suppleness, grace and vigour, nor your bewitching shape; despise them in your turn, but envy them not, them who despise and envy you." Thus the Curé murmured to himself as the carriage was passing by.

This time he was silent because he was literally bereft of words. This woman was dying and fancying strange things! He looked from one to the other of the stern, pale faces of those who were gathered around her bedside. Seven of them there were the same seven. At that moment their eyes were all focused upon him. Peter Ruff shrank back. "Madame," he murmured, "this cannot be."

We bowed. "Publicity!" he murmured rather to himself than to us. "Publicity! Why must one always be forced into publicity?" It was not our intention, we explained apologetically, to publish or to print a single word "Eh, what?" exclaimed the Great Actor. "Not print it? Not publish it? Then what in " Not, we explained, without his consent. "Ah," he murmured wearily, "my consent.

Among the other trees, black and mysterious on the hill, a cold wind was moaning. "It's the night wind," Helen murmured. The moor was inhabited by many winds, and she knew them all, and it was only the night wind that cried among the trees, for, fearless though it seemed, it had a dread of the hours that made it.

He drew out slowly three sheets of paper and a photograph. He fixed his gaze on me and then on the portrait. "Yes, yes; it certainly is you, it certainly is you," he murmured. I recognised my photograph, taken in Le Passant, smelling a rose. "You see," said the poor man, his eyes veiled by tears, "you were this child's idol. These are the lines he wrote about you."

At the sight of the paling face the young man murmured, "You dear!" under his breath. Then aloud, "Not if I were your husband." "How can I marry a savage?" cried Rhoda. Kut-le put his hand under the cleft chin and lifted the sweet face till it looked directly into his. His gaze was very deep and clear. "Am I nothing but a naked savage, Rhoda?" he said. "Am I?" Rhoda's eyes did not leave his.

He had not come to sleep, but to be alone that he might think. But thought grew so painful that he would fain have found relief in slumber, had that been possible. "If I had never strayed from the right path!" he murmured, as he tossed himself uneasily. "Oh! if I had never strayed!" "Go back?" he said, aloud, after some minutes' silence, answering to his own thoughts. "No no!

She came back slowly, dimly conscious of escaping from some deadly horror, and awakening to something pleasant, something happy. She slowly opened her eyes, and observing Cardo's strong right hand, which still held and chafed her own, while his left arm upheld her drenched form, she moved a little, and murmured: "Are you hurt?"

Then sending a loving, admiring look after the retreating form so full of symmetry and grace, "My bressed chile!" she murmured, "you's beautiful as de mornin', your ole mammy tinks, an' sweet as de finest rose in de garden; bright an' happy as de day am long, too." "De beautifullest in all de country, an' de finest," chimed in her charioteer.

The latter was plainly assumed for a purpose; and in the act itself I hailed the salvation of my life. I felt like a rescued man. The proceeding did not equally content my former judges, who loudly murmured their dissatisfaction.