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About midway along the crooked, narrow street of Stromness stood the one house of entertainment of the port Gray's Inn where the wind-bound sailors and idle fishermen usually regaled themselves and spun yarns.

West of that river runs the Passaick, which unites with it near Newark, and forms another long and narrow neck of land.

The food that he eateth is unsanctified, and he, of a narrow soul, falleth from heaven very soon. O hawk, let the people of the Sivi tribe place before thee a bull cooked with rice instead of this pigeon.

In the centre there was an oasis of green lawn, surrounded by rusty iron railings the height of a man, dotted with elms of considerable age, and streaked with narrow paths of yellow gravel. The surrounding houses represented an eminently respectable appearance, with their immaculately clean steps, white-curtained windows, and neat boxes of flowers.

I think it's a lack of temperament there's no variety about us. And oh, Lucia, I tell you honestly, I get so tired of keeping forever in the straight and narrow path merely because it's easiest for me to walk that way.

No person ever lives unto himself or is sufficient to himself. He is inextricably woven into the tissue of the social group. His privileges, his responsibilities, his obligations are forever over-individual and come from beyond his narrow isolated life. If he is to be a rational being at all he must relate his life to others and share in some measure their triumphs and their tragedies.

The German, excluded from all participation in public affairs and confined to the narrow limits of his family circle and profession, followed his natural bent for speculative philosophy and poetical reverie; but while his thoughts became more elevated and the loss of his activity was, in a certain degree, compensated by the gentle dominion of the muses, the mitigation thus afforded merely aggravated the evil by rendering him content with his state of inaction.

Under the fragrant sprays lay a small white-paper parcel, tied with narrow blue satin bows, such as no English fingers could accomplish, and within was a little frock-body, exquisitely embroidered, with a breastplate of actual point lace in a pattern like frostwork on the windows.

"You should have made a good feast yesterday," says he, "for the tablecloth is no good any more. That is, it's no good that way; it's like any ordinary tablecloth." "Most tablecloths are," says the old woman. "But what are you dawdling about? Up you go and have a look at those turnips." The old man went climbing up the narrow twisting stairs.

Yes; there on the floor near the spot where Henshaw had first fallen, lay a narrow blood-stained chisel. "Whatever my first conclusions were I can see now the most probable explanation of how Henshaw came by his death-wound.