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Updated: June 10, 2025
I was waiting for her and the minute she came to the quay I'd have been in her, helping Joseph Antony to shovel out the gravel the way she'd be fit for two gentlemen like yourselves to go in her." "Is there no other boat to be got?" said Lord Torrington. "Launch Miss Priscilla's at once," said Sir Lucius. "Sure the paint's wet on the bottom of her."
I don't know if you remember an old wall clock with a brass ball on top and brass scrolls down the sides and a painted glass door in front of the pendulum with a picture of a castle and a lake? The paint's been wore off the glass with cleaning, so the pendulum shows plain. That clock has not been wound since we come to live here.
Luis Cervantes first went over to trim the candle, then drew up a chair without a back, a coarse rag doing the duty of a wicker bottom. The legs of the chair squeaked. War Paint's black horse snorted and whirled its crupper in wide circles. Luis Cervantes sank into his seat. "General, I wish to make my report. Here you have ..." "Look here, man, I didn't really want this done, you know.
Paint's inches thick on the bulkheads, and a shell in here would start fires all over the place. Bunje, if you want to write letters you'd better go somewhere else and do it." The Indiarubber Man thumped the blotting-paper on his freshly written sheets and looked up with his penholder between his teeth. "I've finished, Number One. Admit your hired bravoes."
"Hadn't you better shut down a bit? That paint's blistering, as if the cylinders were red-hot." Much as he disliked to interfere with the operation of the aeroplane, the young officer felt that it was necessary that some means should be taken to compel Mortlake to reduce speed.
"I'm going to shoot myself right in the forehead!" He aimed at the large mirror on the opposite wall which gave back his whole body in reflection. He took careful aim.... "Don't move, War Paint." The bullet whizzed by, grazing War Paint's hair. The mirror broke into large jagged fragments. She did not even so much as blink. Late in the afternoon Luis Cervantes rubbed his eyes and sat up.
"Brother," cried Miss Meliora, trying to gather up her crumbling enthusiasm into one courageous point "Michael, I have found out a new genius! Look here, and say if Olive Rothesay will not make an artist!" "Pshaw a woman make an artist! Ridiculous!" was the answer. "Ha! don't come near my picture. The paint's wet Get away."
If Ham and Miranda are to settle it, I think I'll take the room Sam has now. You needn't take away your books, Sam. I may want to read some of them or lend them to Annie. You and Kezi and Meli had better take that upper room back. The smell of the paint's all gone now, and there's three kinds of carpet on the floor."
"Is this house let?" he inquired of a man who was deliberately stirring a pail of shiny whitewash. The plasterer nodded. "Seems so," he admitted. "It's been empty long enough." Burton looked around him a little vaguely. "You all seem very busy," he remarked. "Some bloke from the country's taken the 'ouse," the man grumbled, "and wants to move in before the blooming paint's dry.
"She wanted it, and paint's comparatively cheap. It has been good drying weather the last few days." It was a little thing, but Evelyn was pleased. The girls had not been greatly considered at the Dene, and it was flattering to recognize that the man had thought it worth while to decorate his craft in her honor; she supposed it had entailed a certain amount of work.
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