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Updated: June 24, 2025
Three little muckrakers loomed against Wall Street, one small, scoffing suffragette against a hundred and eighty thousand solid stolid Brooklyn wives. They had posed themselves so absurdly close to the world of things as they are. And they were in such a rush about their work.
How does the consummate realism of the cheap photographer show its babies of yester-year, clothed now in the raiment of mature years and simple honours? The little child in costume performing a cute dance. The coloured beau, a heavy swell, in spats and a van Bibber overcoat. The youthful swains posed beside that indestructible stage property of the popular photographer, the artificial tree stump.
This Jonas called himself a "philosophic anarchist," and posed as the reddest Red in American City; it was his habit to rise up in radical meetings and question the speaker, and try to tempt him to justify violence and insurrection and "mass-action." If he repudiated these ideas, then Jonas would denounce him as a "mollycoddle," a "pink tea Socialist," a "labor faker."
"The League, of course, is done; it will crumble away in sheer panic. But here, in Tver, they cannot stop us." He clapped his great hand on his thigh with more glee than one would have expected him to feel; for this man posed as a cynic a despiser of men, a scoffer at charity. "They'll find it very difficult to stop me," muttered Paul Alexis. It was now dark as dark as ever it would be.
Sunburned misses, with wind-ravaged complexions, gazing at the picture of Myra, cool, slim, luscious-looking, saw themselves as they would fain be and bought the Knollwood sweater depicted in silk or wool putty, maize, navy, rose, copen, or white $35. Myra posed in paddock coat and breeches she who had never been nearer a horse than the distance between sidewalk and road.
He stood there a moment, posed for us, searching the ladder of our gallery; and the spirit of the night-stock drifted past him and lightly touched us all as it fled up the stairs. Then he came across the Hall, and addressing his sister, asked, in a voice that overstressed the effect of being casual, "I say, Olive, you don't happen to know where Brenda is, do you?"
M. du Chatelet was beginning to give this gentleman some uneasiness; and, as a matter of fact, since Mme. de Bargeton had taken him up, the lively interest taken by the women in the Byron of Angouleme was distinctly on the increase. His coxcomb superciliousness tickled their curiosity; he posed as the man whom nothing can arouse from his apathy, and his jaded Sultan airs were like a challenge.
The effect was exactly a representation of an ancient Etruscan vase, with terra cotta figures on a black background, and when at the end they stood posed as in a tableau, the likeness was complete. Though scarcely so pretty as the garland dance, it was considered very clever, and met with much applause.
The argument was as unanswerable for one land as for the other, and both were incorporated in the realm: Corsica on November thirtieth, by a proposition of Salicetti's, who was apparently unwilling, but who posed as one under imperative necessity. In reality he had reached the goal for which he had long been striving.
"Monsieur Dechartre," asked Prince Albertinelli, "how do you think a mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?" "I think," said Choulette, "so little of a terrestrial future, that I have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily, leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence." He had an air of negligence for which he posed.
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