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Updated: May 16, 2025
Great bundles of manuscripts, verse or prose, which the recipient is expected to read, perhaps to recommend to a publisher, at any rate to express a well-digested and agreeably flavored opinion about; which opinion, nine times out of ten, disguise it as we may, has to be a bitter draught; every form of egotism, conceit, false sentiment, hunger for notoriety, and eagerness for display of anserine plumage before the admiring public; all these come in by mail or express, covered with postage-stamps of so much more cost than the value of the waste words they overlie, that one comes at last to groan and change color at the very sight of a package, and to dread the postman's knock as if it were that of the other visitor whose naked knuckles rap at every door.
The collar of the postman's coat was round my chin, hiding my beard, and I had his cap pulled well down on my brow. I remembered what Blenkiron had said that the only way to deal with the Germans was naked bluff. Mine was naked enough, for it was all that was left to me. 'Where is the man you brought from Andersbach? he roared, as well as his jaw would allow him.
I did not see the poor old man and his sack until he sank down all of a heap in the lighted inn. And Yon the blacksmith was there; and the carpenter, Willie Losh; and Jackers, the postman's son. And they gave him a glass of beer. And the old man drank it up, still hugging his emeralds.
She does nothing but look out of the window, up and down the street, as if she was expecting some one, and whenever there is a step on the stairs, she runs to the door and peeps out. And then, when the postman's knock is heard, she starts, turns red, turns pale, and puts her hand on her heart.
It frequently happened that the houses of farmers, clergymen, etc., lay a short distance up or down a lane or path branching from the direct track of the postman's journey.
Contrasting colours heighten each other by being juxtaposed; it is the same with contrasting lives. Reaching the opposite side of the park there appeared before her for the third time that little old man, the foot-post. As the turnpike- road ran, the postman's beat was twelve miles a day; six miles out from the town, and six miles back at night.
I hate Rosalind nasty, smirking, conceited thing!" and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her overcharged feelings. She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground.
While the table was being cleared, the Major took forty winks on the sofa, and we two beat a retreat, lit up our pipes in the passage, and were just turning out when the postman's double knock came, but no showers of letters in the box. Derrick threw open the door, and the man handed him a fat, stumpy-looking roll in a pink wrapper. "I say!" he exclaimed, "PROOFS!"
He had listened for the postman's knock, hoping it would bring relief, for four long days and not one letter had come, and he was despairing and heartsick. But there was the watch! He went out presently, and on the stair, feebly lighted by a jet of gas, he ran up against a fellow-lodger a young Jew, whom he knew by the name of Mr.
"And then, I never could whistle," confessed Jennie. "Somehow I can't get my lips to pucker right." "Why! neither can I!" cried Nancy. "I didn't think of that. We couldn't signal to Scorch by whistling, anyway." "Unless we borrowed a policeman's whistle or a postman's," said Jennie. "What'll we do?" "Come on and knock," said Nancy. "We can make them hear somehow." Which proved to be true.
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