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Updated: June 24, 2025
Renouard assented and changed his position a little; the other, after a short silence, administered unexpectedly a question which, like the blow of a club on the head, deprived Renouard of the power of speech and even thought, but, more cruel, left him quivering with apprehension, not of death but of everlasting torment. Yet the words were extremely simple. "Something will have to be done soon.
In the taciturn days of the passage he had noticed their reserve even amongst themselves. The professor smoked his pipe moodily in retired spots. Renouard had caught Miss Moorsom's eyes resting on himself more than once, with a peculiar and grave expression. He fancied that she avoided all opportunities of conversation. The maiden lady seemed to nurse a grievance. And now what had he to do?
As, however, he had made a movement he re- settled himself comfortably and said, with very creditable indifference, that yes she was, rather. Especially amongst a lot of over-dressed frumps. There wasn't one woman under forty there. "You aren't moderate in your expressions you know." "I express myself very little," interjected Renouard seriously. "I will tell you what you are.
The theory of the new school was, that a work should be judged by itself alone or by the author's ideal. MISCELLANEOUS. Among earlier writers of the nineteenth century are Sismondi, whose "Literature of Southern Europe" remains without a rival, the work of Ginguene on "Italian Literature," and of Renouard on "Provencal Poetry."
After the decree they also transcribed the two documents described as follows on the Register: I. An official report recording the interference of the police during the discussion upon the preceding decree. II. A minute of the appointment of M. Renouard to the office of Procureur-General.
That was the sort of thing. The secretly unforgiving journalist laughed a little longer and then ceased to shake all over. "Oh, yes. About that assistant of yours. . . ." "What about him," said Renouard, after waiting a while, with a shadow of uneasiness on his face. "Have you nothing to tell me of him?"
He did not wish him dead. He did not wish him any harm. We are all equipped with a fund of humanity which is not exhausted without many and repeated provocations and this man had done him no evil. But before Renouard had left old Dunster's house, at the conclusion of the call he made there that very afternoon, he had discovered in himself the desire that the search might last long.
Of course you do." Geoffrey Renouard did not tell his journalist friend that the suggestions of his own face, the face of a friend, bothered him as much as the others. He detected a degrading quality in the touches of age which every day adds to a human countenance.
Renouard regretted that his friend had not been there. Being a man whose business or at least whose profession was to know everything that went on in this part of the globe, he could probably have told him something of some people lately arrived from home, who were amongst the guests. Decidedly, he said, he disliked Willie- -one of these large oppressive men. . . .
He moved in the room in vague preparation for departure, when he heard a soft laugh. He was chuckling across the big desk at the wall: a preliminary of some speech for which Renouard, recalled to himself, waited silent and mistrustful. "No! You would never guess! No one would ever guess what these people are after. Willie's eyes bulged out when he came to me with the tale."
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