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History repeats itself, they say, and indeed it does, both literally and figuratively. There suddenly arose a great commotion in the square between the Temple and the palace, and as I looked, I was surprised to see that there was a large crowd gathered.
"Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in something, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to model his conversation on forensic principles. "Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the joke with a hard-favoured smile. "Not exactly that, either!" repeats Mr. Guppy. "Very good. Take time, ma'am. We shall come to it presently.
It is true, that I have raised a pagan altar to youth and beauty, because I adore God in all that He has made fair and good, noble and grand because, morn and evening, my heart repeats the fervent and sincere prayer: 'Thanks, my Creator! thanks! Your highness says that M. Baleinier has often found me in my solitude, a prey to a strange excitement: yes, it is true; for it is then that, escaping in thought from all that renders the present odious and painful to me, I find refuge in the future it is then that magical horizons spread far before me it is then that such splendid visions appear to me, as make me feel myself rapt in a sublime and heavenly ecstasy, as if I no longer appertained to earth!"
Watching it hover onward free and far; Breathing farewell with restless doubt and pain. What were a heaven with but one only star? Must this be all? Will it not come again? While the new lily, lonely in her pride, Sighing through silver bells, repeats the strain, Longing for sister blossoms at her side, And whispering soft, Will it not come again?
So the great grassy meadow at Munich, any morning during the October Fest, is strewn with empty beermugs. History constantly repeats itself. There is a large crop of moral reflections in my garden, which anybody is at liberty to gather who passes this way. I have tried to get in anything that offered temptation to sin.
Inspire me wonderfully you did with the speech. I've been sad too, but you are a wedded female. Sing you now then. Push your cup and saucer under the chair." "No-no, not in tone am I," Gwen feigned. "How about a Welsh hymn? Come in will I at the repeats." "Messes Lloyd will sing the piano?" "Go must she about her duties. She's a handless poor dab." Gwen played and sang.
The Indian words, as in the instance of "Norman's Woe," must have suggested in many cases the scenes and incidents of the poet's creative fancy. "The March of Miles Standish," which followed, repeats the old apocryphal Puritan story, which no one but a critic would care to question.
I can't imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely had some." "You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats. "Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing what is it! affidavit?" "Yes." "How very odd!"
Suddenly there comes from our feet a sharp, painful cry, as of a human being in distress, and the ruffed grouse, commonly called pheasant, leaves her brood of tiny, ginger-yellow chicks eight, ten, twelve more than we can count, little active bits of down about the size of a golf ball, scattering here, there, and everywhere to seek the shelter of bush, bracken, or dried leaves, while their mother repeats that plaintive whine, again and again, as she tries to lead us up the hillside away from them.
"While there is life there is hope." But it is in a very dreary voice that Trix repeats this aphorism: "and the worst of it is, she doesn't seem to care. Charley, I believe she wants to die, is glad to die. She seems to have nothing to care for nothing to live for. 'My life has been all a mistake, she said to me the other day.
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