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Lester turned away, and retraced his steps homeward. "Did you see her?" eagerly inquired his wife, as he entered. "She is not at home." "Where is she?" "The stupid servant could not or would not tell." "Indeed, indeed, I do not like the appearance of all this," said Mrs. Lester, with a troubled countenance. "Nor do I. I am sadly afraid all is not right in regard to Mary."
John Long, too where is his science? and we are credibly informed that some important cures have been effected by the inspired dignitaries of "the church" in Newman Street which, if it continue to practise, will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians, and where the miracles of the Abbe of Paris are about to be acted over again.
"Then I am not at all like mamma?" she remarked, a little sadly. "And why?" "Because I am strong and full of life. I always feel as though it was just daylight. I never feel tired, papa, I only feel hushed." "Heaven grant my daughter may never be weary," he said, and stooped to kiss her, while he brushed away a tear which started as he did so. "I shall never be weary while I have you, papa.
He caught me too soon after my arrival coming out from the public baths, and from that time forward he was sadly afraid of me, for he shared the opinions of Europeans with respect to the effect of contagion. Osman’s history is a curious one. He was a Scotchman born, and when very young, being then a drummer-boy, he landed in Egypt with Fraser’s force.
Yates had already damaged him sadly, and Mr. Belcher felt that it would not do to provoke a re-direct examination. So, after a whispered colloquy with his counsel, the latter told the witness that he was done with him. Then Mr. Belcher and his counsel conversed again for some time, when Mr.
They are sadly out of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air," said mamma, with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish on each landing.
He had been very fond of his country home at Bridgeport, where he spent all his leisure time with his horses and his yacht, for he had a great passion for the water; but now he was constantly running down to the city, and the horses and yacht were sadly neglected.
In one of the moments of vision, when the long obscuration of his light in the future centuries was revealed to him, Jesus sadly wondered whether, when the Son of Man came, he would find faith on the earth. The pathetic query has always been pertinent. Faith is the vital force of Christianity, and the weakening of that vital force is the prime cause of all its disorders.
Notwithstanding this last sentence, Richardson more than once reverts to Tom Jones before he finishes his letter. "Unfortunate Tom Jones! how sadly has he mortify'd Two sawcy Correspondents of your making! They are with me now: and bid me tell you, You have spoil'd 'em Both, for Criticks. Shall I add, a Secret which they did not bid me tell you?
I'd be sorry if poor Doyle had taken to drink, or gone bankrupt, or got married, or anything of that sort. I always liked Doyle." "Doyle," said the Major sadly, "is suffering like everybody else." "New priest?" "No. Father Morony's alive still."
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