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Louis Bassett has started for Norada, and I advise your getting the person we discussed out of town as soon as possible. Bassett is up to mischief. I'm not signing this fully, for obvious reasons. The Sayre house stood on the hill behind the town, a long, rather low white house on Italian lines.
I have the honor to be, with sentiments of the highest esteem and respect, Sir, your most obedient and most humble servant, Th: Jefferson. LETTER CXXII. TO ELBRIDGE GERRY, October 11, 1785 Paris, October 11, 1785. Dear Sir, I received, last night, the letter signed by yourself and the other gentlemen, delegates of Massachusetts and Virginia, recommending Mr. Sayre for the Barbary negotiations.
But at that time with all its capacity for service the new addition was rising, sounding yet one more note of praise in better ability to meet the demands upon us. And pari passu came the beautiful offer of my friend, Mr. Sayre, to double the size of our orphanage, putting up the new wing in memory of his father. This meant that instead of twenty we might now accommodate forty children at a pinch.
"You'll make a gorgeous Duchess, Mona. I can see you now, prancing around with a jewelled coronet on your noble brow." "Can't you see me," said Captain Sayre, "prancing around in Admiral's regalia?" "But I've never seen you prance at all. I supposed you were too dignified." "You did! Well, you never were more mistaken in your life. Watch me, now."
Other Americans, notably Lewis A. Sayre, have enabled sufferers with joint disease, including the dreaded hip disease, to run about and gain health and strength, instead of languishing in bed. Sayre, too, by his suspension treatment and the plaster-of-Paris jacket, set the hunchback on his feet at a stage in his disease in which before he had been forced to prolonged and painful recumbency.
Francis B. Sayre, is by profession a student of international law, a professor of the subject in Harvard University, and as such was employed by Colonel House on the research committee preparatory to the Paris Conference. Mr.
The brainiest men in the Secret Service, Lewis, Thomas, Sayre, and even old Jim Lane, the local chief, whose fingers at El Paso felt every vibration along the Rio Grande, were not as well known except to those who had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries and they were quite satisfied to be so eclipsed.
Wallie Sayre was waiting for her outside, and she went up with him to lunch, and afterwards they played golf. They had rather an amusing game, and once she had to sit down on a bunker and laugh until she was weak, while he fought his way out of a pit. Crushed, indeed! So the weaving went on, almost completed now. With Wallie Sayre biding his time, but fairly sure of the result.
"Love? Any of the Sayre tribe? Jim Sayre drank himself to death, and this boy is like him. And Jim Sayre wasn't faithful to his wife. This boy is well, he's an heir. That's why he was begotten." Margaret Wheeler stared at him. "Why, Walter!" she said. "He's a nice boy, and he's a gentleman." "Why? Because he gets up when you come into the room?
I've telephoned to the Intelligence Place, and I can't get a first-class cook down here at all. I shall have to send to the city for one, but, meantime what to do! What to do!" "H'm, and you've guests for luncheon!" "Yes, the whole Sayre tribe. The captain just CAN'T keep away from YOU! Patty, do you know you're a real belle? Everybody was crazy about you last night." "Fiddlesticks!
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