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"I can remember myself as a girl, more or less distinctly, and can even be sentimental about her; but it doesn't seem to me that I am the same person at all; I can't realize it." "Of course you can't realize it. Why should you expect to realize what is not true?" replied Miss Ludington. "But I am the same person," responded Mrs. Slater. Miss Ludington regarded her with a smile.
George Peabody's benevolences amount to eight millions of dollars, about one fourth of which forms the Southern Educational Fund, and about one eighth endowed the Peabody Institute at Baltimore. John F. Slater gave a million of dollars to the cause of Southern education.
My father's shipmates, as he called them, were also fine stalwart men, each of them competent to take the skipper's place, but each willing to sacrifice anything for Sandy Ericson. My uncle Mansie was mate, and sat forward in the bow. The stroke oar was usually taken by Tom Hercus, a man of singular daring. Willie Slater was an old whaler, who could stand any hardships with perfect indifference.
They stood firmly together in many a small domestic emergency, and although the nurse's presence to-night was not, as Norma thought with a little pang, like having Rose or Aunt Kate with her, still it was much, much better than having no one at all. She sat wrapped luxuriously in a brilliant kimono, while Freda brushed and rolled busily, and Miss Slater polished and clipped.
It occurred to him to quarantine the town, a thing he could easily do as port physician in case of an epidemic, but Omar was unusually healthy, and beyond a few surgical cases his hospital was empty. His meditations were interrupted by Tom Slater, who returned to say: "Give me that dope, Doc; I'm coughing like a switch engine."
"Of course." "Now what have the Heidlemanns done?" "It's not what they have done; it's what they're going to do. They're trying to grab Alaska." Dr. Gray shook his head impatiently, but before he could make answer Tom Slater entered and broke into the conversation by announcing: "I've spotted him, Doc. His name is Linn, and he's Gordon's hand.
Slater, when that gentleman, under this renewed excitement, hastily left us. He was not the man to rush into anything impulsively, and not even the presence of murder could change his ways. "I want to feel sure of myself," he explained. "Can you bear the strain of waiting around a little longer, Laura? I mustn't forget that you fainted just now."
Tim Slater, he was thar, ye know, says 'twas an uncommon fine 'un, lyin' right atop the chist." "But why should the picture frighten him?" "He wasn't altogether frightened, miss. Ye can't frighten 'im. He only got a little white around the gills, so Tim says. Ye see, 'twas a woman's picter, all fixed up on that kind of paper them artist chaps use, an' done with a pencil.
One on the south side of the west porch is Bishop Stephen de Berghstead's, and the other opposite on the north is a work of the fifteenth century. The #Choir and Sanctuary# These are very different in appearance now from what they were, as will be seen by reference to the chapter on the history of the fabric. The #Reredos# was designed by Messrs. Slater & Carpenter, and has never been completed.
What O'Neil could do personally, he can't do as the president of the S. R. & N. It would give us a black eye. "We've go to do something dam' quick," said Slater, "or else the work will be tied up. That would 'crab' Murray's deal. I've got a pick-handle that's itching for Linn's head." The speaker coughed hollowly and complained: "I've got a bad cold on my chest feels like pneumonia, to me.
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