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Updated: May 10, 2025
Walter was an accomplished shot, and Harry was not a bad one. Harry had not had the training of Walter, whom my father had taught not commencing with stationary objects, but with targets thrown in the air, and small, slow-winged birds as they flitted near the ground.
Then a slow-winged shadow, passing between him and the ceiling with puling cry, startled him to the truth. The memories surged back on him. He knew. That white wall sheer above him was the cliff; that swaying curtain was the mist; that passing shadow a sea-bird. The hard something he was clutching so jealously was the scent-bottle; this still thing at his side was The thought stabbed him awake.
"The old liar!" said Joe. There seemed to be nothing more for her to say. She could make no defense of an act which stood before her in all its ugly selfishness. Joe sat still, staring at the wall beyond the stove; she crouched forward in her chair, as if to shrink out of his sight. Between them the little glass lamp stood, a droning, slow-winged brown beetle blundering against its chimney.
Matching the stars were globe-like lamps, all of one color, all of one shape, which Marguerite had had swung amid the interlaced greenery of trees and vines: as lanterns around the gray bark huts of slow-winged owls; as sun-tanned grapes under the arches of the vine-covered summer-house; as love's lighthouses above the reefs of tumbling rose-bushes: all to illumine the paths which led to nooks and seats.
These adventures taught him salutary lessons, and henceforth the confidence of youth gave place to extreme caution; he avoided the risk of lying near a rabbit's "creep," and was quick to discern the slightest sign, such as a shadowy form above the moonlit field, which might indicate the approach of the slow-winged tyrant of the night.
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