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There was a silence, and out of it a low voice cried softly, softly: "Bertie, Bertie, my love, come to me." He took a step toward her, a second step and then he stood, rigid, breathless, for he heard another soft voice that said: "His honor is the honor of his mother and his sister, upon which no stain must come."

Yes, we were human beings traversing, as it were, a slender pole over a bottomless abyss; and as we walked, the water's soft, cantabile splash set me in mind of the depths below, of the infinite time during which a body would continue sinking through dense, chilly bulk until sight faded and the heart stopped beating.

All at once a door opened, and the vague form of a woman became visible. "Comrades, you must go," said she. "It's nearly half past five. By the time you've got everything in readiness, you'll have no time to lose." "Right, Catherine," answered Gabriel. "Come, comrades! Up and at it!" Ten minutes later they all issued forth into the soft gloom.

I implore you go!" her eyes filled. "I will; I'll go," said the man, with a soft chuckle intended for self-abasement. "I go, thou goest, he goes. 'I'll skedaddle, as the felleh says.

And when the little breeze walked upon them it was as though they bent beneath the soft tread and were brushed by the sweeping skirts of unseen, hastening Presences. Like a vast prayer-rug, sapphire and silken, the poppies stretched to the gray feet of the mountain.

The dancing-room was lined on two sides with beer-barrels and whisky-kegs; at one end the orchestra sat, at the other was a table with refreshments, where the 'soft drinks' might be had. Those who wanted anything else might pass through a short passage into the bar just behind.

Even then, however, it was not good form for a boy to be greatly interested in them; and he had to conceal any little fancy he had about this girl or that unless he wanted to be considered soft by the other fellows.

The count having paused a second, by reason of the barbarous spelling of the name of Djalma's father, Adrienne immediately said to him, in her soft voice: "The son of Kadja-sing." "What a memory!" said the count, with a smile. And he resumed: "'A young hero, the son of Kadja-sing, king of Mundi.

The trade-wind was sharp in his face and he pulled his soft hat down over his eyes. Presently he found himself in an unfamiliar locality the water-front amid a bustling rough-spoken current of humanity that eddied forward and back. There were many sailors. From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare of orchestrions; now and then a drunken song.

"She turned to the wall of the apartment, on which hung many portraits of knights and ladies; and pointing to the two last, she said, in a voice so soft, so melodious, that it seemed like the sighing of an Aeolian harp "`I am the last of my race. "`Here, thought Sir Kurd, `this may turn out as good an adventure as ever knight met with in an out-of-the-way part of the world.