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Updated: May 19, 2025
Guly, after assisting his helpless friend to his crutches and a firm standing, was about to leave; but the dwarf detained him by twitching the skirt of his coat, then exclaimed: "Hih, hih! monsieur, I lost my bean soup but I saved my head, hih! hih! bean, soup's good, but 'twas spilt in a glorious cause; paid for monsieur?"
"That was an uncommon good dinner we had yesterday, ma'am," the artful Harry broke out. "Their clear soup's better than ours. Moufflet will put too much taragon into every thing. The supreme de volaille was very good uncommon, and the sweets were better than Moufflet's sweets. Did you taste the plombiere, ma'am and the maraschino jelly? Stunningly good that maraschino jelly!"
But after a couple of days, on an occasion when she was feeding him broth, he suddenly sputtered and put away the spoon with a vexed gesture. "What's the matter, Uncle Abram?" she asked him. "Isn't it good?" "The soup's all right, Niece Louise. 'Tain't so fillin' as chowder, I cal'late, but it'll keep a feller on deck for a spell. That ain't it. I was just a-thinkin'." "Of what?" "Hi-mighty!
Susan came back to the present. "Don't I? Your soup's getting cold." Etta ate several spoonfuls, then said with an embarrassed attempt at a laugh, "I I went, too." Susan slowly turned upon Etta her gaze the gaze of eyes softening, becoming violet. Etta's eyes dropped and the color flooded into her fair skin. "He was an old man forty or maybe fifty," she explained nervously.
The grizzled, bowlegged cook ambled cheerfully into the laboratory, pushing a lunch cart. But, to Tom's dismay, he cast only a passing glance at the figure in the tank. "Soup's on, son!" Chow announced loudly. He began to ladle out a bowl of oyster stew from a steaming pot. Evidently he had not realized the young inventor's dilemma!
Though if I could only be sure you knew how much I meant by it, it would be enough. Do say you know," she pleaded, looking around the table, "because I'm terribly embarrassed," she ended, laughing. "Very good speech, Poll," Betty teased from her seat opposite, "and quite long enough; my soup's cold." "Betty!" Mrs. Baird tried to look shocked, and failed, because she simply had to smile.
He stroked a tuft of whisker under his chin. "I don't mind the heat, but the soup's bad," he remarked. "Here's the boy," said Trask. "Now what's it to be?" "Eh! Oh, Ah Wing! That boy knows me. A tot of gin with a stinger, and thank you kindly.
But you can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to Missy." "Ay," said the man, "soup's good; puts life into a body." He fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for Flower, stirring it first with a pewter spoon. "This'll put life into you, Miss," he said. He handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. All this time the woman was bending over the baby. Suddenly she raised her head.
Now you play a sort of hunt-the-slipper game, looking for your places, all of you. I know mine, thank God! Now let's pray to Heaven the soup's hot! And don't any one talk to me while I'm eating it. The present generation are shocking soup eaters." Wingate found Josephine on his other side and was happy. Phipps was just across the table.
Trumbull's Sortie of Gibraltar, with red enough in it for one of our sunset after-glows; and Neagle's full-length portrait of the blacksmith in his shirt-sleeves; and Copley's long-waistcoated gentlemen and satin-clad ladies, they looked like gentlemen and ladies, too; and Stuart's florid merchants and high-waisted matrons; and Allston's lovely Italian scenery and dreamy, unimpassioned women, not forgetting Florimel in full flight on her interminable rocking-horse, you may still see her at the Art Museum; and the rival landscapes of Doughty and Fisher, much talked of and largely praised in those days; and the Murillo, not from Marshal Soup's collection; and the portrait of Annibale Caracci by himself, which cost the Athenaeum a hundred dollars; and Cole's allegorical pictures, and his immense and dreary canvas, in which the prostrate shepherds and the angel in Joseph's coat of many colors look as if they must have been thrown in for nothing; and West's brawny Lear tearing his clothes to pieces.
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