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Updated: May 22, 2025
Think, now it's somebody you all know." And when they had given it up as a puzzle too hard for them to guess he said: "Why, ain't it got percisely the same color and the same look about it as Mr. Dudley Stackpole's face? Why, it's a perfect imitation of him! That's whut I said to myself all in a flash when I first seen it bouncin' on the end of this here black birch limb out yonder in the flats."
The high spiritual quality of the architect's conception culminates in the Shrine of Inspiration, directly in front of the rotunda, as seen from across the laguna, where kneels Ralph Stackpole's lovely figure of "Art Tending the Fires of Inspiration," exquisite in its simplicity and delicate charm. Palace of Fine Arts The Peristyle and Laguna
This particular figure is one of three figures on the grounds that stand for virtually the same subject, Rodin's "Thinker," in the courtyard of the French Building, and Chester Beach's "Thinker," in the niches to the west and east of the tower in the Court of the Ages. They are all different in character. Stackpole's gives the feeling of gentle contemplation.
And this time, without any one to thwart him, he went on to his heart's content, disposing of the subject as one would strip a rose of its petals, with as much seeming nonchalance and ease, and with precisely the same design, to make a rose no rose. Leaf after leaf fell under Mr. Stackpole's touch, as if it had been a black frost. Smoothly and pleasantly Mr.
Isabel made no reply; the sense of Henrietta Stackpole's treachery, as she momentarily qualified it, was strong within her. "Henrietta's certainly not a model of all the delicacies!" she exclaimed with bitterness. "It was a great liberty to take." "I suppose I'm not a model either of those virtues or of any others. The fault's mine as much as hers."
Nevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's promised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her three days later if she had written to London she was obliged to confess she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not replied.
Think, now it's somebody you all know." And when they had given it up as a puzzle too hard for them to guess he said: "Why, ain't it got percisely the same color and the same look about it as Mr. Dudley Stackpole's face? Why, it's a perfect imitation of him! That's whut I said to myself all in a flash when I first seen it bouncin' on the end of this here black birch limb out yonder in the flats."
"Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added. "Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I hope not. When do you start?" "To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?" Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss Stackpole's company.
He had so placed himself when leaning his back against that adored cedar boat that he could keep watch over the camp, and particularly that portion of it where Stackpole's elongated frame, rolled up like a mummy in his blanket, was to be seen. So often did the eyes of the lad fall upon the recumbent timber-cruiser that the other could not have moved without attracting his notice.
Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she found it proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who returned at Miss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had paid her in Florence. "You were very wrong about Lord Warburton," she remarked to the Countess. "I think it right you should know that." "About his making love to Isabel?
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