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A few blows of scorn might suffice a backhander across the snout, a few swishes with a stick, a kick behind when he turned. He was too rottenly weak a thing to fight with. His mind refused to go further than this. However deeply and darkly it was working below the surface of consciousness, it gave him no further directions than this. He got rid of his wife.

The green pasture lands run down to the edge of the water, and into it in the afternoons the red kine wade and stand knee-deep in their shadows, surrounded by troops of flies. Patiently the honest creatures abide the attacks of their tormentors. Now one swishes itself with its tail, now its neighbour flaps a huge ear. I draw my oars alongside, and let my boat float at its own will.

Finally, I glimpsed running water, though to tell the truth I'd heard it some time before; because in places there are quite some rapids, and they make music right along, as the water gurgles down the incline, and swishes around rocks that stick out above the surface.

He turned his ear up-stream, then down-stream, and to the side, and again up-stream and listened. The river seemed the same. It was slow, heavy, listless, eddying, lingering, moving the same apparently as for days past. It splashed very softly and murmured low and gurgled faintly. It gave forth fitful little swishes and musical tinkles and lapping sounds.

Foxes, hares and roe deer all use them, the roe deers' feet showing so much tinier than the chamois, who leaves a deep rough track as they usually run in each other's footsteps. The hare's track when running is two holes abreast and then two single ones. The fox runs rather like a dog. The squirrel hops two feet at a time, often leaving a slight ruffle on the snow as he swishes his tail.

Gillat followed him, though scarcely like his shadow; he was not inconspicuous, and neither he nor his motive were easy to overlook. The Captain said something approbious about the weather and the high wind and occasional heavy swishes of rain; then he went to the sitting-room which lay behind the kitchen, and near to the front door.

This life lasted ten years. At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest. Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water.

A young man shabbily dressed in mourning, who got in at a junction in Northern France with a small girl, like him in mourning, and like him pale, a little washed-out ashy blond, and with the inexpressible moral grace which French folk sometimes have, will always remain in my memory; while all those fellow-travellers and all the others hundreds of them since that day have faded from my memory, their images collapsing into each other, a grey monotony as of the rows of little houses which unfurl and furl up, and vanish, thank the Lord, into nothingness, while the express swishes past some dreadful manufacturing town.

One's delicate skin got beset with flies: they got in one's ears, in one's eyes, up one's nose, down one's throat, in one's coffee, in one's bed; they bade fair to devour one within an hour or two, and brought forth inward curses and many swishes of the 'kerchief. The village seemed a death-trap.

The Ballade works up a very powerful climax; the Scherzino swishes fascinatingly; and the Romanza for piano is a notably mature and serious work. Two ballads have made the so romantic name of Harry Rowe Shelley a household word in America. They are the setting of Tom Moore's fiery "Minstrel Boy," and a strange jargon of words called "Love's Sorrow."