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It seemed that if even one were to go away from the company, a certain attained equilibrium would be disturbed and could not be restored afterwards. And so they dallied and stamped upon the sidewalk, near the exit of the tavern's underground vault, interfering with the progress of the infrequent passers-by. They discussed hypocritically where else they might go to wind up the night.
It is a peculiar habit the poet has of sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written: "Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers? Where is La Place with its musketeers, Golden nights and the May-time breeze? And where are the belles of the balconies?" Ah, the golden nights, indeed!
Leon Tate, good-naturedly reaping a belated prosperity, had insisted that his wife serve Joyce how and as she might. Jude was becoming a man to be considered. He evidently had a future, and the tavern's attractions had never held a sure power over Jude. Here was Leon's opportunity for putting Jude under obligations.
A white choker rivaled in hue the tooth-pick collar of the melancholy individual. The tavern's stable boy immediately began to remove the trunks into the main hallway. This overgrown, husky lad evidently did not share his employer's disapproval of the guests, for he gazed in open-eyed wonder at the sisters, and then, with increasing awe, his glance strayed to the young girl.
There were listeners, the usual after-dinner loafers of the tavern's purlieus. Mr. Britt did not seem to mind them. He even looked about, as if to make sure of their numbers. "All you needed to do was to complain in a genteel way, and I would have been just as genteel in rectifying," pleaded Files. "The people of this town are still saying that I'm a hard man.
From 1679 the King's Head was the common headquarters of the notorious Green Ribbon Club, which included a precious set of scoundrels among its members, chief of them all being that astounding perjurer, Titus Gates. Hence the tavern's designation as a "Protestant house." It was pulled down in 1799.
Chris had come for the girl at three o'clock, just as she was starting out for one of her aimless, unhappy tramps, and had carried her off for a twenty-five-mile run to the quiet corner of the tavern's porch in Tarrytown where they were having tea. "I suppose that's just life. Things go so rottenly, sometimes!"
"Never mind," gasped Janice, feeling the tears very near to the surface. "I'll let you have the dime you need. Is is your papa always like that?" "Oh, no! Oh, no! He works in the woods sometimes. But since the tavern's been open he's been drinkin' more. Ma says she hopes it'll burn down," added Sophie, with perfect seriousness. Suddenly Janice felt that she could echo that desire herself.
This tavern's the only place I have to think in, and what seems to you funny is a sort of ordinary fact to me." "Right again, ma belle Suzon. Nothing's incongruous. I've never felt so much like singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs as when I've been drinking.
But he kept his room, and did not appear. None but Ferguson, Jake Parker the blacksmith, and Ham Sandwich had any luck. These enthusiastic admirers of the great scientific detective hired the tavern's detained-baggage lockup, which looked into the detective's room across a little alleyway ten or twelve feet wide, ambushed themselves in it, and cut some peep-holes in the window-blind. Mr.
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