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Updated: May 10, 2025
Half an hour later he called her in to see the work of his hands. She had brought him one of his surgical aprons with the bath equipment. With his sleeves rolled up, his apron well splashed, his coppery hair more or less in disarray from the occasional thrustings of a soapy hand, and his face flushed and eager like a healthy boy's, Red Pepper Burns stood grinning down at his patient.
Beyond, a party had scaled the wall, and there the fight was hand to hand with gruntings, thrustings of spears, slashings of long knives that dripped red and cut again and rose and fell with hideous regularity! He jacked his pistol full of shells once more and thrust it into the girl's hand for she, excited beyond all control, was snapping the hammer of her weapon on empty steel. "Give it to 'em!
Her intimacy with Selby was open gossip, and there were winks and thrustings of the tongue in any group of men when she passed by. It was clear enough that Harry's delusion must be broken up, and that no such feeble obstacle as his passion could interpose would turn Laura from her fate.
Instead of naming it he shot a question at me, driving it home with certain random thrustings of the shifty eyes. "Who is your next of kin, Captain Ireton?" "Septimus, of the same name, master of Iretondene, on the James River, and a major in the Virginia line," I answered, wondering how my cousin once removed should figure in the present coil.
Her intimacy with Selby was open gossip, and there were winks and thrustings of the tongue in any group of men when she passed by. It was clear enough that Harry's delusion must be broken up, and that no such feeble obstacle as his passion could interpose would turn Laura from her fate.
The coaxing tone in which he said these latter words might have failed in its object, if he had not accompanied them with sundry sharp jerks of his thumb over one shoulder, and with divers winks and thrustings of his tongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel gathered that he sought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Haredale and Dolly.
He was marching up and down his private library. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back; above his flushed brow his white hair stood erect from frequent thrustings of his agitated fingers; even his cravat, slightly awry, bore witness to his excitement. "Gad!" he was saying to himself. "The boy's alive after all! The boy's waked up! He's taking notice!
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