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I had never heard a sweeter voice, and her firm mouth was all at once not only gentle and womanly, but almost girlishly pretty.
She turned round and smiled, not a happy, joyful smile as before, but in a frightened, piteous way. The smile seemed to tell him that what he was doing was wrong. He stopped for a moment. There was still the possibility of a struggle. The voice of his real love for her, though feebly, was still speaking of her, her feelings, her life.
She hurried to the next room and found him bending over a tumbled heap of fluffy things which he had gingerly picked from the bureau drawers. "Help yourself," he commanded, with a wave of his hand. "But I oughtn't to take these things!" "My girl," he answered in an even voice that seemed to steady her, "when it's either these or pneumonia it's these. I'll leave you the candle." "But you "
Then he caught the faint sound of ripples: he fancied he descried a dark form on the water; it drew nearer, became more definite. "Is that you, sahib?" said a low voice. "Yes." He gave a great sigh of relief. The toni drew alongside, and soon five men, with bundles, muskets, and the small heavy barrel, stood with Desmond and the Gujarati on the deck of the gallivat.
Compare the tone in which he writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound reverence wherewith he bows himself before the poor country-parson." Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. "I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in that way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent than I am."
As the maid appeared, in answer to her summons, she gave her order without looking round. "Tea, Norris!" she said, in an unusually curt and laconic voice. For a considerable time after the maid's departure she sat motionless, her hands stretched out towards the blazing logs, her large eyes absently watching the firelight on her many and beautiful rings.
"I know that you are Mona Montague that I love you, and that I have found you," he interrupted, his own voice quivering with repressed emotion, his strong frame trembling with eager longing, mingled with something of fear that his suit might be rejected.
The first utterance of the voice was not pleasant to the ear, the tone being harsh and the key too high.
So he made a second one, and then he went on through the woods, blowing first one whistle and then the other, like the steam piano in the circus parade. “Hello!” suddenly cried a voice in the woods, “who is making all that noise?” “I am,” answered Bawly. “Who are you?”
"Oh, how beautiful, how grand, how noble he is! How came such a lordly bird to have for a cousin so homely a creature as I?" But the Crow would answer, trying to comfort his friend, "Yes, he is gorgeous. But listen, what a harsh and disagreeable voice he has! And see how vain he is. I would not be so vain had I so scandalous a tale in my family history."
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