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Updated: May 10, 2025
"What's become of the lieutenant?" he shouted. She looked up at him as if her soul were lost in her music, with unseeing eyes. "Gone." "Wha-a-t? . . . Where?" She shook her head slightly, and went on playing louder than before.
There was a slight jarring though the whole frame of the coach, a grinding and hissing from the brakes, and then a sudden jolt as the vehicle ran upon and recoiled from the taut pole-straps of the now arrested horses. The murmur of a voice in the road was heard, followed by the impatient accents of Yuba Bill, the driver. "Wha-a-t? Speak up, can't ye?"
Looking up she saw her sister in the garden and called to her. "Wha-a-t?" was the very loud and uncivil answer which came back to her, and in a moment Ella appeared round the corner of the house, carelessly swinging her straw flat, and humming a fashionable song.
I am a poet, madam, a poet in soul, and might be getting a thousand roubles at a time from a publisher, yet I am forced to live in a pig pail. Why? Why, madam? To my mind Russia is a freak of nature and nothing else." "Can you really say nothing more definite?" "I can read you the poem, 'The Cockroach, madam." "Wha-a-t?" "Madam, I'm not mad yet!
Jerry stepped aside for her unexpected caller to enter. "Have you seen Marjorie?" "Why, no. I haven't seen anyone except the maid who answered the door. I came over to see if I could go to the masquerade with you girls. Phyllis and a crowd of Silvertons went out to parade. I didn't care about it, so I thought I would come over here." "Wha-a-t!" Jerry was almost shouting.
From within the house, a shrill, querulous, drawling voice, so characteristic of the Southern "poor-white" mountaineer, answered: "Wha-a-t?" A quick little smile deepened the crows'-feet at the corners of Auntie Sue's eyes, as she called again with gentle patience: "Do come and see the sunset, Judy, dear! It is so beautiful!" And, this time, in answer, Judy appeared in the doorway.
"Hello!" says I. "Ain't lost your baggage checks, have you?" "It's worse than that," says he. "I I've lost Lucy." "Wha-a-t!" says I, gaspy. "You don't mean she she's " "No," says Babe. "She's just quit me and gone home." "But but why?" I blurted out. "Lord knows," groans Babe. "That's what I want to find out." Honest, it listens like a first-class mystery.
He could ask questions, four hundred kinds of questions, an' writin' hit all down into a writin' machine onto paper. We shore told him a heap an' a passel, an' he writes mornin' an' nights. Lots of curius fellers on Ole Mississip'. We'll sort of look aroun'. Co'se, yo' got a man to go 'long?" "No." "Wha-a-t! Yo' ain' goin' to trip down alone?" "I might's well."
Come back when you grow a new fleece! and when I get home the wind moans down the chimney, 'O-o-o-gh-h! wha-a-t have you do-o-one with your summer's w-a-A-a-ges!" "Aw, sit down you're delayin' the game," said the Stockman. The Banker shoved over three stacks of patriotically assorted colors and made a memorandum.
"You're not going back on the ladder by which you have climbed, are you, Samuel?" queried Boswell, earnestly. "The wha-a-t?" cried the Doctor, angrily. "The ladder on which I climbed? You? Great heavens! That it should come to this! . . . Leave the room instantly! Ladder! By all that is beautiful the ladder upon which I, Samuel Johnson, the tallest person in letters, have climbed! Go!
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