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Updated: June 16, 2025
Yourii sat beside Sina at a desk and listened while Schafroff read, calmly, but badly, a paper on universal suffrage. He had a hard, monotonous voice and everything he read sounded like a column of statistics. Yet everybody listened attentively with the exception of the intellectual people in the front row, who soon grew restless and began whispering to each other.
"Thou raving bloodhound!" exclaimed the condemned, "'tis not long since thou wert whispering other words in mine ear; hadst thou said this another day, it is not likely I would have come hither." "Ah!" said the devil, "it matters not that we tell you the hateful truth here; for there is no fear of your returning hence now to carry tales."
"Ah, traitor!" muttered D'Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis and whispering in his ear, "you have made us swear on the crucifix of a Frondeuse." The Ferry across the Oise. We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.
Polly and her mother sat well into the night with him, hearing the story of his life, which he told in full, saving only the sin of his father. Of that he had neither the right nor the heart to tell. "God only knows what is the next chapter," said he, at last. "It may rob me of all that I love in this world." "But not of me," said Polly, whispering in his ear.
On hearing this they ran up /vithout putting on their jackets, and when they came to the bows there was a whispering. One of them asked, "Where is she? I do not see her." To which another replied, "The last flash of lightning showed there was not a reef in one of her sails; but we, who know her history, know that all her canvas will never carry her into port."
I listened to make sure, and heard a lot of whispering going on as the marauders crossed the path I was on, rustled by amongst the gooseberry bushes, and went farther into the garden.
For there were evidently many little mysteries and make-shifts to be concealed in this household. For instance, while the servants were carrying the luggage upstairs, Marguerite discovered Madame de Fondege and her maid in close consultation, whispering with that volubility which betrays an unexpected and pressing perplexity. What were they talking about?
In the vision of the distances, where desert blent with sky, earth surely curving up to meet the downward curving heaven, the dimness was like a voice whispering strange petitions. The ranges of mountains slept in the burning sand, and the light slept in their clefts like the languid in cool places.
The wind was blowing the rain against the windows of the grey-stone house on Beacon Hill, and Irene and his father were whispering secrets together in the parlour. Then De Blacquaire was chattering there and saying all manner of things which were not pertinent to the case in hand, and Irene was answering him.
"Jean," he said, looking at the grave, "Jean Labrouk, a man dies well that dies with his gaiters on, aho! ... What have you said for Jean Labrouk, m'sieu'?" he added to the priest. The priest stared at him, as though he had presumed. "Well?" said Gabord. "Well?" The priest answered nothing, but prepared to go, whispering a word of comfort to the poor wife.
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