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Updated: April 30, 2025
"But this is not at all womanly," my critic would say, had I one, which I have not: "you have not said a word of the really important event of the week." Dare I say that I had half forgotten it? A man has asked me to marry him! The great event of a woman's life has been within my reach, and I refused it. Mr. Whitaker is a very nice fellow, but too adoring by half.
"You would have thought it was a big crowd streaming out from a cup tie," says Private Whitaker of the Guards. "It was like a farmer's machine cutting grass," so it seemed to Private Hawkins of the Coldstreams. "No damned good as riflemen," says a Connemara boy. "You couldn't help hitting them. As to their rifle fire, it was useless."
Whitaker for a cancer, saw this slave girl, who had become a strong healthy young woman, and Mr. Whitaker unable to otherwise pay his doctor bill, let Dr. Davis have her for the debt. At this time the slave girl was about twenty-one years of age, and Dr.
"Can't we eat in the grill?" asked Whitaker. "It's raining." Kenny regarded him with a look of pained intelligence. "I'm posted," he said. "Then," said Whitaker, "I'll go out and buy something. I'd rather eat in the studio. What'll I get?" Kenny capriciously banned oysters. "If you want a rarebit," he added, "we have some cheese."
His notion of the precise location of the owner's estate was rather indefinite; he had gathered from gossip that it was on the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound, between New London and New Haven, where a group of small islands also the property of Mister Whitaker Monk provided fair anchorage between Sound and shore as well as a good screen from offshore observation.
Keverne, whose church stands high at rather more than a mile's distance from the sea, is a place of striking interest for its situation and its traditions. It is not easy to say who Keverne was; some, such as Leland, Whitaker, and Mr. Baring-Gould, say that he was none other than St. Piran, retaining his original Gaelic name of Kieran.
Horribly depressed he thumped on the wall for Garry, who came at once, wondering wryly if Brian had come in and the need again was mediation. "You might as well know," began Kenny at once, "that Brian didn't go up to Reynolds for me this noon " Garry stared. "It was a lie," flung out Kenny with a jerk, "a damnable, deliberate, indecent lie. Whitaker says he's gone for good."
"At four o'clock this morning the Signor Whitaker was found by the police lying upon the pavement of the Lung Arno, close to the Porta San Frediano. He was dead struck down with a knife from behind." "Murdered!" I gasped. "Yes, Signore. It is already in the papers;" and he handed me a copy of the Nazione.
Whitaker says that this mistake originated in the illiterate copying out, by some modern stone-cutter, of an inscription in the character of Henry the Eighth's time on an adjoining stone: "Orate pro bono statu Eutest Tod." "Now every antiquary knows that the formula of prayer 'bono statu' always refers to the living.
One our people call a king crab and they are taken in shoal waters from off the shore a dozen at a time hanging one upon another's tail; they are of a foot in length and half a foot in breadth, having legs and a long tail. The Indians seldom eat of this kind. And, according to Alexander Whitaker in 1613: The rivers abound with fish both small and great.
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