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He, it may be added, calls yellow yellow, and he never paints a policeman like a poet. In a word, a man of robust, normal vision, a realist and an artist. False realism with its hectic, Zola-like romanticism is distasteful to Zorn.
Zorn looked at his watch. "I've got two hundred armed men in the palace. We've got about forty minutes to get over there before the rocket goes up." "You'd better stay here on this terrace out of the way until I've spread the word," Zorn said. "Just in case." "Let me caution you against any ... ah ... slip-ups, Mr. Zorn," Magnan said. "The Nenni are not to be molested " Zorn looked at Retief.
Declaration against an arbitration tribunal received from their Government by the German delegation; their consternation; Professor Zorn and Secretary Holls sent to Berlin; my personal letter to Baron von Bulow. Means by which the Conference was kept from meeting until the return of these two gentlemen. Festival given by the Netherlands Government to the Conference. Splendid music.
You have one hundred thousand Standard-class Y hand blasters. Just the thing to turn the tide in a stalemated war fought with obsolete arms." "Good lord!" Magnan said. "Retief, are you " "I have to tell him," Retief said. "He has to know what he's putting his neck into." "Weapons, hey?" Zorn said. "And Rotune knows about it?" "Sure they know about it. It's not too hard to figure out.
They say different." He whirled, stared at Retief. "I have pretty good assurance that once I put it over, the Corps will have to recognize me as the legal government of Petreac. They won't meddle in internal affairs." "Nonsense," Magnan spoke up. "The Corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling themselves " "Watch your language, you!" Zorn rasped. "I'll admit Mr.
What Zorn means in his native tongue we do not profess to know; but in German it signifies anger, wrath, rage. Now, the Zorn in life is not an enraged person unless some lady sitter asks him to paint her as she is not. He is, as all will testify who have met him, a man of rare personal charm and sprightly humour.
Yes, without a touch of Strindberg's mad fantasy, Zorn is kin to him in his ironic, witty way of saying things about his friends and in front of their faces. Consider that large plate of Renan. Has any one so told the truth concerning the ex-seminarian, casuist, and marvellous prose writer of France?
He sniffed at his dope-stick. "What's keeping Shoke?" he muttered. Magnan stepped to a tall glass door, eased it open and poked his head through the heavy draperies. As he moved to draw back, a voice was faintly audible. Magnan paused, head still through the drapes. "What's going on there?" Zorn rasped. He and Retief stepped up behind Magnan. " breath of air, ha-ha," Magnan was saying.
The railway takes us from Strasburg in an hour to the picturesque old town of Saverne, beautifully placed above the Zorn. Turning our backs upon the one long street winding upwards to the chateau, we follow a road leading into the farthermost recesses of the valley, from which rise on either side the wooded spurs of the lower Vosges.
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