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Updated: June 3, 2025
In its plan and development "Precaution" was a compromise between the purely fashionable novel and that collection of moral disquisitions of which Hannah More's Coelebs was the great exemplar, and still remained the most popular representative.
We left our wages, too, and never asked for 'em from that day to this. A trifle like that didn't matter after what we were going in for. More's the pity. As we moved off my horse propped once or twice, and Warrigal looked at us in a queer side sort of way and showed his teeth a bit smile nor laugh it wasn't, only a way he had when he thought he knew more than we did.
Perhaps some reader will say that this was cynical, the result of disappointment. But it was not cynical, neither was it the result of disappointment. It was unvarnished truth, and more's the pity, but truth it was none the less. It was one of those hard facts, which he of all men, needed to know at the threshold of his experience with the world.
"But you must restore me to the bosom of my family soon!" "More's the pity!" said Stane to himself under his breath; his heart-beats quickening as he looked at her radiant face and laughing eyes; whilst openly he said: "I will do my best. You will be able to help me to paddle against the current, and no doubt in a little time we shall meet a search-party coming to look for you."
Now it turned to his own all life and loyalty, as he laid his arm around More's shoulders while they wandered between the garden beds of Chelsea. Early in 1527, probably, Holbein had finished the fine portrait of his host, which is now in Mr. Huth's collection. An outline sketch of it, or for it, he certainly made.
I should not make a good sailor," said Mark lingering. "Not if I took you in hand, my lad? Why, I'd make a man of you in no time. Is the skipper going to hand you over to me?" "No; I'm only going as far as Plymouth or Penzance for a trip." "More's the pity, my lad.
More's the pity. No woman who respects herself ought to play the piano nowadays. A professional told me the other day that until nineteen-twentieths of the profession were strung up, there would be no chance for the rest; and as for amateurs, there is simply no room for them whatever. I can't conceive anything more passé than amateur pianoforte playing!
But I'm the father of two daughters both married. Yes, I was married young myself, and my good wife died long ago, more's the pity. He paused, looked round the room, stroked his hard-felt hat, Topham murmuring a sympathetic sound. 'Now, as to my business, Mr. Starkey. I'm a fruiterer and greengrocer.
After his death, More's estates were confiscated and granted to Sir William Paulet, who with his wife occupied the house for about fifty years.
Was it a celestial phenomenon? A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day. What more's to speak? Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots. Stephanos, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too. You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough.
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