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Updated: June 23, 2025
The unreadable author particularly requests us to make a critical examination of his book, and report to him whatever may be our verdict, as if he wanted anything but our praise, and that very often to be used in his publisher's advertisements. But what does not one have to submit to who has become the martyr the Saint Sebastian of a literary correspondence!
In the margins of certain documents of September 1, 1557, there is written in the quaint, almost unreadable penmanship of the time: 'This said Wednesday about five in the morning died Jacques Cartier. There is no need to enlarge upon the greatness of Cartier's achievements. It was only the beginning of a far-reaching work, the completion of which fell to other hands.
He would have to give his reasons. But when Harboro came down the stairs she knew instantly that she could not stop him from going. That quiet look was not unreadable now. It meant unswerving determination. He called to her, his hand outstretched; and when she went to him he kissed her. His voice was gentle and unshaken, in quite the habitual way, when he said: "I shall be back in a little while."
But let not the reader insist on tracing the course of it henceforth. Klein, though faithful and exact, is not a Pitaval; and we find in him errors of the press. The acutest Actuary might spend weeks over these distracted Money-accounts, and inconsistent Lists of Jewels bought and not bought; and would be unreadable if successful.
In the change of language the Vedas themselves are unreadable, except by the priests, who fatten on popular beliefs in the transmigration of souls and in the power of priestcraft to make that transmigration blissful provided liberal gifts are duly forthcoming. Idolatry and witchcraft are rampant. Some saviour, some light was needed. Buddhism a Logical Product of Hindu Thought.
He was whirled about in a confusing, distorting maze of imagination, misinformation, and some unreadable facts. He was a guilty man. Ruth Lansing knew that he was guilty. That was why she had acted as she had. He would go to her. He would ! But what was the use? She would not talk to him about this. She would merely deny, as she had done before, that she knew anything at all. What could he do?
A hand grasped Valencia's wrist while his arm was lifted to strike, so that the three men stood, taut-muscled and still, like a shadowy, sculptured group that pictured some mythological conflict. "Let go, Valencia. This is nothing to fight over. Let go." Valencia's angry eyes questioned the unreadable ones of his majordomo; but he did not let go, and so the three stood for a moment longer.
She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did not know whether to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as a passive butt of ferocious misfortune. Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the road by the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a problematic appearance.
He neither believed nor disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was thinking. The sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond measure.
"It's not a certainty yet, the date," she answered kindly. "Just late in the spring, I think." He nodded. Again she knew how wholly unreadable his eyes could be. "Late in the spring," he repeated, so softly that he might have been talking to himself. "Late in the spring I'll have two time limits run out on me."
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