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"Bloomfield's down on us, you know; he's got a spite against us." "Oh! I don't know," said Riddell. "I fancy if we'd got some good enough men he'd be only too glad to put them in. After all, the glory of the school is the chief thing." "Tucker and Silk will never practise," said Cusack. "I know I would if I'd got the chance."
He scratched his head with a long and bony finger and looked up again at Joe. What he saw seemed not to reassure him, for Joe had all of a sudden grown beyond Bloomfield's conception of him. He towered above the cutlery case seemed to fill out his clothes. There was a set look about his mouth and a steadiness about his eyes. Mr. Burrus paused again. "Circumstances?" said Joe.
The Parrett's fellows were already crowing in anticipation, and the victory of Bloomfield's boat was only waited for as a final ground for resisting the authority of any captain but their own. Their boat was certainly one of the best which the school had turned out, and compared with their competitors' it seemed as if nothing short of a miracle could prevent its triumph.
So he kissed Giles, and they both went home to Dame Bloomfield's cottage together. When Giles's mother saw Charles, she said: "Why did you bring this proud, cross, young gentleman here, Giles?"
Bloomfield's great, surprise, for, as the latter had put the question with sincere reluctance, she was astonished at the coolness with which it was received. "He is not Mr. Powis, legally perhaps, though he might be, but that he dislikes the publicity of an application to the legislature. His paternal name is Assheton." "You know his history, then!" "There has been no reserve on the part of Mr.
"Humph!" said Lord Vincent; "fine ideas of English taste these garcons must entertain; men who prefer fried soles and potatoes to the various delicacies they can command here, might, by the same perversion of taste, prefer Bloomfield's poems to Byron's. Delicate taste depends solely upon the physical construction; and a man who has it not in cookery, must want it in literature.
New Bloomfield's my place. These your children? belong to both of you?" "Only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married." "Single, I reckon? So'm I. Are you two ladies traveling alone?" "No my husband is with us." "Our whole family's along. It's awful slow, going around alone don't you think so?" "I suppose it must be." "Hi, there's Mount Pilatus coming in sight again.
New Bloomfield's my place. These your children? belong to both of you?" "Only to one of us; they are mine; my friend is not married." "Single, I reckon? So'm I. Are you two ladies traveling alone?" "No my husband is with us." "Our whole family's along. It's awful slow, going around alone don't you think so?" "I suppose it must be." "Hi, there's Mount Pilatus coming in sight again.
Then he caught at a proof-sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead; made a dart at Bloomfield's Poems, and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn clock.
"Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, In strong and hearty German; And Bloomfield's lay and Gifford's wit And patriot fame of Sherman; "Still from his book, a mystic seer, The soul of Behmen teaches, And England's priestcraft shakes to hear Of Fox's leathern breeches."
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