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Updated: June 11, 2025
And while he stood with his arm around her, Doris startled him. "Myra told me a curious thing the other day," she said. "She has been married twice. She told me that her first husband's name was the same as yours Bob Hollister that he was killed in France in 1917. She says that you somehow remind her of him." "There were a good many men killed in France in '17," he observed.
At the most he would fling out some cryptic hint, bestow some malediction upon life in general. And he never slackened the dizzy pace of his daily labor, except upon those few occasions when from either Hollister or Lawanne he got a book that held him. Then he would stop work and sit in the bunk house and read till the last page was turned.
"You don't suppose," breaks in Mrs. Hollister, "that I came north just for that? Not at all. It was to select a design for the memorial window I am having placed in our church, in memory of poor, dear Professor Hollister. My late husband, you know; and a most noble, talented, courtly gentleman he was too." "Ye-e-es'm," says I. "What are those objects on the wall?" says she, shiftin' sudden.
His wife had also let her thoughts focus on the Blands. "I wonder," she said, "if they are so very poor? Why don't you offer Bland a job? Maybe he is too proud to ask." Bland was not too proud to ask for certain things, it seemed. About a week later he came to Hollister and in a most casual manner said, "I say, old man, can you let me have a hundred dollars? My quarterly funds are delayed a bit."
Even if there were such machinery, there was no one to pull the levers. Nothing was ever set in motion in the War Office without pulling a diversity of levers. So much for that. Hollister, recalling his experience in London, smiled sardonically at thought of the British War Office voluntarily troubling itself about dead men who came to life. The War Office would not know him.
Hollister is out of her mind?" asked Rankin squarely. "I don't know! I don't know, I tell you! She says strange things strange things. When I got there yesterday afternoon, she was holding Ariadne you knew, didn't you? that she called their little girl Ariadne ?" Rankin sat down, white to the lips. "No," he said, "I didn't know that. I never heard anything about about her married life."
They were few and far away. His friends? The war had ripped everything loose, broken the old combinations, scattered the groups. There was, for Hollister, nothing left of the old days. And he himself was dead, officially dead. After all, it narrowed to himself and Doris Cleveland and an ethical question.
"I'm an empty one, too," he added. "Let's hike back through Westwood and get something to eat there." "Carried by an unanimous majority," said Roy. It was just exactly like Warde Hollister to give himself up to frank elation at this achievement of full scouthood. For so he regarded it.
They'll be here long after we're gone. What a helpless, crawling, puny insect man is, anyway. A squirrel on his wheel in a cage." It was a protesting acceptance of a stark philosophy, Hollister thought, a cry against some weight that bore him down, the momentary revealing of some conflict in which Mills foresaw defeat, or had already suffered defeat.
Struck with the contrast between man and nature, the fearless trooper rode by each pass of danger, regardless of what might happen; nor did he rouse himself from his musing, until the noble charger, snuffing the morning air, greeted the steeds of the guard under Sergeant Hollister.
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