The Dem-o-crat-ic par-ty met in Cin-cin-na-ti and named James Bu-chan-an of Penn-syl-va-ni-a as their choice. Bu-chan-an was e-lec-ted.
I echoed coldly: “And yet?”
In spite of his intense affection for both of them, he was feeling a real jealousy of the happiness of these two young lovers. He hated the thought of losing Joan much more than he hated the loss of Peter. Once upon a time he had loved Peter far more than Joan, but by imperceptible degrees his affection had turned over to her. In these war years he and she had been very much together. For a time he had been??it was grotesque, but true??actually in love with her. He had let himself dream??. It was preposterous to think of it. A moonlight night had made his brain swim.... At any rate, thank Heaven! she had never had a suspicion....
The woman still slept. The way back was still open. He could tell by sniffing the air that the poisons in the atmosphere were still gaining. Ahead there was nothing but blank walls, and the clutter of useless equipment littering the floor. Stolidly McCray closed his mind and waited.
pulse—storms he couldn’t control—then long periods of drowsing calm, during which, something made me feel, old regrets and remorses woke and stirred under the indolent surface of his nature. And yet, wasn’t I simply romanticizing a commonplace case? I turned back from the window to look at the group. The bringing of candles to the card-tables had scattered pools of illumination throughout the shadowy room; in their radiance Delane’s harsh head stood out like a cliff from a flowery plain. Perhaps it was only his bigness, his heaviness and swarthiness—perhaps his greater age, for he must have been at least fifteen years older than his wife and most of her friends; at any rate, I could never look at him without feeling that he belonged elsewhere, not so much in another society as in another age. For there was no doubt that the so
“An’ so we went, ’round an’ ’round, wheel ergin wheel, an both drivin’ fur life, she quotin’ scriptures and argyfyin’ an’ me comin’ back wid Numbers an’ Duterrumetics—an’ sumtimes things dat wus Reverlashuns to her! At de half I got her tired, at de three-quarters she quit an’ jes’ befo’ she got to de wire she gib up wid er tired, tangled break, an’ sed:
“Not at all,” ses she, smiling—over her cup of corfee. “I’ve nown Mr. Vandybilt iver since I wuz at Vassa. I niver told any of you aboot it—but—but—we’ve practically bin ingaged—fer yeers—thet is not formally.”
The reddening glow of an evening sun was shed upon the little town of Anthela in Locris as Zopyrus, a young Persian officer in the army of Xerxes passed quickly from the shadows of the temple to Demeter into the narrow street. In his general bearing and physique he was truly a Persian; large of frame, broad of shoulders, with a proportionally small but well poised head. But the tight clusters of blond curls, clear blue eyes and sensitiveness of mouth were not distinguishing traits of Persian parentage. There was a seriousness in his expression far in advance of his years which may have numbered four and twenty.
"So soon back!" she cried. "When I came down yesterday, they told me you had gone to town, and probably would not return; and I was so horribly vexed!"
This brings me to another point in which I should like to compare the masses of the Sicilian people with the masses of the Negroes in the Southern States—namely, in respect to their religious life.
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