"Or a wife," agreed Ganti. "Here!"
The style of the narrative might have been freer, and greater space might have been allotted to reflections on the inner connection of the whole subject, if I had had before me better preliminary studies in the history of botany; but as things are, I have found myself especially occupied in ascertaining questions of historical fact, in distinguishing true merit from undeserved reputation, in searching out the first beginnings of fruitful thoughts and observing their development, and in more than one case in producing lengthy refutations of wide-spread errors. These things could not be done within the allotted space without a certain dryness of style and manner, and I have often been obliged to content myself with passing allusions where detailed explanation might have been desired.
Within two hours a fleet of six steam-copters came driving across the sea. They swept over the island. They looked. They saw Jorgenson and Ganti—naked man and naked Thrid—glaring up at them. They saw nothing else. There was nothing else to see.
that Leila had again gone off with the children. She had: she had been gone a week, and had just sent a letter to her husband saying that she was sailing from Montreal with the little girl. The boys would be sent back to Groton with a trusted servant. She would add nothing more, as she did not wish to reflect unkindly on what his own family agreed with her in thinking an act of ill-advised generosity. He knew that she was worn out by the strain he had imposed on her, and would understand her wishing to get away for a while....
. . . . . . . .
He stopped and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of a typewriter, smothered in documents.
Shi-loh, a small log church, was on a ridge a few miles back from Pitts-burg Land-ing. The troops that were to be put in front had their lines drawn up to face the Cor-inth road, for by that route the foe must come. Gen. Sher-man had charge of the men on that line.
“An interesting man, a curious man,” said I, “but great? Only G. H. Mair, Willie Yeats and high school girls think Synge great, Houghton.”
"Chin up, Georges," Retief said. "We'll take up the goat problem along with the rest."
Mrs. Greaves's pleasant, freckled face was sad. She had been through such family partings herself, her own two robust little boys were at home, dedicated in the future to the Army and the Navy, and she sympathised with the husband and wife, neither of whom was very stout-hearted. Ellen Munro was her most intimate friend; it was a curious kind of friendship, based chiefly upon the fact that the two were old schoolfellows, and also distant connections. This had drawn them more closely together when they found themselves in the same station. But in character, as well as in looks, they were different--Marion Greaves being a sound and sensible little English memsahib, full of energy and common sense, with curling chestnut hair and a freckled skin that had earned her the good-natured nickname in the
Würzburg, March 24, 1889.
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