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    "And precious little to show for it. The vast majority of it down the drain. Wasted. And that, of course, does not include my time, your time, the traffic, stress, worry, bickering, ill-will, sleep loss-all the wonderful things that we pour into the holiday season."

    Chapter 8

    “Write it down!” he went on. “There, take your pen. Put it into dreadful words. How do I look? Am I human? Am I pale? Am I red? Am I speaking English? A ghost, sir! Do you understand?”

    Chapter 58

    It did not take them long to reach the stream referred to by their late friend. The bridge was in sight, and they stopped, for they felt there was a problem of great importance to solve, and that was, whether or not to cross it and follow the stream on the other side.

    The property loss Mrs. Colbert would bear lightly. Tansy Dave was certainly a property loss, and she had never complained or tried to punish him. But if he had actually run away and stayed in Baltimore, his mistress would likely enough have had him seized and brought back.

    Yancey grinned and scratched his head. “You know,” he drawled, “down in my home state, we sometimes make a mistake and slap a brand on a calf that’s not really ours. Well, that’s not so awful. But when somebody else makes the same mistake, it’s stealin’-pure and simple. War’s a lot like that. We only see one side of it, and for my part, I’m fed up with seein’ that side. Boy, I hone for Texas.”

    Who will gather pine cones now when the fire is going down, or call my name in the empty house, or be angry when the kettle is not boiling?

    We are able to yelde a goodd and perfecte accompte, that here is, within the space of forty yeres, by these said tyranies and devilishe doinges of the Spaniardes, don to deathe unjustly and tyranously more then twelve million soules, men, women, and children. And I verely doe believe, and thinke I doe not mistake therein, there are deade more then fiftene millions of soules.

    And I had the key of this woman’s room, and in three or four hours she would again be mine!

      kitchen doors when meals were about to beserved. They were not exactly popular favorites, butthey did receive certain undesirable morsels from themore charitable housewives.

    Ere that horrible night which was to usher in the great day had fallen, the fleet had been joined by frigates left behind to bring the last words from England--the Maidstone and Coventry being amongst them--and, if there was aught that could add to the happiness of all on board, it was the news of how, with official despatches, letters had come for some few amongst the number--bringing news from home. Letters from loving wives and mothers, all breathing prayers for safety and a happy future; letters full of sadness, yet which, though bitter, were sweet, too, to those who received them.

    Instead of being the predicted failure, the Oceanic proved a great success. She became the greyhound of the Atlantic, afterwards being transferred to the Pacific in 1875. She is the favorite ship of the O. and O. line, making her voyages with speed and regularity. She retains a look of positive newness and seems to grow younger with years. In November, 1889, she made the fastest trip on record between Yokohama and San Francisco. No expense is spared to make this ship comfortable for the passengers. The catering would be hard to excel by even a first-class hotel. Passengers are accorded every liberty, and the officers do their utmost to make their guests feel at home, so that in the Orient the Oceanic is the favorite ship, and people wait for months so as to travel on her.

    "I'll tell Flora to take it out to the car," she said; and went into the kitchen: "Flo—" she began, and stopped. The kitchen was empty. "Flora!" she called, looking at the unwashed dishes in the sink, and at Flora's untasted supper set out on the kitchen table in the midst of a clutter of cards. She said a single distracted word under her breath; went to the foot of the stairs and called up to the little cell under the eaves.... No answer. She ran up and looked into each room.... No Flora.

    He was an invalid and he died long since, ending a life of suffering in the saddest way. Several years before his death money fell to his family, and he went with them to an Eastern city, where he tried in vain to make himself at home. He never ceased to pine for the village he had left, with its old companionships, its easy usages, its familiar faces; and he escaped to it again and again, till at last every tie was severed, and he could come back no more. He was never reconciled to the change, and in a manner he did really die of the homesickness which deepened an hereditary taint, and enfeebled him to the disorder that carried him. off. My memories of Dickens remain mingled with my memories of this quaint and most original genius, and though I knew Dickens long before I knew his lover, I can scarcely think of one without thinking of the other.

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