时间：2020-02-29 03:06:57 作者：科比意外去世 浏览量：10354
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“Hot water is it?”
And his pretty little wife brought him good fortune, as well as domestic happiness? James Ashurst delighted to think so. His popularity in the village, and in the surrounding country, was on the increase; the number of scholars on the foundership had reached its authorised limit (a source of great gratification, though of no pecuniary profit to the head master); and Master Peacock had now two or three fellow-boarders, each of whom paid a fine annual sum. The governors thought better of their head master now, and the old rector had lived long enough to see his recommendation thoroughly accepted, and his prophecy, as regards the improved status of the school, duly fulfilled. Popular, successful in his little way, and happy in his domestic relations, James Ashurst had but one want. His wife was childless, and this was to him a source of discomfort, always felt and occasionally expressed. He was just the man who would have doated on a child, would have suffered himself to have been pleasantly befooled by its gambols, and have worshipped it in every phase of its tyranny. But it was not to be, he supposed; that was to be the one black drop in his draught of happiness: and then, after he had been married for five or six years, Mrs. Ashurst brought him a little daughter. His hopes were accomplished, but he nearly lost his wife in their accomplishment; while he dandled the newly born treasure in his arms, Mrs. Ashurst's life was despaired of; and when the chubby baby had grown up into a strong child, and from that sphere of life had softened down into a peaceful girl, her mother, always slight and delicate, had become a constant invalid, whose ill-health caused her husband the greatest anxiety, and almost did away with the delight he had in anticipating every wish of his darling little Marian.
"No, of course not. After four rounds Lysmov is leading the tournament with 3-1/2—1/2, meaning 3-1/2 in the win column and 1/2 in the loss column...."
"I thank the Lord Buddha for that," Hartford said, bowing from his saddle toward the great bronze image.
“The lake!” I said significantly.
Coventry at once assumed the office of her chief assistant, and proved himself a valuable salesman. The women were attracted by his friendly manners and his good looks, the men were interested in his being a real soldier, in his having come from India. They called him "the Captain," and competed to have converse with him, even if it should entail the purchase of some useless article. His high spirits infected the company, and his marked
Bobby crouched the closer to earth and his lips writhed back from murderous white teeth. The man called again; in the same friendly, coaxing voice. Then he began to crawl forward a foot or so. Behind him the excited boy was blocking the only way out of the den.
1.We entered the Palace with awe and almost worship, and were made welcome by Mr. Sheridan, who most kindly entreated us to satisfy our curiosity about his Royal Charges, telling us much that seemed almost incredible, for I believe we had an idea that a Prince must have some Divine Right of Learning by which he was excused both table and syllabus. In the Prince's waiting-room we found Mr. Murray, son of Sir David Murray of Broughton, a young man of pleasing address, afterwards so widely known as Mr. Secretary Murray, and then in some position about the Prince. He made much of us, asking us about our people, but had not that knowledge of our families I would have looked for in one in his position. However, we did not attach overmuch to this, as his welcome was hearty, and he lifted us to the height of expectation by saying: "Well, young gentlemen, you fall on a lucky day, for His Royal Highness has not left, and I doubt not will see you"; and, before we could make any reply, he withdrew, leaving us in a state beyond my poor powers to describe.
2."Well, I'm perfectly free, you know," Arthur said, and instantly realised that he had said the forbidden thing. They could not bear that admission of bondage in a full company.>
The communication which Mr. Benthall, in his bluff offhand manner, had made to Walter Joyce, had surprised the latter very much and embarrassed him not a little. Ever since the receipt of Marian Ashurst's letter announcing her intention of marrying Mr. Creswell--ever since the subsequent interview with Lady Caroline, in which she counselled him to discharge the subject from his mind, to encourage new hopes, and to cultivate aspirations of a different kind--Joyce had lived absolutely free from any influence of "the cruel madness of love, the poison of honey flowers, and all the measureless ill." All his thoughts had been given up to labour and ambition, and, with the exception of his deep-rooted and genuine regard for Lady Caroline, and his friendly liking for the Creswell girls, he entertained no feeling for any woman living, unless a suspicion of and an aversion to Marian Creswell might be so taken into account. Had he this special partiality for Maude Creswell, of which Benthall had spoken so plainly? He set to work to catechise himself, to look back through the events of the past few months, noting what he remembered of their relations to each other.
"Bah—I think Great wants us to get heated up over such minor matters, just as he is happy (and oh so obliging!) when we complain about how the Machine blinks or hums or smells. It keeps our minds off the main business of trying to outguess his programming. Incidentally, that is one thing we decided last night—Sherevsky, Willie Angler, Jandorf, Serek, and myself—that we are all going to have to learn to play the Machine without letting it get on our nerves and without asking to be protected from it. As Willie puts it, 'So suppose it sounds like a boiler factory even—okay, you can think in a boiler factory.' Myself, I am not so sure of that, but his spirit is right."
American primary culture was already corrupting our speech. He would put his finger at once on these laborious inaccuracies, growling: “For God’s sake, translate it into English—” but when he had to write, or worse still dictate, a letter his friendly forehead and big hands grew damp, and he would mutter, half to himself and half to me: “How the devil shall I say: ‘Your letter of the blankth came yesterday, and after thinking over what you propose I don’t like the looks of it’?”—“Why, say just that,” I would answer; but he would shake his head and object: “My dear fellow, you’re as bad as I am. You don’t know how to write good English.” In his mind there was a gulf fixed between speaking and writing the language. I could never get his imagination to bridge this gulf, or to see that the phrases which fell from his lips were