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“Is it possible you’ve been here only a week?” he asked as they all sat together one evening in the library—that is, with the exception of Theodore, whose spring term still kept him at Oxford.
Little leading makes much following.
As Zarah glanced anxiously on either side, she perceived to the left a narrow opening in the mass of buildings which enclosed the garden. The opening was so utterly dark, that it looked to the trembling girl like the mouth of a sepulchre, and she feared to enter into it. As Zarah stood hesitating, she could hear Pollux behind her giving the password to the sentries. His voice strengthened the courage of his daughter; it was a comfort to know that he was near. Quitting the garden, Zarah entered the gloomy passage. It was not quite so dark within as it had appeared from without. The maiden could dimly distinguish a niche in the wall, in which she deposited her jar, which could now only burden her in her flight.
Now they were standing on the veranda and holding back Snooker, who wanted to go into the house but wasn’t allowed to because Aunt Linda hated decent dogs.
Where did the egg—if it was an egg—come from? The vireos and pewees and gnats were still building, I reflected thankfully, though trembling for their future; and fortunately the hangbird had young. Perhaps the jay had found a nest that I could not discover.
'The only explanation must be this,' said Rhoda, 'that her condition was largely the fruit of neglect and utter lack of comprehension. The state of mind and body in which she came to us was out of all proportion to the moving cause, when we discovered it. Her mother thought she would be an imbecile, the Grubbs treated her as one, and nobody cared to find out what she really was or could be.'
"I do not defend our own Indian policy.... Wounded and disabled in our Indian wars... I know all about them and how indefensible they are.....
I do not know that I should counsel others to do so, or that the general reader would find his account in it, but I am sure that the intending author of American fiction would do well to study the Spanish picaresque novels; for in their simplicity of design he will find one of the best forms for an American story. The intrigue of close texture will never suit our conditions, which are so loose and open and variable; each man’s life among us is a romance of the Spanish model, if it is the life of a man who has risen, as we nearly all have, with many ups and downs. The story of ‘Latzarillo’ is gross in its facts, and is mostly “unmeet for ladies,” like most of the fiction in all languages before our times; but there is an honest simplicity in the narration, a pervading humor, and a rich feeling for character that gives it value.
“What have you to do, Mrs. Hosmer? Let me help you, I can give you the whole afternoon,” she said with an appearance of being ready for any thing that was at hand to be done.
2.Of course I knew, but I dragged it from her none the less. The nebulous white-shirted figure in the canoe, that had skimmed past Dan Levy’s frontage as we were trying to get him aboard his own pleasure-boat, and again past the empty house when we were in the act of disembarking him there, that figure was the trim and slim one now at my side. She had seen us — searched for us — each time. Our voices she had heard and recognised; only our actions, or rather that midnight deed of ours, had she misinterpreted. She would not admit it to me, but I still believe she feared it was a dead body that we had shipped at dead of night to hide away in that desolate tower.>