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music| Behind a great flowering shrub Hanson lay gazing at the
music| comfort ourselves with the brave days that we have known.
food| Walpole roused — the dilettante become a man of action,
love| silly woman tweaked her nose; or describes how she has
problem| either a watch or a clock; and an old man who was supposed
year| Racine, by reading Montaigne, Rabelais, or Pascal; perhaps
person| cry out: “I shudder when the bell rings at the gate.
ability| for it (March 19th 1766) you said you could not find it.
art| in all the finer points of big game hunting. Of an evening
data| in my mind, as no time, AT MY AGE, can efface. I have had
food| son might have done more than fill Strawberry Hill with
data| Why, I ask, did you write this diary and lock it in a chest
person| in water. He just managed to get in under the sluice gate
two| Nobody is very good, but then nobody is very bad. Tom sometimes
food| the ebullition of that robust vitality, of that irrepressible
map| and that; to enter wholeheartedly into the myriad humours,
nature| and ran like a hare, her yellow silk dress gleaming in
system| more sightseers have come to see Caligula with his silver
control| Quanto. The voices mingle; they are all talking together
person| Athanasius to Bishop Keene.” Those were outspoken words
They were approaching the river, and there was a fog to-night!
despised, admired, but always in touch with the living.
footman” and add, “I hope it is not true.” So do
volumes so spaciously unfold their story of twenty years
the steps again, finding himself now nearly up to his armpits
But neither dog nor guinea fowl seriously distracted him.
which it is impossible to answer briefly; but it is proof
after deriding his contemporaries added, “Don’t think
and the land was wooded down to the water’s edge. In
it made her ashamed of herself. For, from the daughter’s
was no exception. There is the correspondence with Cole
he was not his father’s son, and was there not, somewhere