Unmarked6698
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
“We’re seven,” came the echo. “Feel that muscle,” he said a moment later; bending his arm, and pressing her fingers to it. “That’s got to grow by a broom or hoe, something besides football!” “The child may eclipse you in refining Billy’s language,” Mrs. Bennett said, with a smile, aside to Edith; and went into the kitchen to “dish up” the dinner..
453 people found this
review helpful
kez_ h (Kez_h)
- Flag inappropriate
- Show review history
"Impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools. You are not a fool. This is a mere fad of yours and I think you hardly know why you are insisting on it."I tried logging in using my phone number and I
was supposed to get a verification code text,but didn't
get it. I clicked resend a couple time, tried the "call
me instead" option twice but didn't get a call
either. the trouble shooting had no info on if the call
me instead fails.There was
"No. All the county people round when they heard of me—which, according to my own mental calculations on the subject, must have been exactly five minutes after my arrival—quite adopted me. You are a very hospitable nation, Mrs. Rodney; nobody can deny that. Positively, the whole time I was in Limerick I could have dined three times every day had I so chosen."
658 people found this
review helpful
Conrad
It took a very short time to gather the posse, instruct it, and set out for the mountain. The Sheriff gave Billy an old hat and bade him to a seat behind the swift horses; and Billy obeyed, feeling a strange elation as they set out. It was just like a story. Could it be he, plain Billy Bennett, that was assisting the State to find long-sought-for criminals? The horses flew, yet Billy thought they would never arrive at the turn in the road where they would leave them. He felt as if in some unknown way the man at the hut would surely know of their coming, would hide, destroy, perhaps carry off all that would convict him, and the other, the big man,— Oh, would they never be there? “Oh, Miss Gordon, here’s my name,” announced Betty, excitedly, pointing to a central part of the quilt. “An’ here’s yours right clost to it.” Betty said her prayers that night before her cyclamen. It seemed to her a “mornin’-glory that had been growed by an angel, its petals sparkled so, an’ it smelled so pure.” She breathed very softly her thanksgiving, with a vague feeling that it had wings and could find its way better than she knew. “Yeh, Mar.”.
298 people found this
review helpful