स्वीनी गोल्डस्टीन - काल्पनिक चरित्र

स्वीनी गोल्डस्टीन - काल्पनिक चरित्र Besides, when making a passage from one feeding-ground to another, the "David!" ejaculated Maurice, in an astonished tone. "You wish Isabella to marry him?","You are certainly too strong for me," says Rodney, with a frown and a peculiar smile.,"What, you don't mean to say—" interrupted Margaret Howes. "I heard that Jeffries took her to the vaudeville show and I thought that was a tremendous change of heart for nice old Greenie.","I agree with you!" remarked the major, sharply. "A man might make a jest of these horrors--as you are doing.",The amused laugh of Nell Gordon, who sat beside Mrs. Wopp, floated past the youthful pair in front and perhaps helped to embue Moses with the reckless spirit of Jehu. The boy secretly admired his teacher, though he had an idea he would soundly pummel any boy with sufficient temerity to accuse him of it.，"Why, yes, of course."，"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," replied the man, in a weak voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but I couldn't help myself. I was drugged, sir."，The big hands in spite of the shiny gloves tied the dog fast and very close to the tree. “Now give me that dinky ribbon from your hair,” he commanded, and tied the growling dog’s forefeet together. And May Nell knew the man’s voice was gruffer when Bouncer was helpless. He gazed at her reproachfully from eyes that moved though his head could not. She would never forget those sad eyes that followed her when she was ordered away."I will do anything, my own."

"Indeed she will not;" says Mona indignantly. "Irish peasants very seldom do that. She will, I am sure, be faithful forever to the memory of the man she loved.",Her infinite variety.","This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?","It is like a fairy-tale," says Violet, with unwonted excitement. "Oh, Mona, tell us how you managed it.","Now," she demanded, "tell me all about it, or I'll simply die of ingrowing curiosity.","How splendid!" she cried. "Now we'll have a chance to give back a few of the kindnesses she showered on us last summer. Of course we can find a place, and we won't let her come except as our guest, and we'll give her the very best sort of a time we can, to show how glad we are to have her here.",CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEVIL-STICK THIEF.,The fairies, gnomes, and elves, danced, sang, and retired; elves and gnomes crouching close against trees and rocks, the fairies withdrawing only to reappear one by one as the music went on, here and there, high in the trees; and each had a tiny light on her brow. But just over Flora and Sun, poised and upheld by invisible wires, stood the Queen of the Fairies, crown, wand, and shoulders fire-tipped, her arms waving, her filmy draperies continually fluttering, fanned by an artificial breeze. Over all fell a rain of rose leaves.,“Three you should say. Don’t you live in the dreamland of music? Eat your own breakfast, or you’ll be late for the train.”,"And we are going?" she demanded breathlessly. "Oh, say that we are going, Elinor!","She has reason," says the old man, earnestly and approvingly, rounding his sentence after the French fashion, as the Irish so often will: "she has said it," he goes on, "she always does say it; she has brains, has my colleen. Ye don't stir out of this house to-night, Mr. Rodney; so make up yer mind to it. With Tim Ryan abroad, an' probably picked up and carried home by this time, the counthry will be all abroad, an' no safe thravellin' for man or baste. Here's a cosey sate for ye by the fire: sit down, lad, an' take life aisy.",Her eyes are large and blue, with a shade of green in them; her lips are soft and mobile; her whole expression is debonnaire, yet full of tenderness. She is brightness itself; each inward thought, be it of grief or gladness, makes itself outwardly known in the constant changes of her face. Her hair is cut above her forehead, and is quite golden, yet perhaps it is a degree darker than the ordinary hair we hear described as yellow. To me, to think of Dorothy Darling's head is always to remind myself of that line in Milton's "Comus," where he speaks of.