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“He’s a bad egg,” was the comment of Tim Flannigan, the engineer of the dinky that pulled the rock cars from the quarry to the crusher. “He’s all the time startin’ somethin’ down to the Townsite. He’s got a game cock that nobody kin lick, and the marshal has had him up several times for gambling. Tried to run him out of camp a bit back but such a gang of Greasers threatened to leave with him that Boss Adams, who was here before Boss Whitney came, told the marshal to keep a close eye on him and let it go at that.”,
The wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent, yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. It was like riding in the fastest elevator he’d ever been in—at triple the speed.,
“You are to hurry right home, John.”
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Julia accustomed herself to walk in the fine evenings under the shade of the high trees that environed the abbey. The dewy coolness of the air refreshed her. The innumerable roseate tints which the parting sun-beams reflected on the rocks above, and the fine vermil glow diffused over the romantic scene beneath, softly fading from the eye, as the nightshades fell, excited sensations of a sweet and tranquil nature, and soothed her into a temporary forgetfulness of her sorrows.,
Feather-in-the-Wind, while preserving his customary dignity, was genuinely sorry to see him go.,
Bob had the good sense not to gloat openly over Jerry’s discomfiture.,
“It’ll be twenty feet through at the top. At the bottom it has to be pretty nearly two hundred feet. Although it is all filled in now by masonry, they had to dig down to bedrock and to get there they had to excavate about five hundred and fifty thousand cubic yards of sand, shale and rock. It’s sixty-five feet from the river bed to the bottom of the foundation.”
“Well, fellows, what’d you do with yourselves while I was away? Must have been pretty tiresome up at the Canyon, wasn’t it?” It was Mr. Whitney talking. He had told them that his trip to Washington had been a great success. They had sent for him to put him in charge of finishing up the big Rio Grande project.
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“Yep,” answered Bob.
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"Some years since" said Thackeray in a public speech, "when I was younger, and used to frequent jolly assemblies, I wrote a Bacchanalian song to be chanted after dinner;" and a contemporary record has preserved a note of "the radiant gratification of his face whilst Horace Mayhew sang The Mahogany Tree, perhaps the finest and most soul-stirring of Thackeray's social songs."
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The father paused—his eyes sternly fixed on Julia, who, pale and trembling, could scarcely support herself, and who had no power to reply. 'I will be merciful, and not just,' resumed he,—'I will soften the punishment you deserve, and will only deliver you to your father.' At these dreadful words, Julia bursting into tears, sunk at the feet of the Abate, to whom she raised her eyes in supplicating expression, but was unable to speak. He suffered her to remain in this posture. 'Your duplicity,' he resumed, 'is not the least of your offences.—Had you relied upon our generosity for forgiveness and protection, an indulgence might have been granted;—but under the disguise of virtue you concealed your crimes, and your necessities were hid beneath the mask of devotion.'
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>But my, oh, my! There was the sun. Johnny Blossom shouted “Asta” everywhere through the house, for now there was a chance for them to realize a certain plan that he had made. Since he could not carry it out alone, he would make use of Asta, even if she were only a girl, poor thing!
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