cleaning up so well (jones_casey) wrote,
cleaning up so well

  • Music:

you're in love/& it feels like pain/because you know there's too much truth/in everything she claims

"do not endeavour to raise my hopes by such flattering assurances. no, i cannot hope to please this angel of a Woman, and the only thing which remains for me to do, is to die."

"True Love is ever desponding," replied i, "but i my dear tom will give you even greater hopes of conquering this fair one's heart, than i have yet given you, by assuring you that i watched her with the strictest attention during the whole day, and could plainly discover that she cherishes in her bosom, though unknown to herself, a most tender affection for you."

certain parisian zoologists have done me the honour to hint that this description was a play of fancy. i can only answer, that i saw it with my own eyes in my own aquarium. i am not, i hope, in the habit of drawing on my fancy in the presence of infinitely more marvellous nature. truth is quite strange enough to be interesting without lies.

are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? for my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, i am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

and so if you was to stop off at rosa to-morrow, or any other day, you'd see a fine new yellow house with mrs. pratt, that was mrs. sampson, embellishing and adorning it. and if you was to step inside you'd see on the marble-top centre table in the parlour "herkimer's handbook of indispensable information," all rebound in red morocco, and ready to be consulted on any subject pertaining to human happiness and wisdom.

"i want to know where his master is."

the galu shrugged. "the dog is mine," he said. "he came to me cor-sva-jo, and he is unlike any dog in caspak, being kind and docile and yet a killer when aroused. i would not part with him. i do not know the man of whom you speak."

the years hurried onward, treading in their haste on one another's heels.

monday cxxxvi

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