In the good days, just after we all left college, Ned Halidon and I used to listen, laughing and smoking, while Paul Ambrose set forth his plans.
"I can never," said Mrs. Fetherel, "hear the bell ring without a shudder." Her unruffled aspect--she was the kind of woman whose emotions never communicate themselves to her clothes-
Geoffrey Betton woke rather late--so late that the winter sunlight sliding across his warm red carpet struck his eyes as he turned on the pillow.
This is the story that, in the dining-room of the old Beacon Street house (now the Aldebaran Club), Judge Anthony Bracknell, of the famous East India firm of Bracknell & Saulsbee,
"You ought to buy it," said my host; "it's just the place for a solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to own the most romantic house in Brittany.
"Oh, there is one, of course, but you'll never know it." The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden,
The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boardinghouse,
The young men of our American Relief Corps are beginning to come back from the front with stories. There was no time to pick them up during the first months--the whole business was too wild and grim.
John Durham, while he waited for Madame de Malrive to draw on her gloves, stood in the hotel doorway looking out across the Rue de Rivoli at the afternoon