The Great Tradition: And Other Stories

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Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915 - 353 pages
 

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Page 183 - Not the deaf generations, she thought to herself, to which we all sacrifice. "Not Geoffrey," she heard Glave saying. "He will never understand. But he will always love us just the same. He'll have to. We haven't answered him. Life has answered him. Call it God, if you must. . . . I'm awfully tired.
Page 152 - Nothing was patched, but everything was very, very thin. A similar record was written on Rhoda Glave's face for any one to read — all in noble phrases of resignation and mirth. She had had her day — like the frock, like the room — but she had lasted better. The play of her features was not over. Her chestnut hair sprang vividly up from her forehead; the hand that held her short silken train was firm and white. She held her head high — would always hold it high, one would have surmised. She...
Page 153 - Instead, she arranged herself slowly in a comfortable position, then clasped her hands behind her head and stared before her into the half-dead fire. Relaxed, but poised — a typical attitude — she began to think. . . . Good old Haysthorpe! He had been a classmate of Roland's, and his half-melancholy, half-cynical presence, his slight limp, his comfortable, safe income which he had never tried to increase, though with his relations it would have been so easy, had been familiar facts of all her...
Page 161 - What is it?" Her cleverness seemed all to have deserted her. She beat wildly in a bright fog of conjecture. "A perfectly good, though naturally very small, diplomatic post. Minister to Something-or-other with a lovely climate, where you can afford twenty servants and pick your food, in courses, off the trees. Not a thing for Glave to do,- really, but produce masterpieces, and now and then practise his impeccable Spanish on dignitaries. What price that, madame Vambassadricc ? " He smiled at her impassive...
Page 171 - Tuck, and make out more than I could — but everything depends on his being set straight. He'll have to be watched, and at the first sign of certain symptoms he'll have to be rushed off to Moorfeldt. He's at a critical age apparently. 'There's nothing to do but wait,' Dr. Tuck said; 'you're very fortunate to be near New York, where Moorfeldt could have him at once.' And for a long time — even if everything comes right — he will be very, very delicate. And you see" — all her misery was in her...
Page 174 - ... own! — to be so important as Roland Glave. You think I wish ill to poor little Stanton — I don't. But I don't wish to see Roland despoiled for Stanton's problematical sake. I don't see what the world gets out of that. The bird in the hand is worth all four in the bush, if it comes to that. And you know as well as I do that this is practically a question of Roland's future. It's because the day's so late, and it's all so damnably important, that I'm behaving like this. To have Roland go under...
Page 291 - Gothic — term of superlative reproach! — hi her beauty; and, in the end, with her, not in spite of her, he had worked out his idea. Loveliness caught in a doom of which it is a little careless; passionless acceptance of the passions of the most high gods; passivity that will not compromise itself by any fear, or flight, or lamentation — he had flung the legend to the winds for the sake of his symbol. She remembered it all — all. It...
Page 291 - Leo had been about it, criticising each gesture (she had tried so long before she got that listless droop of the head as she gazed across the green turf at the approaching swan); and yet how sometimes he had broken off to come and kiss her hand most gently, and beg her to rest. He had accused her at first of being Elsa rather than Leda; but even Leo could find nothing Gothic — term of superlative reproach!
Page 28 - Margery, I can't discuss this with you. You are too absurd." "Discuss and discuss!" There was not a shadow of impertinence in the old woman's wail. "Ye would n't discuss when ye were a bairn and wanted chocolate icing; nor yet when ye married Mr. Owen; nor yet when Miss Monica should have been short-coated. Many more nights I 've laid awake for your pain than my own, and ye think me dour.
Page 60 - When I got out, I gathered my belongings up; they slipped and sprawled, but I got them all in hand, finally, paid my man, made one dash through the rain into the house, and threw everything on the divan. I didn't look at my precious purchases for two hours afterward. When I did, I found that cotton roll curled up and gone to sleep in one of the wrapping-papers that had got loose and strayed over the seat of the cab. I opened it, wondering what I had bought that could have been wrapped up in soiled...

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