The Story of Mary MacLane

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Herbert S. Stone, 1902 - Authors, American - 322 pages

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Page 177 - A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.
Page 209 - If to do were as easy as to know what were^ good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
Page 177 - O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee'; The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.
Page 177 - The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. II The blinding mist came down and hid the land— And never home came she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; Ill ' Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—• A tress o
Page 286 - My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!
Page 247 - You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose What made you so awfully clever?' 'I have answered three questions, and that is enough, 'Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!
Page 165 - Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away!
Page 6 - ... more or less vapid and lonely life until I was ten. We came then to Montana. Whereat the aforesaid life was continued. My father died when I was eight. Apart from feeding and clothing me comfortably and sending me to school — which is no more than was due me — and transmitting to me the MacLane blood and character, I can not see that he ever gave me a single thought. Certainly he did not love me, for he was quite incapable of loving any one but himself. And since nothing is of any moment...
Page 75 - As we read Brandreth's journal we can see how its pages contain not self in any total sense, but a self which is to some degree a fiction, a construction. Even Mary MacLane, who attempts to write everything, is aware of this phenomenon and the crucial role of audience in the process. "I am trying my utmost to show everything — to reveal every petty vanity and weakness, every phase of feeling, every desire. It is a remarkably hard thing to do, I find, to probe my soul to its depths, to expose its...
Page 12 - Had I been born a man I would by now have made a deep impression of myself on the world — on some part of it. But I am a woman.

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