Trilby: A Novel

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Harper, 1894 - Artists - 464 pages
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User Review  - neurodrew - LibraryThing

Trilby George du Maurier Osgood McIlvaine, London 1895 January 23, 2017 At one of our music sessions I had mentioned Svengali, and Sidney, knew the book and that it was the rage in the early part of ... Read full review

LibraryThing Review

User Review  - sholt2001 - LibraryThing

After reading this book, I did some research and given its cultural impact, I'm surprised it's not better known. In addition to being the source of the Svengali character and the phrase "in the all ... Read full review

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Page 249 - Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment; Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
Page 284 - Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh, could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene ; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
Page 378 - Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, — Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?
Page 222 - And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest ; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
Page 4 - Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and grown old.
Page 209 - A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, — No more of me you knew, My love ! No more of me you knew. " This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ;* But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.
Page 464 - A little work, a little play To keep us going — and so, good-day! A little warmth, a little light Of love's bestowing — and so, good-night! A little fun, to match the sorrow Of each day's growing — and so, good-morrow ! A little trust that when we die We reap our sowing! And so— good-bye!
Page 222 - The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; It cannot feel for others...
Page 23 - 'Oh, certainly, if you will be so kind.' "Miss O'Ferrall threw away the end of her cigarette, put her hands on her knees as she sat cross-legged on the model-throne, and sticking her elbows well out, she looked up to the ceiling with a tender, sentimental smile, and sang the touching song, " 'Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown?

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