"What about the pollution of the atmosphere by goats?" Georges put in. "And don't overlook the muddying of streams, the destruction of timber for camp fires and—"
Coventry looked up involuntarily, and his attention was held, riveted, for, though not young, the woman was fair, most strangely fair, in her native dress and tinselled veil; and even the paint that was thick on her eyes and cheeks could not conceal her unusual beauty. Coventry guessed, with a sick conviction, that this was "the woman in the bazaar," the woman of whom he had heard.
Something had been said that day about Mrs. Ashurst's paying Woolgreaves a longer visit, going for a week or two, of course accompanied by Marian. Mrs. Ashurst had not decidedly accepted or negatived the proposition. She felt rather nervous about it herself, and uncertain as to Marian's sentiments, and her daughter had not aided her by word or look. Nor did Marian recur to the subject when she found themselves at home again in the evening. But she remembered it, and discussed it with herself in the night. Would it be well that her mother should be habituated to the comforts, the luxuries of such a house, so unattainable to her at home, so desirable in her state of broken health and spirits? This was the great difficulty which beset Marian, and she felt she could not decide it then.
"Your future mother-in-law and I are such very old friends, and now you are going to marry my goddaughter, and there is Guy in your regiment. It all goes round in a circle."
But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot’s voice rose in mild reproof.
At the tap of the drum the battle began. Duane was first on his stride and showed the way around the turn. Here Boston made a run and shortly after entering the stretch was on even terms with him. Head and head they passed the stand. A mighty shout went up from the vast crowd and as they started on the second mile you could hear, “0 on Duane!” “A ,000 on Boston!” “Watch him run him out!” “Stay with him, old white nose!” and a thousand other such exclamations from the friends of each. Rounding the lower turn, Duane having the track, Cornelius took a slight pull on Boston, but on entering the back stretch he made a run and at the half they were nearly lapped. Rounding the upper turn, however, Duane shook him off. Another shout from the backers of Duane and more money goes up. Entering the stretch the game son of Timoleon makes another run at his flying antagonist, and, although he closes up the space, he can only get on Duane’s hip, and in this order, head and hip, they pass the stand and swing around the turn. Cornelius is content to hold this position until he enters the back stretch, when he again calls on Boston; slowly but surely the red coat of Boston inches up and at the half is hid behind Duane. So even are they running that it looks like one horse and one rider; in this position they ran around the upper turn, down the home stretch and enter the fourth mile as even as a carriage team with the deafening shouts of the multitude following them. Rounding the lower turn Steve for the first time takes a pull on Duane, evidently with a view of saving him for the finish; Cornelius on Boston moves to the front, intending to take the track, but Steve has no idea of giving up this advantage, and he keeps Duane moving just close enough to keep Boston on the outside. In this position they race to the head of the stretch. Here Steve begins to make a run; down the stretch they come, hip and head, but in spite of all Cornelius’ efforts and in spite of the long, tireless strides of Boston, the brown son of Hedgford overhauls him when half-way down the stretch, but it has taken the last remnant of his reserve power to do this, and head to head, leap for leap, they strain their hardened muscles. A child’s blanket would have covered them. Both riders were rolling in their saddles from exhaustion, but were lifting and urging all they could. Boston had been running purely on his courage. Cornelius had neither whip nor spur. Steve had on spurs that had more than once in the finish drawn the claret from Duane. “A dead heat!” “A dead heat!” shout the crowd. No. One more stride with a savage dig that sent the rowels home in the quivering flanks of his horse and at the same time lifting his head Steve sends Duane under the wire a winner by a scant head, in 7:52.
Thus it has happened in my own case also in some but not in many instances, in which I have had to express an opinion respecting the character of works which appeared after 1860, and which to some extent influenced my judgment on the years immediately preceding them. But this was from fifteen to eighteen years ago when I was working at my History. It might perhaps be expected that I should remove all such expressions of opinion from the work before it is translated. In some few cases, in which this could be effected by simply drawing the pen through a few lines, I have so done; but it appeared to me that to alter with anxious care every sentence which I should put into a different form at the present day would serve no good
Her race is run,
He made up his mind to watch and wait. He knew that he could learn a deal from such great men as Web-ster and Clay. When he had to speak he said just what he thought in a plain strong way. He did not want war with Mex-i-co. He was not a-lone in this. But he thought that men who fought in that war, brave sol-diers, should have their re-ward.
“Oh, I know you won’t believe it. But in business matters—have you never noticed? You wouldn’t admit it, I suppose. But there are times when one simply can’t move him.” We were in the library, and she glanced up at the breast-plated forbear. “He’s as hard to the touch as that.” She pointed to the steel convexity.
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