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The step which Mr. Creswell took in asking Marian Ashurst to become his wife was not taken without due care and consideration. As, during a lifetime which had now exceeded half a century, he had been accustomed to ponder over, sift, and weigh the most minor details of even trivial schemes before carrying them out, it was not likely that he would give less attention to a plan, on the successful or unsuccessful result of which his whole hope of future earthly happiness or misery might be based. The plan presented itself to him squarely and from a business-like point of view, like all other plans which he entertained, and had two aspects--as to how it would affect himself, and how it would affect others. He took it under the first aspect and thought it out carefully. His was a loving nature, always desiring something to cherish and cling to. In bygone years he had had his wife, whom he had worshipped with all the warmth of his loving nature. She had been the sharer of his struggles, but it had not been permitted to her to take part in his success; doubtless for the best--for Mr. Creswell, like all men who have been thoroughly successful, and with whom everything has gone straight, had perfect trust and reliance on the dispensations of Providence--she had been removed before his position was acquired. But she had left behind her a son for whom that position was destined, for whom his father slaved for years, adding to his wealth and establishing his name, all the while hoping against hope that the boy might one day learn how to use the former and how to maintain the latter. As the lad grew up, and year by year showed his real nature more and more, so the hope grew fainter and fainter in the father's heart, until it was finally extinguished by Tom's death. And then he had no hope left in the world, or rather he would have had none had it not been for Marian. It seemed as though matters had been providentially arranged, Mr. Creswell thought. The dependent state of Marian and her mother, his power of assisting them, their being domiciled under his roof, which had given him such opportunity of studying Marian's character, and had so entirely reversed his original opinion of her, the assistance and support she had afforded him during that sad period of poor Tom's death,--all seemed predestined and prearranged. He knew her now. It was not like taking a girl with whom his acquaintance had been slight, or even one whom he might have thought he knew intimately, but whom he had only seen on her society-behaviour, or in such guise as she would naturally affect before any one whom she knew to be noticing her with an object. He had seen Marian Ashurst under all circumstances, and in all places. Under the strongest and hardest trials he had always seen her come out brightest and best, and he had had full opportunity of observing the sterling worth of her character. Was the end of all his life of toil and strife to be an unloved and unloving old age? Was the position which he had acquired to benefit no one but himself, and to die out with him? Was the wealth which he had amassed to be filtered away into dirty channels, or left for the benefit of charities? If these questions were to be answered in the negative, where could he find such a helpmate as Marian, where could he dream of looking for such another? His conduct could scarcely be characterised as selfish, he thought, if after the life of work and anxiety which he had passed, he tried to render its latter portion peaceful and happy; and that, he felt, was only to be done by his marriage with Marian.


时间:2021-11-30 14:35:50 作者:黄金瞳 浏览量:55231

At last he noticed my absorption, and said, still in Italian, "Ah! an English lad, I see?"

Foxes detest rain, and this rain was a veritable deluge; a flood that started the spring freshets and turned miles of bottomland into soggy lakes. Yet Whitefoot kept on. Grey dawn found him midway between his lair and the farmstead at the foot of the hill.

“Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.”

"We finally decided that Lysmov had managed to guess with complete accuracy both the depth at which the Machine is analyzing in the opening and middle game (ten moves ahead instead of eight, we think—a prodigious achievement!) and also the main value scale in terms of which the Machine selects its move.

“Rather! That’s my trouble—I can’t see things in any way but his. And I want another eye to help me.”


"Mac, we have verified your position." The voice was that of Captain Tillinger, strained and shaking. "I don't know how you got there, but unless the readings lie you're the hell of a long way off. The bearing is identical with Messier object M-42 and the distance—" raggedly—"is compatible. About a thousand light-years from us, Mac. One way or another, you've been kidnaped. I—I—"

“Listen!” cried Amos, suddenly, “that must have been some sort of signal from the destroyer. I wonder if they have taken the boat aboard, and started back to where the big fleet


No road is so typical of the Middle Basin as that lying between Franklin and Nashville. For ten miles it winds around in the lowland basins or over the intervening ridges, amid fields as fertile as ever yielded their increase to the husbandman’s plow. On each side the low hill ranges lie, blue or brown, as the sun happens to fall on them. Fertile to their very tops are these hills, green in grain or grasses, or darker green in richer foliage. In this the Middle Basin, through which for nearly a hundred miles from Nashville to Pulaski, this historic road runs, the country is different from any in the South. Sea shells lie on the tops of the hills—sea shells rich in lime and phosphorus. Every foot of this road is rich in history and tradition. Down it rode Jackson, time and again, from his home at The Hermitage, not many miles away. Here, also, rode Polk and Grundy and Sam Houston and Crockett. An old man told me a story about James K. Polk which I have never seen in print. He said that in the memorable campaign for the governorship of Tennessee between James K. Polk and Lean Jimmie Jones, in 1840 (in which campaign it is said that Jones, who was the greatest stump orator of his day, and the father of that style of oratory, almost drove the statesman Polk from the hustings), there was a mutual agreement between the candidates that Polk should speak at Franklin and Jones at Columbia, in the wind-up, the day before the election. Columbia was Polk’s home, and not very solid for him at that. The friends of Polk devised a scheme to give him the advantage by making two speeches in a day. So he made his speech early in Franklin and had saddled and ready a thoroughbred horse, which he mounted after his speech, and galloped to Spring Hill. There he took a fresh horse and rode furiously to Columbia, arriving in time to reply to Jones’ speech. But my informant, who was an old line Whig, informed me that though the future President made record-breaking time in his race down the pike, he lost in votes when it became known that he had broken his agreement and played a trick on Lean Jimmie. Jones defeated him for governor.

And yet there was no choice for Hatcher's people, because they were faced with disaster. Hatcher, through his communications from the Council, knew how close the disaster was. When one of the probers from the Central Masses team disappeared, the only conclusion that could be drawn was the Old Ones had discovered them. They needed allies; more, they needed allies who had control of the electromagnetic forces that made the Old Ones so potent and so feared.

"It's time for me to be goin'," remarked the sergeant, with a sudden accession of shamefacedness following his confidences.

1.  病例124:男,84岁,现住中原区航海西路办事处帝湖花园。1月20日18时30分在阿庄地道豫菜(通泰路店)与南阳来郑亲属聚餐,1月23日上午10时乘211路公交车转B1路到高寨买菜,1月31日出现发热乘私家车至郑州大学第一附属医院就诊,后自述居家未外出,2月6日乘私家车至郑州大学第五附属医院就诊,2月7日由120救护车转运至郑州第六人民医院,2月8日确诊。

2."Have no fear, you dog! I am not going to put murder on my soul for a wretch such as you! But I will mark you so that you will be a by-word amongst men for the rest of your days!"



Until lately Mrs. Munro, now for years a widow, had been one of these neighbours, living quietly with Trixie her daughter at the end of the Greaves's road in a little house called "Almorah." Hereabouts many of the houses bore names reminiscent of India--rather pathetic links with a past that some of the occupants frequently glorified into "happier days," forgetting as frequently how






“Who is that speaking?” he heard a grumbling voice say.