Birdie Penderel
2014-04-15 08:34:19 UTC
"Then I will trans
E abyss, his blond head buried in both arms. So the Herr Professor, who was a major, too, began, with his powerful, stubby hands, to pull the unconscious man over on his back. And, as he worked, he hummed monotonously but contentedly in his bushy beard something about _something_ being "_ueber alles_"--God, perhaps, perhaps the blue sky overhead which covered him and his sickened friend alike, and the hurt enemy whose closed lids shut out the sky above--and the dead man lying very, very far below them--where river and forest and moss and Parnassus were now alike to him. CHAPTER VI IN FINISTERE It was a dirty trick that they played Stent and Brown--the three Mysterious Sisters, Fate, Chance, and Destiny. But they're always billed for any performance, be it vaudeville or tragedy; and there's no use hissing them off: they'll dog you from the stage entrance if they take a fancy to you. They dogged Wayland from the dock at Calais, where the mule transport landed, all the way to Paris, then on a slow train to Quimperle, and then, by stagecoach, to that little lost house on the moors, where ties held him most closely--where all he cared for in this world was gathered under a humble roof. In spite of his lameness he went duck-shooting the week after his arrival. It was rather forcing his convalescence, but he believed it would accelerate it to go about in the open air, as though there were nothing the matter with his shattered leg. So he hobbled down to the point he knew so well. He had longed for the sea off Eryx. It thundered at his feet. And, now, all ar
E abyss, his blond head buried in both arms. So the Herr Professor, who was a major, too, began, with his powerful, stubby hands, to pull the unconscious man over on his back. And, as he worked, he hummed monotonously but contentedly in his bushy beard something about _something_ being "_ueber alles_"--God, perhaps, perhaps the blue sky overhead which covered him and his sickened friend alike, and the hurt enemy whose closed lids shut out the sky above--and the dead man lying very, very far below them--where river and forest and moss and Parnassus were now alike to him. CHAPTER VI IN FINISTERE It was a dirty trick that they played Stent and Brown--the three Mysterious Sisters, Fate, Chance, and Destiny. But they're always billed for any performance, be it vaudeville or tragedy; and there's no use hissing them off: they'll dog you from the stage entrance if they take a fancy to you. They dogged Wayland from the dock at Calais, where the mule transport landed, all the way to Paris, then on a slow train to Quimperle, and then, by stagecoach, to that little lost house on the moors, where ties held him most closely--where all he cared for in this world was gathered under a humble roof. In spite of his lameness he went duck-shooting the week after his arrival. It was rather forcing his convalescence, but he believed it would accelerate it to go about in the open air, as though there were nothing the matter with his shattered leg. So he hobbled down to the point he knew so well. He had longed for the sea off Eryx. It thundered at his feet. And, now, all ar