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Cover free of tears but shows light chipping at edges, Spine is uncreased, Light bump evident on top of spine, Pages are free of marks or highlighting, Not ex-library.
Doorcard on F-2I 388 LX. Harvard 389 LXI. A Telephone Call 397 LXII. A Judgment in Italy 401 LXIII. Figures in the Carpet 405 LXIV. September 26 418 LXV. Odor of Corruption 420 LXVI. Accident or Incident? 429 LXVII. Dr. Crucifer 431 LXVIII. The Misogynist’s Library 442 LXIX. Biography of a Eunuch 452 LXX. Sic et Non 471 LXXI. The Deorsumversion 473 LXXII. Who? 479 LXXIII. The Supreme Ordeal 485 LXXIV. The Empty Egg 496 LXXV. Lacerations 498
for one paragraph and a polysyllable. “Will I have to use a dictionary to read your book?” asked Mrs. Dodypol. “It depends,” says I, “how much you used the dictionary before you read it.” Witty. But cruel. We are all too cruel. Long letter to Dodypol. Just gone twelve. And so to bed. 30th. My lungs hurt. Smoking. And the weather is up. I chose England arbitrarily, would have chosen Venice were I a freeholder—cold, but better air—and yet, the courts, the courts! Slower than Quin-syburg
she hadn’t been hurt—and her car out front, dented somewhat, was still operable. In her bedroom, they sat on her red-and-cream bed where he tried to apologize for his thoughtlessness the day before by reading her what he felt was the cause of it—the bad news from London. Isabel, curiously undistracted, listened calmly enough, but Darconville turned to the arithmetic of it all: the Quinsy summer courses ended on August 22 and yet the faculty were required to be at Harvard on September 10. The
itself, and it had long been a matter of great pride to the townsfolk there to reflect on the fact that Mr. Jefferson, once stopping by overnight, had found the old Timberlake Hotel “clubbable” and that, in 1865, General Robert E. Lee with his brave soldiers, on the march from Saylor’s Creek to fateful Appomattox, straggled through this very town, at which time the little sisters of mercy in the college dorms flew with unspeakable horror to the sides of the wounded and selflessly gave of
don’t know what I’d do” cried Isabel, her hands beseech-side up, “if I hadn’t found you—be thrown to the wolves, I suspect, I really do. I don’t think I can live here another day. I have nothing.” Darconville heard in her words the locutions of her mother. He didn’t know what to say in response, but he who at one clap would have summoned from above all the Angels of the Triplicities to help her knew it fell to him alone. The prospect frankly delighted him, for he loved her, although in that, he