nger in the great spaces of the mill, and often came out with Tigres Dresy her black hair powdered to a soft whiteness that made her dark eyes flash out with new fire. The resolute din, the unresting motion of Patrick Kane Tröjor the great stones, giving her a dim, delicious awe as POLO Espagne at the presence of an uncontrollable force; the meal forever pouring, pouring; the fine white powder softening all surfaces, and making the very spidernets look like a faery lace-work; the sweet, pure scent of the meal — all helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a little Chelsea Dresy world apart from her outside every-day life. The spiders were especially a subject of speculation with her. She wondered if Hambourg SV they had any relatives outside the mill, for in that case there must be a painful difficulty in their family intercourse — a fat and floury spider, accustomed to take his fly well dusted with meal, must suffer a little at a cousin’s table Brent Burns Tröjor where the fly was au naturel, and the lady spiders must be mutually shocked at each other’s appearance. But the part of the mill she liked best was the topmost story — the corn-hutch, where there were the great heaps of grain, which she could sit on and slide down continually. She was in the habit of taking this recreation as she conversed with Luke, to whom she was very communicative, wishing Kurtki Peuterey him to think well of her understanding, as her father did.
Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with him on the present occasion for, as she sat sliding on the heap of grain near which he was busying himself, she said, at that shrill pitch which was requisite in mill-society —
“I think you never read any book but the Bible, did you, Luke?”
“Nay, Miss, an’ not much o’ that,” said Luke, with great frankness. “I’m no reader, I aren’t.”
“But if I lent you one of Maillot Gerrard my books, Luke? I’ve not got any very pretty books that would be easy for you to read; but there’s ‘Pug’s Tour Howie Morenz Tröja of Europe,’— that would tell you all about the different sorts of people in the world, and if you didn’t understand the reading, the pictures would help you; they show the looks and ways of the people, and what they do. There are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know, and one sitting on a barrel.”
“Nay, Miss, I’n no opinion o’ Dutchmen. There ben’t much good i’ knowin’ about them.”
“But they’re our fellow-creatures, Luke; we ought to know about our fellow-creatures.”
“Not much o’ fellow-creaturs, Peuterey Kobiety Twister Yd I think, Miss; all I know — my old master, as war a knowin’ man, used to say, says he, ‘If e’er I sow my wheat wi’out brinin’, I’m a Dutchman,’ says he; an’ that war as much as to say as a Dutchman war a fool, or FC Dallashome Dresy next door. Nay, nay, I aren’t goin’ to bother mysen about Dutchmen. There’s fools enoo, an’ rogues enoo, wi’out lookin’ i’ books for ’em.”
“Oh, well,” said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke’s unexpectedly decided views about Dutchmen, “perhaps you would Kris Versteeg Tröja like ‘Animated Nature’ better; that’s not Dutchmen, you know, but elephlinks:
http://markt.vaart.nl/cgi-bin/vaart/markt/classifieds.cgi
http://mt.fresheye.com/ft_form.cgi
http://www13.plala.or.jp/white_roots/gwbbs/gwbbs.cgi |
