Fredeen Friday
baill****@vojte*****
2010年 4月 7日 (水) 13:17:44 JST
my questions at random, pause in his work to gaze long and intently on the ceiling, and altogether behave in ways unaccountable and strange. The play had been written at white-hot speed: the corrections proceeded at a snail's pace. The author had also fallen into a habit of bolting his meals in silence, and, when rebuked, of slowly bringing his eyes to bear upon me as a person whose presence was until the moment unsuspected. All this I saw in mild wonder, but I reflected on certain moods of my own of late, and held my peace. The explanation came without my seeking. We were seated together one evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some especially herbaceous nook of the _Materia Medica_, when Tom looked up and said-- "Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage. Listen to this." Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:-- "She is no violet to veil and hide Before the lusty sun, but as the flower, His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light And images his look of lordly love-- Yet how I wrong her. She is more a queen Than he a king; and whoso looks mu -------------- next part -------------- $B%F%-%9%H7A<00J30$NE:IU%U%!%$%k$rJ]4I$7$^$7$?(B... $B%U%!%$%kL>(B: rehashes.zip $B7?(B: application/octet-stream $B%5%$%:(B: 11339 $B%P%$%H(B $B ＠ bL@(B: $BL5$7(BTélécharger
