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This collection of literature attempts to compile many of the
classic, timeless works that have stood the test of time and offer
them at a reduced, affordable price, in an attractive volume so
that everyone can enjoy them.
This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book
may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages,
poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the
original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We
believe this work is culturally important, and despite the
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worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in
the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.
This scarce antiquarian book is included in our special Legacy
Reprint Series. In the interest of creating a more extensive
selection of rare historical book reprints, we have chosen to
reproduce this title even though it may possibly have occasional
imperfections such as missing and blurred pages, missing text, poor
pictures, markings, dark backgrounds and other reproduction issues
beyond our control. Because this work is culturally important, we
have made it available as a part of our commitment to protecting,
preserving and promoting the world's literature.
This scarce antiquarian book is a selection from Kessinger
Publishing's Legacy Reprint Series. Due to its age, it may contain
imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed
pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we
have made it available as part of our commitment to protecting,
preserving, and promoting the world's literature. Kessinger
Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and
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A marigold lay in the path, an orange-coloured scrap with a broken
stem, dropped from some coolie's necklace. Hilda picked it up, and
drew in the crude, warm pungency of its smell. She closed her eyes
and drifted on the odour, forgetting her speculations, losing her
feet. All India and all her passion was in that violent,
penetrating fragrance; it brought her, as she gave her senses up to
it, a kind of dual perception of being near the core, the throbbing
centre of the world's meaning.
Next morning the Maharajah was very much annoyed by the
intelligence that all the little red-spotted fishes were floating
flabby and flat and dead among the lily pads of the fountain--there
were few things except Moti that the Maharajah loved better than
his little red-spotted fishes. He wanted very particularly to know
why they should have died in this unanimous and apparently
preconcerted way. The gods had probably killed them by lightning,
but the Maharajah wanted to know. So he sent for the Englishman,
who did not mind touching a dead thing, and the Englishman told him
that the little red-spotted fishes had undoubtedly been poisoned.
Moti was listening when the doctor said this.
This scarce antiquarian book is included in our special Legacy
Reprint Series. In the interest of creating a more extensive
selection of rare historical book reprints, we have chosen to
reproduce this title even though it may possibly have occasional
imperfections such as missing and blurred pages, missing text, poor
pictures, markings, dark backgrounds and other reproduction issues
beyond our control. Because this work is culturally important, we
have made it available as a part of our commitment to protecting,
preserving and promoting the world's literature.
She pushed the portiere aside with a curved hand and gracefully
separated fingers; it was a staccato movement and her body followed
it after an instant's poise of hesitation, head thrust a little
forward, eyes inquiring and a tentative smile, although she knew
precisely who was there. You would have been aware at once that she
was an actress. She entered the room with a little stride and then
crossed it quickly, the train of her morning gown - it cried out of
luxury with the cheapest voice - taking folds of great audacity as
she bent her face in its loose mass of hair over Laura Filbert,
sitting on the edge of a bamboo sofa, and said - "You poor thing!
Oh, you POOR thing!" She took Laura's hand as she spoke, and tried
to keep it; but the hand was neutral, and she let it go. "It is a
hand," she said to herself, in one of those quick reflections that
so often visited her ready-made, "that turns the merely inquiring
mind away. Nothing but feeling could hold it."
Purchase one of 1st World Library's Classic Books and help support
our free internet library of downloadable eBooks. Visit us online
at www 1stWorldLibrary.ORG - - She pushed the portiere aside with a
curved hand and gracefully separated fingers; it was a staccato
movement and her body followed it after an instant's poise of
hesitation, head thrust a little forward, eyes inquiring and a
tentative smile, although she knew precisely who was there. You
would have been aware at once that she was an actress. She entered
the room with a little stride and then crossed it quickly, the
train of her morning gown - it cried out of luxury with the
cheapest voice - taking folds of great audacity as she bent her
face in its loose mass of hair over Laura Filbert, sitting on the
edge of a bamboo sofa, and said - You poor thing Oh, you POOR thing
She took Laura's hand as she spoke, and tried to keep it; but the
hand was neutral, and she let it go. It is a hand, she said to
herself, in one of those quick reflections that so often visited
her ready-made, that turns the merely inquiring mind away. Nothing
but feeling could hold it.
Next morning the Maharajah was very much annoyed by the
intelligence that all the little red-spotted fishes were floating
flabby and flat and dead among the lily pads of the fountain--there
were few things except Moti that the Maharajah loved better than
his little red-spotted fishes. He wanted very particularly to know
why they should have died in this unanimous and apparently
preconcerted way. The gods had probably killed them by lightning,
but the Maharajah wanted to know. So he sent for the Englishman,
who did not mind touching a dead thing, and the Englishman told him
that the little red-spotted fishes had undoubtedly been poisoned.
Moti was listening when the doctor said this.
A marigold lay in the path, an orange-coloured scrap with a broken
stem, dropped from some coolie's necklace. Hilda picked it up, and
drew in the crude, warm pungency of its smell. She closed her eyes
and drifted on the odour, forgetting her speculations, losing her
feet. All India and all her passion was in that violent,
penetrating fragrance; it brought her, as she gave her senses up to
it, a kind of dual perception of being near the core, the throbbing
centre of the world's meaning.
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