And he stood there, riddled with wounds, torn with emotion, his eyes blinded with blood, staring at the little cold, soft envelope which he dared not open for fear of removing one last doubt, when a rustling of the hangings, which made him hastily toss the letter back and close the smoothly-running drawer of the lacquer table, warned him that somebody had entered the room.
— from The Nabob, Vol. 2 (of 2) by Alphonse Daudet
Why, you have never asked for father, or Ronald, or little Dorothy!’
— from Vivian's Lesson by Elizabeth W. (Elizabeth Wilson) Grierson
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