War Makes Good History But Peace Is

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.

There Was Now A Distinct Manifestation Of Morning In The Air, And Presently The Bleared White Visage Of A Sunless Winter Day Emerged Like A Dead-born Child.

Where We Are Would Be Paradise To Me, If You Would Only Make It So.

He's Charmed By Her As If She Were Some Fairy!" Continued Arabella. "see How He Looks Round At Her, And Lets His Eyes Rest On Her. I Am Inclined To Think That She Don't Care For Him Quite So Much As He Does For Her. She's Not A Particular Warm-hearted Creature To My Thinking, Though She Cares For Him Pretty Middling Much-- As Much As She's Able To; And He Could Make Her Heart Ache A Bit If He Liked To Try--which He's Too Simple To Do.

Many Of Her Thoughts Were Perfect Syllogisms; Unluckily They Always Remained Thoughts. Only A Few Were Irrational Assumptions; But, Unfortunately, They Were The Ones Which Most Frequently Grew Into Deeds