This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1919 edition. Excerpt: ... Ill Still thinking of Kayding, I returned to my letter and rattled off something about him which on re-reading wouldn't do; it sounded like a slur. He was not easy to describe with anything like adequacy, and why describe him at all, to Katherine? My letter I have called a plea, but of course one ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1919 edition. Excerpt: ... Ill Still thinking of Kayding, I returned to my letter and rattled off something about him which on re-reading wouldn't do; it sounded like a slur. He was not easy to describe with anything like adequacy, and why describe him at all, to Katherine? My letter I have called a plea, but of course one could n't go on that tack with her; one had to be prepared for her humor. Dithyrambs about the place--that would n't do either. In short, my pen in writing this letter traveled a narrow path, and I was but feebly interested, when the men came home, with their haul of driftwood which looked as if it might last all winter. There was a message Kayding had left for my fisherman which I had transferred to paper "lest we forget." I handed him the paper: "Chinaman's Rock for pompanos, but not till after this surf goes down." And then I went out upon my usual beat, old wheel-tracks worn in the coarse grass and sand that already I had made into a path along the first bench above us. Eastward rose the moors, dark, wind-slanted grass against the sky, reminding one of Jane Eyre's drawing and Rochester's question, "Who taught you to draw wind?" Night was coming on in thickening gray, not a gleam of sunset; but punctual to the hour when the bugles used to sound retreat, Pigeon Point Light flared out, a big red star. Almost every evening, while smoke poured out of the cook-tent stovepipe, I walked my path outside and watched that light arise and go out; you count ten between the flares and if the rays are spread on fog, as they were that night, they stream out seaward like a searchlight. I walked fast and saw nothing in particular; my thoughts were pressing company. A mother's thoughts at my age are so often a review of her own mistakes with her children. I...
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