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"I do suppose she is a Papist! The French generally are," said Aunt Priscilla, drawing her brows in a delicate sort of frown, and sipping her tea with a spoon that had the London crown mark, and had been buried early in revolutionary times. "Why, there were all the Huguenots who emigrated from France for the sake of worshiping God in their own way rather than that of the Pope. We Puritans did not take all the free-will," declared Betty spiritedly. "You are too flippant, Betty," returned Aunt Priscilla severely. "And I doubt if her father's people had much experimental religion. Then, she has been living in a very hot-bed of superstition!" "The cold, dreary Lincolnshire coast! I think it would take a good deal of zeal to warm me, even if it was superstition." "And she was in a convent after her mother died! Yes, she is pretty sure to be a Papist. It seems rather queer that second-cousin Charles should have remembered her in his will." "But Charles was his namesake and nephew, the child of his favorite sister," interposed Mrs. Leverett, glancing deprecatingly at Betty, pleading with the most beseeching eyes that she should not ruffle Aunt Priscilla up the wrong way. "But what is that old ma'shland good for, anyway?" asked Aunt Priscilla. "Why they are filling in and building docks," said Betty the irrepressible. "Father thinks by the time she is grown it will be a handsome fortune."
Two volumes of early poetry: "A Boy's Will" was Frost's first collection of poems (1913). "North of Boston" followed in 1914. Together they contain many of the poet's finest and best-known works, among them "Mending Wall," "After Apple-Picking," "The Death of the Hired Man," and more. Reprinted complete and unabridged. Alphabetical lists of titles and first lines.
Introduction |My name is Ellie and I attend school at one of the finest institutions of higher learning in all the world. My story is no different from any told by young women. And I wanted to share it with you, if only for the sheer inexorable brilliance of it. And rather than beginning the way any other tale might, let me start with a query, a ponder if you will. For how do you, indeed how can you, start each and every day, in bliss?.. How do you face the day, when each and every day starts with your every higher desire being stroked, your every yearning fed, how do you then get out of bed and get on with it?
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