Axidava

Laura

“You are not really dying, are you?” asked Amanda.

“I have the doctor’s permission to live till Tuesday,” said Laura.

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The Music On The Hill

Sylvia Seltoun ate her breakfast in the morning-room at Yessney with a pleasant sense of ultimate victory, such as a fervent Ironside might have permitted himself on the morrow of Worcester fight.

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Esmé

“All hunting stories are the same,” said Clovis; “just as all Turf stories are the same, and all—”

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The She-Wolf

Leonard Bilsiter was one of those people who have failed to find this world attractive or interesting, and who have sought compensation in an “unseen world” of their own experience or imagination—or invention.  Children do that sort of thing successfully, but children are content to convince themselves, and do not vulgarise their beliefs by trying to convince other people.  Leonard Bilsiter’s beliefs were for “the few,” that is to say, anyone who would listen to him.

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The Hounds Of Fate

In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner plodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks that led he knew not exactly whither.

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Gabriel-Ernest

“There is a wild beast in your woods,” said the artist Cunningham, as he was being driven to the station.  It was the only remark he had made during the drive, but as Van Cheele had talked incessantly his companion’s silence had not been noticeable.

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The Interlopers

In a forest of mixed growth somewhere on the eastern spurs of the Karpathians, a man stood one winter night watching and listening, as though he waited for some beast of the woods to come within the range of his vision, and, later, of his rifle. 

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The Mouse

Theodoric Voler had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life. 

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The Saint And The Goblin

The little stone Saint occupied a retired niche in a side aisle of the old cathedral.  No one quite remembered who he had been, but that in a way was a guarantee of respectability.  At least so the Goblin said. 

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Sredni Vashtar

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years.

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The Lost Sanjak

The prison Chaplain entered the condemned’s cell for the last time, to give such consolation as he might.

“The only consolation I crave for,” said the condemned, “is to tell my story in its entirety to some one who will at least give it a respectful hearing.”

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A Young Turkish Catastrophe In Two Scenes

The Minister for Fine Arts (to whose Department had been lately added the new sub-section of Electoral Engineering) paid a business visit to the Grand Vizier.  According to Eastern etiquette they discoursed for a while on indifferent subjects.  The minister only checked himself in time from making a passing reference to the Marathon Race, remembering that the Vizier had a Persian grandmother and might consider any allusion to Marathon as somewhat tactless.  Presently the Minister broached the subject of his interview.

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