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Hardcover The Bothie: The Text of 1848 edited by Patrick Scott. Victorian texts IV Book

ISBN: 0702211532

ISBN13: 9780702211539

The Bothie: The Text of 1848 edited by Patrick Scott. Victorian texts IV

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1848 Excerpt: ... glance, so regardless I, that although I felt it, You couldn't properly say oureyes met. She cast it, and left it: It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it was. I had seen her Somewhere before I am sure, but that wasn't it; not its import; No, it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight, Quietly saying to itself--Yes, there he is still in his fancy, Letting drop from him at random as things not worth considering All the benefits gathered and put in his hands by fortune, Loosing a hold which others, content and unambitious, Trying down here to keep-up, know the value of better than he does. Was it this? was it perhaps ' ---Yes there he is still in his fancy, Doesn't yet see we have here just the things he is used-to elsewhere, And that the things he likes here, elsewhere he wouldn't have looked at, People here too are people, and not as fairy-land creatures; He is in a trance, and possessed; I wonder how long to continue; It is a shame and a pity--and no good likely to follow. Something like this, but indeed I cannot the least define it. Only, three hours thence I was off and away in the moorland, Hiding myself from myself if I could; the arrow Within me. Katie was not in the house, thank God: I saw her in passing, Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel desertion, Poignant enough; which however but made me walk the faster, Like a terrible spur running into one's vitals, and through them, Turning me all into pain and sending me off, I suppose like One that is shot to the heart and leaps in the air in his dying. What dear Katie thinks, God knows; poor child; may she only Think me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering. Meantime all through the mountains I tramp and know not whither, Tramp along he...

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Poetry

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