Saint's ProgressC. Scribner's sons, 1919 - 402 pagine John Galsworthy (1867–1933) was an English novelist and playwright. The novel «Saint’s Progress» tells about spiritual problems. This is a classic novel of belief and religion. |
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Parole e frasi comuni
awfully baby beautiful began better Bob Pierson Captain Fort cheeks child Church cigarette Cyril Morland Daddy dark dear divan door dreadful dream Edward Pierson eyes face father feel felt gazing girl gone Gratian grey hair hand heart hospital hurt Jimmy Jimmy Fort Kestrel khaki kiss knew lady Lavendie Leila lips live Lord's Cricket Ground mademoiselle marriage married mind monsieur moved murmured never newsvendor night Noel shook Noel's Nollie nurse once paint painter passed passion perhaps piano Pierson looked poor Poor Daddy Queen's Hall queer round seemed shook her head silent sitting smile soldier sorry sort soul South Africa staring stood stopped suddenly talk tell there's thing Thirza thought took touch turbed turned uncon voice waiting walked watched woman wonder words young
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Pagina 288 - And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
Pagina 323 - THE peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord...
Pagina 300 - I don't mean promising to love, honor, and obey, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health till death do you part — that's only human nature to wish and to attempt. And it might be done if it weren't for the iniquitous arrangement of marriage.
Pagina 374 - Past the great pines and through the wood, Up where the lean hounds softly go, A-whine for wild things' blood, And madly flies the dappled roe. O God, to shout and speed them there, An arrow by my chestnut hair Drawn tight, and one keen glimmering spear — Ah! if I could!
Pagina 374 - Oh for a deep and dewy spring, With runlets cold to draw and drink! And a great meadow blossoming, Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, To rest me by the brink!
Pagina 375 - I'm certain He's not seen everything." A shudder went through Pierson, one of those queer sudden shivers, which come from a strange note in a voice, or a new sharp scent or sight. "My dear, what things you say!" "But He hasn't, and it's time He did. We'd creep, and peep, and see it all for once, as He can't in His churches. Daddy, oh ! Daddy ! I can't bear it any more; to think of them being killed on a night like this; killed and killed so that they never see it all again — never see it — never...
Pagina 205 - I'd teach you to cook; it's rather useful." The smile which slipped on to Xoel's face gave Thirza quite a turn. She had assigned the girl a different room, and had made it extraordinarily cheerful with a log fire, chrysanthemums, bright copper candlesticks, warming-pans, and such like. She went up with her at bedtime, and standing before the fire, said: " You know, Nollie, I absolutely refuse to regard this as any sort of tragedy. To bring life into the world in these days, no matter how, ought to...
Pagina 358 - ... seems on the point of giving herself to Captain Fort. While the captain waits, says my author, he is "turning the leaves of an illustrated journal wherein society beauties, starving Serbians, actresses with pretty legs, prize dogs, sinking ships, royalties, shells bursting, and padres reading funeral services testified to the catholicity of the public taste but did not assuage his nerves.
Pagina 42 - But, my dear, His purposes are inscrutable. We dare not say He should not do this or that, or try to fathom to what ends he is working." "Then He's no good to us. It's the same as if He didn't exist. Why should I pray for George's life to One whose ends are just His own? I know George oughtn't to die. If there's a God who can help, it will be a wicked shame if George dies; if there's a God who can help, it's a wicked shame when babies die, and all these millions of poor boys. I would rather think...
Pagina 266 - Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon...
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