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算
命
点击下方⇊⇊⇊公众号名片
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月老婚姻 姓名配对 爱情运势 八字合婚
牛年运程 八字精批 号码吉凶 公司测名
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从出生那一刻起，迎接我们的不仅是美丽的世界，还有我们每个人的生辰八字。我们可以使用八字算命的方式来测试出我们一些情感以及未来的事业运势,我们也需要挑选靠谱的手段，其中结合老黄历与生辰八字的算命最准,它是通过周易命理分析八字的五行生克、排大运、流年运势等，同时也能分析你一生的性格、事业、财运、姻缘、健康等，可以说是非常全面的预测手段。
生辰八字测算一生命运
所谓八字，就是通过你出生的年，月，日，时间各用两个字。然后推算出来你的婚姻，子女，父母关系，还有每年的运程。八个字排出，我们可以看到你的五行（金，木，水，火、土）进而演变出十神和大运，十神说的是我们的财，夫妻，子女，父母，自己。大运排的是十年一个运，再细分每一年运程。我们的先天命理在那一刻就已经定下无法更改，然而后天运势却是可以改变的。选择一个和自己相互补的命理，二者相辅相成，就能够在日后生活中提高二人的运势。这也是为何要用生辰八字看缘分的原因。
老黄历算命准吗
选日子结婚比起查万年历，还是应该查老黄历比较准，因为万年历跟老黄历不一样的。然而，择结婚吉日其实不是单纯地看老黄历或者看万年历就可以的。老黄历把日子都规定死了，但是人与人的命却是不同，对甲说是吉日而对乙来说可能就是大凶之日，因此还是要结合生辰八字算命。我们可以通过万年历查出两个人的生辰八字，再结合两个人的生辰八字去择对两个人都好的日子，这样才是吉日的选择。
超过100000+人测算，都说特别准！
命运是什么？
为什么每个人的命运都不一样？
有的人一出生就是含着金汤勺
金枝玉叶一生富贵
而有些人则没那么好的运气
一生贫苦缩衣节食
在命理风水界里看来
出生的日期时辰数字
会影响一个人命运性格
免
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算
命
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月老婚姻 姓名配对 爱情运势 八字合婚
牛年运程 八字精批 号码吉凶 公司测名
温馨提示：如果上方按钮失效|可到文末的公众号名片进入|或到文末阅读原文即可进入官号。
通过八字用神来寻找命中贵人的方法
1、八字日主身弱的，以正印、偏印、比肩、劫财为喜用的人，这类八字的贵人应该是这类八字的兄弟朋友，还有可能是这类八字的前辈人物，所以日常可以多跟兄弟朋友打交道，多去孝敬自己的前辈，说不定哪天兄弟朋友或者前辈中就有那么一位贵人会对你有很大的帮助，让你一跃而上走向成功。
2、八字日主身旺的，以财官为用神的朋友，这类八字的贵人是这类八字的上司、指导或从政的官家人等等，也有权益的人，关于男人来说，异性朋友、妻子也是这类八字的贵人。
3、关于女性朋友来说，身旺的女人用神是以官星为用的人，这类八字的贵人是这类八字的老公或蓝颜知己，还有就是官家人物也是这类八字的贵人。
二、通过八字贵人星来寻找命中贵人的方法
1、壬、癸年或人日出生的人，出生在卯兔、巳蛇年、日的人为贵人。
2、丙、丁年或人日出生的人，出生在亥猪、酉鸡年、日的人为贵人。
3、庚、辛年或人日出生的人，出生在午马、寅虎年、日的人为贵人。
4、乙、己年或人日出生的人，出生在申猴、子鼠年、日的人为贵人。
5、甲、戊年或人日出生的人，出生在丑牛、未羊年、日的人为贵人。
小贴士：普通来说，八字里有贵人星的人，终身贵人较多，关键时间总有贵人辅佐，让自己逢凶化吉，事业上步步高升。
八字看配偶出现时间
在男命八字之中，财星主配偶，主妻子、主意中人，故当男命流年天干里出现了财星，无论是正财星或是偏财星，都意味着你的配偶、伴侣会在今年里出现。
而在女命八字之中，官星主配偶、主丈夫、主心仪之人，故当女命流年天干里出现了官星，无论是正宫或是偏宫，都说意味着你今年会邂逅一段姻缘，会有一个让自己动心的人出现，其中你的人生配偶，也很可能会在此流年中。
爱情与婚姻是人生中的重要部分，也是人类永恒的主题，从古到今人们一直在谈论。那么你的另一半何时能够出现，在八字中如何体现出来，一起来看看吧。配偶出现的时间是流年和配偶星的状态决定，流年出现配偶星，财官年或者夫妻宫冲合为应期。
以下西安方英文版介绍
rown — and more spirit and animation, and, I think, more grace too, in dance and talk, than the phlegmatic affectation of modern days allows; and there were some bright eyes that, not seeming to look, yet recognised, with a little thrill at the heart, and a brighter flush, the brilliant, proud Devereux — so handsome, so impulsive, so unfathomable — with his gipsy tint, and great enthusiastic eyes, and strange melancholy, sub-acid smile. But to him the room was lifeless, and the hour was dull, and the music but a noise and a jingle.
‘I knew quite well she wasn’t here, and she never cared for me, and I— why should I trouble my head about her? She makes her cold an excuse. Well, maybe yet she’ll wish to see Dick Devereux, and I far away. No matter. They’ve heard slanders of me, and believe them. Amen, say I. If they’re so li
houghts were elsewhere.
On reaching her bed-room, which she did with impetuous haste, Aunt Becky shut the door with a passionate slam, and said, with a sort of choke and a sob, ‘There’s nought but ingratitude on earth — the odious, odious, odious person!’
And when, ten minutes after, her maid came in, she found Aunt Rebecca but little advanced in her preparations for bed; and her summons at the door was answered by a fierce and shrilly nose-trumpeting, and a stern ‘Come in, hussy — are you deaf, child?’ And when she came in, Aunt Becky was grim, and fussy, and her eyes red.
it is also true that peepers sometimes see more than they like; and Betty, the cook, as she reached the landing, glancing askance with ominous curiosity, beheld a spectacle, the sight of which nearly bereft her of her senses.
Crouching in the deep doorway on the right of the lobby, the cook, I say, saw something — a figure — or a deep shadow — only a deep shadow — or maybe a dog. She lifted the candle — she peeped under the candlestick: ’twas no shadow, as I live, ’twas a well-defined figure!
He was draped in black, cowering low, with the face turned up. It was Charles Nutter’s face, fixed and stealthy. It was only while the fascination lasted — while you might count one, two, three, deliberately — that the horrid gaze met mutually. But there was no mistake there. She saw the stern dark picture as plainly as ever she did. The light glimmered on his white eye-balls.
Starting up, he struck at the candle with his hat. She uttered a loud scream, and flinging stick and all at the figure, with a great clang against the door behind, all was swallowed in instantaneous darkness; she whirled into the opposite bed-room she knew not how, and locked the door within, and plunged head-foremost under the bed-clothes, half mad with terror.
The squall was heard of course. Moggy heard it, but she heeded not; for Betty was known to scream at mice, and even moths. And as her door was heard to slam, as was usual in panics of the sort, and as she returned no answer, Moggy was quite sure there was nothing in it.
But Moggy’s turn was to come. When spirits ‘walk,’ I’ve heard they make the most of their time, and sometimes pay a little round of visits on the same evening.
This is certain; Moggy was by no means so great a fool as Betty in respect of hobgoblins, witches, banshees, pookas, and the world of spirits in general. She eat heartily, and slept soundly, and as yet had never seen the devil. Therefore such terrors as she that night experienced were new to her, and I can’t reasonably doubt the truth of her narrative. Awaking suddenly in the night, she saw a light in the room, and heard a quiet rustling going on in the corner, where the old white-painted press showed its front from the wall. So Moggy popped her head through her thin curtains at the side, and — blessed hour!— there she saw the shape of a man looking into the press, the doors being wide open, and the appearance of a key in the lock.
The shape was very like her master. The saints between us and harm! The glow was reflected back from the interior of the press, and showed the front part of the figure in profile with a sharp line of light. She said he had some sort of thick slippers over his boots, a dark coat, with the cape buttoned, and a hat flapping over his face; coat and hat and all, sprinkled over with snow.
As if he heard the rustle of the curtain, he turned toward the bed, and with an awful ejaculation she cried, ‘’Tis you, Sir!’
‘Don’t stir, and you’ll meet no harm,’ he said, and over he posts to the bedside, and he laid his cold hand on her wrist, and told her again to be quiet, and for her life to tell no one what she had seen, and with that she supposed she swooned away; for the next thing she remembered was listening in mortal fear, the room being all dark, and she heard a sound at the press again, and then steps crossing the floor, and she gave herself up for lost; but he did not come to the bedside any more, and the tread passed out at the door, and so, as she thought, went down stairs.
In the morning the press was locked and the door shut, and the hall-door and back-door locked, and the keys on the hall-table, where they had left them the night before.
You may be sure these two ladies were thankful to behold the gray light, and hear the cheerful sounds of returning day; and it would be no easy matter to describe which of the two looked most pallid, scared, and jaded that morning, as they drank a hysterical dish of tea together in the kitchen, close up to the window, and with the door shut, discoursing, and crying, and praying over their tea-pot in miserable companionship.
Chapter 68 How an Evening Passes at the Elms, and Dr. Toole M
Up at the Elms, little Lily that night was sitting in the snug, old-fashioned room, with the good old rector. She was no better; still in doctors’ hands and weak, but always happy with him, and he more than ever gentle and tender with her; for though he never would give place to despondency, and was naturally of a trusting, cheery spirit, he could not but remember his young wife, lost so early; and once or twice there was a look — an outline — a light — something, in little Lily’s fair, girlish face, that, with a strange momentary agony, brought back the remembrance of her mother’s stricken beauty, and plaintive smile. But then his darling’s gay talk and pleasant ways would reassure him, and she smiled away the momentary shadow.
And he would tell her all sorts of wonders, old-world gaieties, long before she was born; and how finely the great Mr. Handel played upon the harpsichord in the Music Hall, and how his talk was in German, Latin, French, English, Italian, and half-a-dozen languages besides, sentence about; and how he remembered his own dear mother’s dress when she went to Lord Wharton’s great ball at the castle — dear, oh! dear, how long ago that was! And then he would relate stories of banshees, and robberies, and ghosts, and hair-breadth escapes, and ‘rapparees,’ and adventures in the wars of King James, which he heard told in his nonage by the old folk, long vanished, who remembered those troubles.
‘And now, darling,’ said little Lily, nestling close to him, with a smile, ‘you must tell me all about that strange, handsome Mr. Mervyn; who he is, and what his story.’
‘Tut, tut! little rogue ——’
‘Yes, indeed, you must, and you will; you’ve kept your little Lily waiting long enough for it, and she’ll promise to tell nobody.’
‘Handsome he is, and strange, no doubt — it was a strange fancy that funeral. Strange, indeed,’ said the rector.
‘What funeral, darling?’
‘Why, yes, a funeral — the bringing his father’s body to be laid here in the vault, in my church; it is their family vault. ’Twas a folly; but what folly will not young men do?’
And the good parson poked the fire a little impatiently.
‘Mr. Mervyn — not Mervyn — that was his mother’s name; but — see, you must not mention it, Lily, if I tell you — not Mr. Mervyn, I say, but my Lord Dunoran, the only son of that disgraced and blood-stained nobleman, who, lying in gaol, under sentence of death for a foul and cowardly murder, swallowed poison, and so closed his guilty life with a tremendous crime, in its nature inexpiable. There, that’s all, and too much, darling.’
‘And was it very long ago?’
‘Why, ’twas before little Lily was born; and long before that I knew him — only just a little. He used the Tiled House for a hunting-lodge, and kept his dogs and horses there — a fine gentleman, but vicious, always, I fear, and a gamester; an overbearing man, with a dangerous cast of pride in his eye. You don’t remember Lady Dunoran?— pooh, pooh, what am I thinking of? No, to be sure! you could not. ’Tis from her, chiefly, poor lady, he has his good looks. Her eyes were large, and very peculiar, like his — his, you know, are very fine
th a pale gaze upon her aunt.
‘Are you,’ said Aunt Becky —‘do you, Gertrude — do you like Lieutenant Puddock?’
‘Lieutenant Puddock!’ repeated the girl, with the look and gesture of a person in whose ear something strange has buzzed.
‘Because, if you really are in love with him, Gertie; and that he likes you; and that, in short —’ Aunt Becky was speaking very rapidly, but stopped suddenly.
‘In love with Lieutenant Puddock!’ was all that Miss Gertrude said.
‘Now, do tell me, Gertrude, if it be so — tell me, dear love. I know ’tis a hard thing to say,’ and Aunt Becky considerately began to fiddle with the ribbon at the back of her niece’s nightcap, so that she need not look in her face; ‘but, Gertie, tell me truly, do you like him; and — and — why, if it be so, I will mention Mr. Dangerfield’s suit no more. There now — there’s all I want to say.’
‘Lieutenant Puddock!’ repeated young Madam in the nightcap; and by this time the film of slumber was gone; and the suspicion struck her somehow in altogether so comical a way that she could not help laughing in her aunt’s sad, earnest face.
‘Fat, funny little Lieutenant Puddock!— was ever so diverting a disgrace? Oh! dear aunt, what have I done to deserve so prodigious a suspicion?’
It was plain, from her heightened colour, that her aunt did not choose to be laughed at.
‘What have you done?’ said she, quite briskly; ‘why — what have you done?’ and Aunt Becky had to consider just for a second or two, staring straight at the young lady through the crimson damask curtains. ‘You have — you — you — why, what have you done? and she covered her confusion by stooping down to adjust the heel of her slipper.
‘Oh! it’s delightful — plump little Lieutenant Puddock!’ and the graver her aunt looked the more irrepressibly she laughed; till that lady, evidently much offended, took the young gentlewoman pretty roundly to task.
‘Well! I’ll tell you what you have done,’ said she, almost fiercely. ‘As absurd as he is, you have been twice as sweet upon him as he upon you; and you have done your endeavour to fill his brain with the notion that you are in love with him, young lady; and if you’re not, you have acted, I promise you, a most unscrupulous and unpardonable part by a most honourable and well-bred gentleman — for that character I believe he bears. Yes — you may laugh, Madam, how you please; but he’s allowed, I say, to be as honest, as true, as fine a gentleman as — as —’
‘As ever surprised a weaver,’ said the young lady, laughing till she almost cried. In fact, she was showing in a new light, and becoming quite a funny character upon this theme. And, indeed, this sort of convulsion of laughing seemed so unaccountable on natural grounds to Aunt Rebecca, that her irritation subsided into perplexity, and she began to suspect that her extravagant merriment might mean possibly something which she did not quite understand.
‘Well, niece, when you have quite done laughing at nothing, you will, perhaps, be so good as to hear me. I put it to you now, young lady, as your relation and your friend, once for all, upon your sacred honour — remember you’re a Chattesworth — upon the honour of a Chattesworth’ (a favourite family form of adjuration on serious occasions with Aunt Rebecca), ‘do you like Lieutenant Puddock?’
It was now Miss Gertrude’s turn to be nettled, and to remind her visitor, by a sudden flush in her cheek and a flash from her eyes, that she was, indeed, a Chattesworth; and with more disdain than, perhaps, was quite called for, she repelled the soft suspicion.
‘I protest, Madam,’ said Miss Gertrude, ‘’tis too bad. Truly, Madam, it is vastly vexatious to have to answer so strange and affronting a question. If you ever took the trouble, aunt, to listen to, or look at, Lieutenant Puddock, you might —’
‘Well, niece,’ quoth Aunt Becky, interrupting, with a little toss of her head, ‘young ladies weren’t quite so hard to please in my time, and I can’t see or hear that he’s so much worse than others.’
‘I’d sooner die than have him,’ said Miss Gertie, peremptorily.
‘Then, I suppose, if ever, and whenever he asks you the question himself, you’ll have no hesitation in telling him so?’ said Aunt Becky, with becoming solemnity.
‘Laughable, ridiculous, comical, and absurd, as I always thought and believed Lieutenant Puddock to be, I yet believe the asking such a question of me to be a stretch of absurdity, from which his breeding, for he is a gentleman, will restrain him. Besides, Madam, you can’t possibly be aware of the subjects on which he has invariably discoursed whenever he happened to sit by me — plays and players, and candied fruit. Really, Madam, it is too absurd to have to enter upon one’s defence against so incredible an imagination.’
Aunt Rebecca looked steadily for a few seconds in her niece’s face, then drew a long breath, and leaning over, kissed her again on the forehead, and with a grave little nod, and looking on her again for a short space, without saying a word more, she turned suddenly and left the room.
Miss Gertrude’s vexation again gave way to merriment; and her aunt, as she walked sad and stately up stairs, heard one peal of merry laughter after another ring through her niece’s bed-room. She had not laughed so much for three years before; and this short visit cost her, I am sure, two hours’ good sleep at least.
Chapter 65 Relating Some Awful News that Reached the Village,
And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there in motion.
News — news — great news!— terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham’s boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the ‘Plume of Feathers,’ where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of nice and useful thi
houghts were elsewhere.
On reaching her bed-room, which she did with impetuous haste, Aunt Becky shut the door with a passionate slam, and said, with a sort of choke and a sob, ‘There’s nought but ingratitude on earth — the odious, odious, odious person!’
And when, ten minutes after, her maid came in, she found Aunt Rebecca but little advanced in her preparations for bed; and her summons at the door was answered by a fierce and shrilly nose-trumpeting, and a stern ‘Come in, hussy — are you deaf, child?’ And when she came in, Aunt Becky was grim, and fussy, and her eyes red.
Miss Gertrude was that night arrived just on that dim and delicious plateau — that debatable land upon which the last waking reverie and the first dream of slumber mingle together in airy dance and shifting colours — when, on a sudden, she was recalled to a consciousness of her grave bed-posts, and damask curtains, by the voice of her aunt.
Sitting up, she gazed on the redoubted Aunt Becky through the lace of her bonnet de nuit, for some seconds, in a mystified and incredulous way.
Mistress Rebecca Chattesworth, on the other hand, had drawn the curtains, and stood, candle in hand, arrayed in her night-dress, like a ghost, only she had on a pink and green quilted dressing-gown loosely over it.
She was tall and erect, of course; but she looked softened and strange; and when she spoke, it was in quite a gentle, humble sort of way, which was perfectly strange to her niece.
‘Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,’ said she, and she leaned over and with her arm round her neck, kissed her. ‘I came to say a word, and just to ask you a question. I wish, indeed I do — Heaven knows, to do my duty; and, my dear child, will you tell me the whole truth — will you tell me truly?— You will, when I ask it as a kindness.’
There was a little pause, and Gertrude looked with a pale gaze upon her aunt.
‘Are you,’ said Aunt Becky —‘do you, Gertrude — do you like Lieutenant Puddock?’
‘Lieutenant Puddock!’ repeated the girl, with the look and gesture of a person in whose ear something strange has buzzed.
‘Because, if you really are in love with him, Gertie; and that he likes you; and that, in short —’ Aunt Becky was speaking very rapidly, but stopped suddenly.
‘In love with Lieutenant Puddock!’ was all that Miss Gertrude said.
‘Now, do tell me, Gertrude, if it be so — tell me, dear love. I know ’tis a hard thing to say,’ and Aunt Becky considerately began to fiddle with the ribbon at the back of her niece’s nightcap, so that she need not look in her face; ‘but, Gertie, tell me truly, do you like him; and — and — why, if it be so, I will mention Mr. Dangerfield’s suit no more. There now — there’s all I want to say.’
‘Lieutenant Puddock!’ repeated young Madam in the nightcap; and by this time the film of slumber was gone; and the suspicion struck her somehow in altogether so comical a way that she could not help laughing in her aunt’s sad, earnest face.
‘Fat, funny little Lieutenant Puddock!— was ever so diverting a disgrace? Oh! dear aunt, what have I done to deserve so prodigious a suspicion?’
It was plain, from her heightened colour, that her aunt did not choose to be laughed at.
‘What have you done?’ said she, quite briskly; ‘why — what have you done?’ and Aunt Becky had to consider just for a second or two, staring straight at the young lady through the crimson damask curtains. ‘You have — you — you — why, what have you done? and she covered her confusion by stooping down to adjust the heel of her slipper.
‘Oh! it’s delightful — plump little Lieutenant Puddock!’ and the graver her aunt looked the more irrepressibly she laughed; till that lady, evidently much offended, took the young gentlewoman pretty roundly to task.
‘Well! I’ll tell you what you have done,’ said she, almost fiercely. ‘As absurd as he is, you have been twice as sweet upon him as he upon you; and you have done your endeavour to fill his brain with the notion that you are in love with him, young lady; and if you’re not, you have acted, I promise you, a most unscrupulous and unpardonable part by a most honourable and well-bred gentleman — for that character I believe he bears. Yes — you may laugh, Madam, how you please; but he’s allowed, I say, to be as honest, as true, as fine a gentleman as — as —’
‘As ever surprised a weaver,’ said the young lady, laughing till she almost cried. In fact, she was showing in a new light, and becoming quite a funny character upon this theme. And, indeed, this sort of convulsion of laughing seemed so unaccountable on natural grounds to Aunt Rebecca, that her irritation subsided into perplexity, and she began to suspect that her extravagant merriment might mean possibly something which she did not quite understand.
‘Well, niece, when you have quite done laughing at nothing, you will, perhaps, be so good as to hear me. I put it to you now, young lady, as your relation and your friend, once for all, upon your sacred honour — remember you’re a Chattesworth — upon the honour of a Chattesworth’ (a favourite family form of adjuration on serious occasions with Aunt Rebecca), ‘do you like Lieutenant Puddock?’
It was now Miss Gertrude’s turn to be nettled, and to remind her visitor, by a sudden flush in her cheek and a flash from her eyes, that she was, indeed, a Chattesworth; and with more disdain than, perhaps, was quite called for, she repelled the soft suspicion.
‘I protest, Madam,’ said Miss Gertrude, ‘’tis too bad. Truly, Madam, it is vastly vexatious to have to answer so strange and affronting a question. If you ever took the trouble, aunt, to listen to, or look at, Lieutenant Puddock, you might —’
‘Well, niece,’ quoth Aunt Becky, interrupting, with a little toss of her head, ‘young ladies weren’t quite so hard to please in my time, and I can’t see or hear that he’s so much worse than others.’
‘I’d sooner die than have him,’ said Miss Gertie, peremptorily.
‘Then, I suppose, if ever, and whenever he asks you the question himself, you’ll have no hesitation in telling him so?’ said Aunt Becky, with becoming solemnity.
‘Laughable, ridiculous, comical, and absurd, as I always thought and believed Lieutenant Puddock to be, I yet believe the asking such a question of me to be a stretch of absurdity, from which his breeding, for he is a gentleman, will restrain him. Besides, Madam, you can’t possibly be aware of the subjects on which he has invariably discoursed whenever he happened to sit by me — plays and players, and candied fruit. Really, Madam, it is too absurd to have to enter upon one’s defence against so incredible an imagination.’
Aunt Rebecca looked steadily for a few seconds in her niece’s face, then drew a long breath, and leaning over, kissed her again on the forehead, and with a grave little nod, and looking on her again for a short space, without saying a word more, she turned suddenly and left the room.
Miss Gertrude’s vexation again gave way to merriment; and her aunt, as she walked sad and stately up stairs, heard one peal of merry laughter after another ring through her niece’s bed-room. She had not laughed so much for three years before; and this short visit cost her, I am sure, two hours’ good sleep at least.
Chapter 65 Relating Some Awful News that Reached the Village,
And now there was news all over the town, to keep all the tongues there in motion.
News — news — great news!— terrible news! Peter Fogarty, Mr. Tresham’s boy, had it that morning from his cousin, Jim Redmond, whose aunt lived at Ringsend, and kept the little shop over against the ‘Plume of Feathers,’ where you might have your pick and choice of all sorts of nice and useful things — bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs, candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep, soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.
No one quite believed it — it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter Fogarty’s cousin, Jim Redmond’s aunt, was easy of faith;— Jim, it was presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much better. Though, however, it was not actually ‘intelligence,’ it was a startling thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly, and shook their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at it. And not
ngs — bacon, brass snuff-boxes, penny ballads, eggs, candles, cheese, tobacco-pipes, pinchbeck buckles for knee and instep, soap, sausages, and who knows what beside.
No one quite believed it — it was a tradition at third hand, and Peter Fogarty’s cousin, Jim Redmond’s aunt, was easy of faith;— Jim, it was presumed, not very accurate in narration, and Peter, not much better. Though, however, it was not actually ‘intelligence,’ it was a startling thesis. And though some raised their brows and smiled darkly, and shook their heads, the whole town certainly pricked their ears at it. And not
elf, and tell him the whole truth — yes, the truth — what the devil do I care?— speak that, and make the most of it. But tell h
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