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Creator: Barbusse, Henri, 1873-1935
Translator: Wray, Fitzwater
Contributor: -
Editor: -


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lad. And here, the same as everywhere, the two kinds of people that there are--the discontented and the respectable; because, my lad, what's always been always will be." CHAPTER III EVENING AND DAWN Just at the moment when I was settling down to audit the Sesmaisons' account--I remember that detail--there came an unusual sound of steps and voices, and before I could even turn round I heard a voice through the glass door say, "Monsieur Paulin's aunt is very ill." The sentence stuns me. I am standing, and some one is standing opposite me. A draught shuts the door with a bang. Both of us set off. It is Benoit who has come to fetch me. We hurry. I breathe heavily. Crossing the busy factory, we meet acquaintances who smile at me, not knowing the turn of affairs. The night is cold and nasty, with a keen wind. The sky drips with
Where No Fear Was

WHERE NO FEAR WAS A BOOK ABOUT FEAR By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 1914 "Thus they went on till they came to about the middle of the galley, and then Christiana said, 'Methinks I see something yonder on the read before us, a thing of such a shape such as I have not seen.' Then said Joseph, 'Mother, what is it?' 'An ugly thing, Child, an ugly thing,' said she. 'But, Mother, what is it like?' said he. ''Tis like I cannot tell what,' said she. And now it was
rain. We jump over puddles as we walk. I stare fixedly at Benoit's square shoulders in front of me, and the dancing tails of his coat as the wind hustles them along the nocturnal way. Passing through the suburban quarter, the wind comes so hard between the infrequent houses that the bushes on either side shiver and press towards us, and seem to unfurl. Ah, we are not made for the greater happenings! * * * * * * I meet first in the room the resounding glare of a wood fire and an almost repelling heat. The odors of camphor and ether catch my throat. People that I know are standing round the bed. They turn to me and speak all together. I bend down to look at Mame. She is inlaid upon the whiteness of the bed, which is motionless as marble. Her face is sunk in the cavity of the pillow. Her eyes are half closed and do not move; her skin has darkened. Each breath hums in her throat, and beyond that slight stirring of larynx and lips her little frail body moves no more than a doll's. She has not got her cap on and her gray hair is unraveled on her head like flocks of dust. Several voices at once explain to me that it is "double congestion, and her heart as well." She was attacked by a dizziness, by prolonged and