...but in every century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy.
Emmuska OrczyVirtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.
Emmuska OrczyMots clés maguerite-blakeney
It does seem simple, doesn't it?' she said, with a final bitter attempt at flippancy, 'when you want to kill a chicken...you take hold of it...then you wring its neck...it's only the chicken who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience...You find it simple...I don't
Emmuska OrczyI have so often been asked the question: "But how did you come to think of The Scarlet Pimpernel?" And my answer has always been: "It was God's will that I should." And to you moderns, who perhaps do not believe as I do, I will say, "In the chain of my life, there were so many links, all of which tended towards bringing me to the fulfillment of my destiny.
Emmuska OrczyMots clés life writing god believe destiny question god-s-will chain-of-life the-scarlet-pimpernel
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce come to an end.
Emmuska OrczyEven the sparrows on the house-tops are objects of suspicion.
Emmuska OrczyShe, at least, ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever they were alone together....Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her own pride
Emmuska OrczyMots clés the-scarlett-pimpernel
Your conscience troubles you unnecessarily, and you see a deliberate intention in every simple act.
Emmuska OrczyMots clés scarlet-pimpernel diogenes series laughing-cavalier
Tis only in the future you can prove your true worth.
Emmuska OrczyMots clés scarlet-pimpernel diogenes series laughing-cavalier baroness-emma-orczy
From the railway station far away the sharp clang of a bell...In half an hour the train starts, and there is so much still to say that has been left unsaid...The mothers, fearful and fussy, look for their sons in among the crowd like hens in search of their chicks; their wizened faces are hard and wrinkled like winter apples, they carry huge baskets on their arms, over-filled with the last delicacies which their fond, toil-worn hands will prepare for the beloved son for the next three years:--a piece of smoked bacon, a loaf of rye bread, a cake of maize-flour.
The gypsies have struck up a melancholy Magyar folksong: the crowd breaks up in isolated groups, mothers and father with their sons whisper in the dark corners of the bran. The father who did his service thirty years ago gives sundry good advice—no rebellion, quiet obedience, no use complaining or grumbling, the three years are quickly over. The mother begs her darling not to give way to drink, and not to get entangled with one of the hussies in the towns; women and wine, the two besetting temptations that assail the Magyar peasant—let the darling boy resist both for his sorrowing mother’s sake.
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