ellauri063.html on line 212: If a Mogwai gets wet, it spawns new Mogwai from its back; small balls of fur that are approximately the size of a marble pop out from the wet Mogwai's back, then the furballs start to grow in size before unfolding themselves into new and fully grown Mogwai. This process does not take much time but it still usually takes just about a minute. According to the novel, the creator of the species, Mogturmen, wanted the Mogwai to be able to easily reproduce themselves. The cocoon and gremlin stage are unwanted defects from when the Mogwai species was created. It turned out that all the positive attributes are recessive.
ellauri107.html on line 487: They grinned and went into the Neronian washroom, where a line of men bent over the bowls inset along a prodigious slab of marble as in religious prostration before their own images in the massy mirror. Voices thick, satisfied, authoritative, hurtled along the marble walls, bounded from the ceiling of lavender-bordered milky tiles, while the lords of the city, the barons of insurance and law and fertilizers and motor tires, laid down the law for Zenith; announced that the day was warm-indeed, indisputably of spring; that wages were too high and the interest on mortgages too low; that Babe Ruth, the eminent player of baseball, was a noble man; and that “those two nuts at the Climax Vaudeville Theater this week certainly are a slick pair of actors.”
ellauri189.html on line 112: Before engaging in battle Wacław visits his father-in-law and Maria (who slowly fades away, feeding on an ever-diminishing hope) to bring them the good news. The patriotic miecznik cannot, in spite of his advanced age, refrain from joining the band of his son-in-law, leaving his home and daughter without protection. The Tartars are finally (but not without difficulty) defeated and Wacław, in exultant mood, rides by night over the boundless steppe to unite with his wife as the messenger of victory. When he arrives, the manor-house of the miecznik appears to be abandoned. There are no signs of life. Entering a room, he discovers Maria, lying on a couch, her clothes in disorder, like a marble statue. It is evident that her vital strength has been extinguished, but he tries to make himself believe that she has only fainted and rushes out of the house, shouting: “O, water, water!”. Thereupon the “small figure” of a melancholy youth (“pacholę”) jumps from the thicket and relates to Wacław the events that have happened.
ellauri241.html on line 313: Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Odottaa korkealla marmoriovilla verta ja suitsukkeita.
ellauri241.html on line 472: And so unsullied was the marble hue, ja niin tahraton oli marmorin sävy,
ellauri241.html on line 512: Betwixt two marble shafts: there they reposed, kahden marmorivarren välissä: siellä he lepäsivät,
ellauri241.html on line 629: Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, Puiden varsien väliin, aluksi marmoroitujen,
ellauri323.html on line 119: Zuleika was not strictly beautiful. Her eyes were a trifle large, and their lashes longer than they need have been. An anarchy of small curls was her chevelure, a dark upland of misrule, every hair asserting its rights over a not discreditable brow. For the rest, her features were not at all original. They seemed to have been derived rather from a gallimaufry of familiar models. From Madame la Marquise de Saint-Ouen came the shapely tilt of the nose. The mouth was a mere replica of Cupid’s bow, lacquered scarlet and strung with the littlest pearls. No apple-tree, no wall of peaches, had not been robbed, nor any Tyrian rose-garden, for the glory of Miss Dobson’s cheeks. Her neck was imitation-marble. Her hands and feet were of very mean proportions. She had no waist to speak of.
xxx/ellauri013.html on line 1211: over either losing your marbles
xxx/ellauri087.html on line 416: Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound Sun marmoriholvissa ei kuulu holviisi lauluni ei soi,
xxx/ellauri179.html on line 352: The mahogany bar spread eight feet with dark boards underneath that swirled up to a marble top. A famous writer with taped up glasses and grey-flaked hair sat at a table in the back corner. Two Americans walked in and sat on the barstools. They acknowledged the writer and ordered drinks. They were big men, just like him, and he had seen them in here many times. It was a small room. Fifteen by thirty feet at most with windows only in the door. The writer drank his Asti Spumante. The owner of the bar, Giuseppe Cipriani, walked towards his table and crouched down.
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