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Louise Jordan
The Invisible Foe: A Story Adapted from the Play by Walter Hackett
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1741906The Invisible Foe: A Story Adapted from the Play by Walter Hacketthttps://www.gandhi.com.mx/the-invisible-foe-a-story-adapted-from-the-play-by-walter-hackett-1/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/509182/4bb652c1-5286-4680-bda5-84fc0edd62cf.jpg?v=638335098936900000122135MXNLibrary of AlexandriaInStock/Ebooks/1714442The Invisible Foe: A Story Adapted from the Play by Walter Hackett122135https://www.gandhi.com.mx/the-invisible-foe-a-story-adapted-from-the-play-by-walter-hackett-1/phttps://gandhi.vtexassets.com/arquivos/ids/509182/4bb652c1-5286-4680-bda5-84fc0edd62cf.jpg?v=638335098936900000InStockMXN99999DIEbook20259781465604545_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_<p>Helen usually was playing by herself, and pretending, as now, to be sharing the sport of some playfellow, perfectly tangible to her, but invisible, non-existent to the boysa form of persistent make believe which greatly amused Hugh and as greatly irritated Stephen. Dont pretend like that; its a simpleton way of going on, the older boy called to her now, without moving his head or his eyes. Its nothing of the kind, the girl replied scornfully. Youre blind, thats whats the matterblindern a bat, both of you. And she continued to laugh and chat with her make-believe playmates. An elfin child herself, the children of her own delicate myth did seem the more suitable fellows for her dainty frolic than either queer Stephen or stolid, clumsy Hugh. The little girl was very pretty, a queenly little head heavy with vivid waves of gold-red hair, curved red lips eloquent of the history of centuries of womanhood, wide blue eyes, and the prettiest hands and arms that even feminine babyhood (and English babyhood, Celtic-dashed at that) had ever yet achieved; every pink-tipped finger a miracle, and each soft, beautifully molded elbow, dimpled and dented with witching chinks that simply clamored for kissesand often got them; a sunny, docile child, yielding but unafraid, quiet and reserved, but hiding under its rose and snow robe of provocatively pretty flesh, a will that never swerved: the strongest will at Deep Daleand that says everything of itfor both Stephen Pryde, fourteen years old, and his uncle, nearing fifty, had stronger wills than often fall to us weak mortals of drift and vacillation. These two masculine strengths of will lay rough and prominent on the surface and also sank soul-deep. The uncles never abated. Circumstances and youth curbed the boys, at timesbut neither chilled nor softened it. Helens will lay deep and still. Her pretty, smiling surface never showed it by so much as a gentle ripple. She kept it as a sort of spiritual Sunday best laid away in the lavender and tissue of her secret self. As yet only her old Scotch nurse even suspected its existence and of all her little, subservient world, only that old Scotch nurse neither laughed at Helens dream friendsnor scoffed. In her sweet six years of life her fathers will and hers had never clashed. That, when the almost inevitable clash of child and parent, old and young, cautious experience and adventurous inexperience, came, Helens should prove the stronger will, and hers the victory, would have seemed absurd and incredible to all who knew themto every one except the nurse.</p>(*_*)9781465604545_<p>Helen usually was playing by herself, and pretending, as now, to be sharing the sport of some playfellow, perfectly tangible to her, but invisible, non-existent to the boysa form of persistent make believe which greatly amused Hugh and as greatly irritated Stephen. Dont pretend like that; its a simpleton way of going on, the older boy called to her now, without moving his head or his eyes. Its nothing of the kind, the girl replied scornfully. Youre blind, thats whats the matterblindern a bat, both of you. And she continued to laugh and chat with her make-believe playmates. An elfin child herself, the children of her own delicate myth did seem the more suitable fellows for her dainty frolic than either queer Stephen or stolid, clumsy Hugh. The little girl was very pretty, a queenly little head heavy with vivid waves of gold-red hair, curved red lips eloquent of the history of centuries of womanhood, wide blue eyes, and the prettiest hands and arms that even feminine babyhood (and English babyhood, Celtic-dashed at that) had ever yet achieved; every pink-tipped finger a miracle, and each soft, beautifully molded elbow, dimpled and dented with witching chinks that simply clamored for kissesand often got them; a sunny, docile child, yielding but unafraid, quiet and reserved, but hiding under its rose and snow robe of provocatively pretty flesh, a will that never swerved: the strongest will at Deep Daleand that says everything of itfor both Stephen Pryde, fourteen years old, and his uncle, nearing fifty, had stronger wills than often fall to us weak mortals of drift and vacillation. These two masculine strengths of will lay rough and prominent on the surface and also sank soul-deep. The uncles never abated. Circumstances and youth curbed the boys, at timesbut neither chilled nor softened it. Helens will lay deep and still. Her pretty, smiling surface never showed it by so much as a gentle ripple. She kept it as a sort of spiritual Sunday best laid away in the lavender and tissue of her secret self. As yet only her old Scotch nurse even suspected its existence and of all her little, subservient world, only that old Scotch nurse neither laughed at Helens dream friendsnor scoffed. In her sweet six years of life her fathers will and hers had never clashed. That, when the almost inevitable clash of child and parent, old and young, cautious experience and adventurous inexperience, came, Helens should prove the stronger will, and hers the victory, would have seemed absurd and incredible to all who knew themto every one except the nurse.</p>...9781465604545_Library of Alexandrialibro_electonico_8d0f7c8a-8cfb-313e-98cb-2159526cba93_9781465604545;9781465604545_9781465604545Louise JordanInglésMéxicohttps://getbook.kobo.com/koboid-prod-public/markmoxford-epub-32f121ee-4002-497f-93a8-563411ce9f0d.epub2025-07-08T00:00:00+00:00Library of Alexandria