Daniel Deronda

Daniel Deronda

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Daniel Deronda

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ISBN-13: 9780792743446
Publisher: AudioGO
Publication date: 01/28/2001
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 1.50(h) x 5.00(d)

About the Author

George Eliot (November 22, 1819 - December 22, 1880) was the pen name of Mary Anne Evans an English novelist, journalist, translator and one of the leading writers of the Victorian era

Graham Handley is a former part-time lecturer in the Department of Extramural Studies, University of London whose previous publications include George Eliot (ed., Longman, 1991), George Eliot, Judaism and the Novels (with Saleel Nurbhai, Palgrave, 2002), and Modernizing George Eliot (Bloomsbury Academic, 2011).

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Daniel Deronda

By George Eliot


Copyright © 2016 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4177-5


Men can do nothing without the make-believe of a beginning. Even science, the strict measurer, is obliged to start with a make-believe unit, and must fix on a point in the stars' unceasing journey when his sidereal clock shall pretend that time is at Nought. His less accurate grandmother Poetry has always been understood to start in the middle; but on reflection it appears that her proceeding is not very different from his; since Science, too, reckons backward as well as forward, divides his unit into billions, and with his clock-finger at Nought really sets off in medias res. No retrospect will take us to the true beginning; and whether our prologue be in heaven or on earth, it is but a fraction of that all-presupposing fact with which our story sets out.

WAS SHE BEAUTIFUL OR NOT beautiful? and what was the secret of form or expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good or the evil genius dominant in those beams? Probably the evil; else why was the effect that of unrest rather than of undisturbed charm? Why was the wish to look again felt as coercion and not as a longing in which the whole being consents?

She who raised these questions in Daniel Deronda's mind was occupied in gambling: not in the open air under a southern sky, tossing coppers on a ruined wall, with rags about her limbs; but in one of those splendid resorts which the enlightenment of ages has prepared for the same species of pleasure at a heavy cost of gilt mouldings, dark-toned color and chubby nudities, all correspondingly heavy — forming a suitable condenser for human breath belonging, in great part, to the highest fashion, and not easily procurable to be breathed in elsewhere in the like proportion, at least by persons of little fashion.

It was near four o'clock on a September day, so that the atmosphere was well-brewed to a visible haze. There was deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle, a light chink, a small sweeping sound, and an occasional monotone in French, such as might be expected to issue from an ingeniously constructed automaton. Round two long tables were gathered two serried crowds of human beings, all save one having their faces and attention bent on the tables. The one exception was a melancholy little boy, with his knees and calves simply in their natural clothing of epidermis, but for the rest of his person in a fancy dress. He alone had his face turned toward the doorway, and fixing on it the blank gaze of a bedizened child stationed as a masquerading advertisement on the platform of an itinerant show, stood close behind a lady deeply engaged at the roulette-table.

About this table fifty or sixty persons were assembled, many in the outer rows, where there was occasionally a deposit of newcomers, being mere spectators, only that one of them, usually a woman, might now and then be observed putting down a five-franc with a simpering air, just to see what the passion of gambling really was. Those who were taking their pleasure at a higher strength, and were absorbed in play, showed very distant varieties of European type: Livonian and Spanish, Graeco-Italian and miscellaneous German, English aristocratic and English plebeian. Here certainly was a striking admission of human equality. The white bejewelled fingers of an English countess were very near touching a bony, yellow, crab-like hand stretching a bared wrist to clutch a heap of coin — a hand easy to sort with the square, gaunt face, deep-set eyes, grizzled eyebrows, and ill-combed scanty hair which seemed a slight metamorphosis of the vulture. And where else would her ladyship have graciously consented to sit by that dry-lipped feminine figure prematurely old, withered after short bloom like her artificial flowers, holding a shabby velvet reticule before her, and occasionally putting in her mouth the point with which she pricked her card? There too, very near the fair countess, was a respectable London tradesman, blonde and soft-handed, his sleek hair scrupulously parted behind and before, conscious of circulars addressed to the nobility and gentry, whose distinguished patronage enabled him to take his holidays fashionably, and to a certain extent in their distinguished company. Not his the gambler's passion that nullifies appetite, but a well-fed leisure, which, in the intervals of winning money in business and spending it showily, sees no better resource than winning money in play and spending it yet more showily — reflecting always that Providence had never manifested any disapprobation of his amusement, and dispassionate enough to leave off if the sweetness of winning much and seeing others lose had turned to the sourness of losing much and seeing others win. For the vice of gambling lay in losing money at it. In his bearing there might be something of the tradesman, but in his pleasures he was fit to rank with the owners of the oldest titles. Standing close to his chair was a handsome Italian, calm, statuesque, reaching across him to place the first pile of napoleons from a new bagful just brought him by an envoy with a scrolled mustache. The pile was in half a minute pushed over to an old bewigged woman with eye-glasses pinching her nose. There was a slight gleam, a faint mumbling smile about the lips of the old woman; but the statuesque Italian remained impassive, and — probably secure in an infallible system which placed his foot on the neck of chance — immediately prepared a new pile. So did a man with the air of an emaciated beau or worn-out libertine, who looked at life through one eyeglass, and held out his hand tremulously when he asked for change. It could surely be no severity of system, but rather some dream of white crows, or the induction that the eighth of the month was lucky, which inspired the fierce yet tottering impulsiveness of his play.

But, while every single player differed markedly from every other, there was a certain uniform negativeness of expression which had the effect of a mask — as if they had all eaten of some root that for the time compelled the brains of each to the same narrow monotony of action.

Deronda's first thought when his eyes fell on this scene of dull, gas-poisoned absorption, was that the gambling of Spanish shepherd-boys had seemed to him more enviable: — so far Rousseau might be justified in maintaining that art and science had done a poor service to mankind. But suddenly he felt the moment become dramatic. His attention was arrested by a young lady who, standing at an angle not far from him, was the last to whom his eyes traveled. She was bending and speaking English to a middle-aged lady seated at play beside her: but the next instant she returned to her play, and showed the full height of a graceful figure, with a face which might possibly be looked at without admiration, but could hardly be passed with indifference.

The inward debate which she raised in Deronda gave to his eyes a growing expression of scrutiny, tending farther and farther away from the glow of mingled undefined sensibilities forming admiration. At one moment they followed the movements of the figure, of the arms and hands, as this problematic sylph bent forward to deposit her stake with an air of firm choice; and the next they returned to the face which, at present unaffected by beholders, was directed steadily toward the game. The sylph was a winner; and as her taper fingers, delicately gloved in pale-gray, were adjusting the coins which had been pushed toward her in order to pass them back again to the winning point, she looked round her with a survey too markedly cold and neutral not to have in it a little of that nature which we call art concealing an inward exultation.

But in the course of that survey her eyes met Deronda's, and instead of averting them as she would have desired to do, she was unpleasantly conscious that they were arrested — how long? The darting sense that he was measuring her and looking down on her as an inferior, that he was of different quality from the human dross around her, that he felt himself in a region outside and above her, and was examining her as a specimen of a lower order, roused a tingling resentment which stretched the moment with conflict. It did not bring the blood to her cheeks, but it sent it away from her lips. She controlled herself by the help of an inward defiance, and without other sign of emotion than this lip-paleness turned to her play. But Deronda's gaze seemed to have acted as an evil eye. Her stake was gone. No matter; she had been winning ever since she took to roulette with a few napoleons at command, and had a considerable reserve. She had begun to believe in her luck, others had begun to believe in it: she had visions of being followed by a cortège who would worship her as a goddess of luck and watch her play as a directing augury. Such things had been known of male gamblers; why should not a woman have a like supremacy? Her friend and chaperon who had not wished her to play at first was beginning to approve, only administering the prudent advice to stop at the right moment and carry money back to England — advice to which Gwendolen had replied that she cared for the excitement of play, not the winnings. On that supposition the present moment ought to have made the flood-tide in her eager experience of gambling. Yet, when her next stake was swept away, she felt the orbits of her eyes getting hot, and the certainty she had (without looking) of that man still watching her was something like a pressure which begins to be torturing. The more reason to her why she should not flinch, but go on playing as if she were indifferent to loss or gain. Her friend touched her elbow and proposed that they should quit the table. For reply Gwendolen put ten louis on the same spot: she was in that mood of defiance in which the mind loses sight of any end beyond the satisfaction of enraged resistance; and with the puerile stupidity of a dominant impulse includes luck among its objects of defiance. Since she was not winning strikingly, the next best thing was to lose strikingly. She controlled her muscles, and showed no tremor of mouth or hands. Each time her stake was swept off she doubled it. Many were now watching her, but the sole observation she was conscious of was Deronda's, who, though she never looked toward him, she was sure had not moved away. Such a drama takes no long while to play out: development and catastrophe can often be measured by nothing clumsier than the moment-hand. "Faites votre jeu, mesdames et messieurs," said the automatic voice of destiny from between the mustache and imperial of the croupier: and Gwendolen's arm was stretched to deposit her last poor heap of napoleons. "Le jeu ne va plus," said destiny. And in five seconds Gwendolen turned from the table, but turned resolutely with her face toward Deronda and looked at him. There was a smile of irony in his eyes as their glances met; but it was at least better that he should have kept his attention fixed on her than that he disregarded her as one of an insect swarm who had no individual physiognomy. Besides, in spite of his superciliousness and irony, it was difficult to believe that he did not admire her spirit as well as her person: he was young, handsome, distinguished in appearance — not one of these ridiculous and dowdy Philistines who thought it incumbent on them to blight the gaming-table with a sour look of protest as they passed by it. The general conviction that we are admirable does not easily give way before a single negative; rather when any of Vanity's large family, male or female, find their performance received coldly, they are apt to believe that a little more of it will win over the unaccountable dissident. In Gwendolen's habits of mind it had been taken for granted that she knew what was admirable and that she herself was admired. This basis of her thinking had received a disagreeable concussion, and reeled a little, but was not easily to be overthrown.

In the evening the same room was more stiflingly heated, was brilliant with gas and with the costumes of ladies who floated their trains along it or were seated on the ottomans.

The Nereid in sea-green robes and silver ornaments, with a pale sea-green feather fastened in silver falling backward over her green hat and light brown hair, was Gwendolen Harleth. She was under the wing, or rather soared by the shoulder, of the lady who had sat by her at the roulette-table; and with them was a gentleman with a white mustache and clipped hair: solid-browed, stiff and German. They were walking about or standing to chat with acquaintances, and Gwendolen was much observed by the seated groups.

"A striking girl — that Miss Harleth — unlike others."

"Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now — all green and silver, and winds her neck about a little more than usual."

"Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?"

"Very. A man might risk hanging for her — I mean a fool might."

"You like a nez retroussé, then, and long narrow eyes?"

"When they go with such an ensemble."

"The ensemble du serpent?"

"If you will. Woman was tempted by a serpent; why not man?"

"She is certainly very graceful; but she wants a tinge of color in her cheeks. It is a sort of Lamia beauty she has."

"On the contrary, I think her complexion one of her chief charms. It is a warm paleness; it looks thoroughly healthy. And that delicate nose with its gradual little upward curve is distracting. And then her mouth — there never was a prettier mouth, the lips curled backward so finely, eh, Mackworth?"

"Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty — the curves are too immovable. I like a mouth that trembles more."

"For my part, I think her odious," said a dowager. "It is wonderful what unpleasant girls get into vogue. Who are these Langens? Does anybody know them?"

"They are quite comme il faut. I have dined with them several times at the Russie. The baroness is English. Miss Harleth calls her cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as possible."

"Dear me! and the baron?"

"A very good furniture picture."

"Your baroness is always at the roulette-table," said Mackworth. "I fancy she has taught the girl to gamble."

"Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game; drops a ten-franc piece here and there. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak."

"I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich? Who knows?"

"Ah, who knows? Who knows that about anybody?" said Mr. Vandernoodt, moving off to join the Langens.

The remark that Gwendolen wound her neck about more than usual this evening was true. But it was not that she might carry out the serpent idea more completely: it was that she watched for any chance of seeing Deronda, so that she might inquire about this stranger, under whose measuring gaze she was still wincing. At last her opportunity came.

"Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody," said Gwendolen, not too eagerly, rather with a certain languor of utterance which she sometimes gave to her clear soprano. "Who is that near the door?"

"There are half a dozen near the door. Do you mean that old Adonis in the George the Fourth wig?"

"No, no; the dark-haired young man on the right with the dreadful expression."

"Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly fine fellow."

"But who is he?"

"He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger."

"Sir Hugo Mallinger?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"No." (Gwendolen colored slightly.) "He has a place near us, but he never comes to it. What did you say was the name of that gentleman near the door?"

"Deronda — Mr. Deronda."

"What a delightful name! Is he an Englishman?"

"Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You are interested in him?"

"Yes. I think he is not like young men in general."

"And you don't admire young men in general?"

"Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can't at all guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What does he say?"

"Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for a good hour last night on the terrace, and he never spoke — and was not smoking either. He looked bored."


Excerpted from Daniel Deronda by George Eliot. Copyright © 2016 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements vi(1)
Abbreviations and References vii(2)
Introduction ix(14)
Note on the Text xxiii(2)
Select Bibliography xxv(2)
A Chronology of George Eliot xxvii
BOOK I. The Spoiled Child
BOOK II. Meeting Streams
BOOK III. Maidens Choosing
BOOK IV. Gwendolen gets her Choice
BOOK V. Mordecai
BOOK VI. Revelations
BOOK VII. The Mother and the Son
BOOK VIII. Fruit and Seed
Explanatory Notes 697(28)
Appendix: The Chronology of Daniel Deronda 725

Reading Group Guide

1. 1. Examine George Eliot’s first epigraph, which begins, “Let thy chief terror be of thine own soul.” Why do you think the author chose to set her story in motion with this poetic warning?

2. 2. Summarize the two intersecting story lines represented by Gwendolen Harleth and Daniel Deronda. The prominent critic F. R. Leavis suggested that Daniel Deronda would be vastly improved by removing the Jewish story line, leaving Gwendolen Harleth’s story to stand on its own. Do you agree that this literary surgery would have been an improvement? What would be lost if Eliot had chosen to shape the novel in this fashion?

3. 3. Consider how the principal characters in the novel - the Mallingers, the Meyricks, Gwendolen, Grandcourt, Mirah, and Mordecai - view Daniel Deronda. Does it contrast with the way he views himself? How do his self-image and his aspirations change over the course of the novel?

4. 4. Speaking through a fictional character in an 1876 piece he wrote for The Atlantic Monthly, Henry James noted that “Gwendolen Harleth is a masterpiece. She is known, felt, and presented, psychologically, altogether in the grand manner. Beside her and beside her husband - a consummate picture of English brutality refined and distilled (for Grandcourt is before all things brutal) - Deronda, Mordecai, and Mirah are hardly more than shadows.” Do you agree with his assessment?

5. 5. Daniel Deronda’s mother, the Princess Halm-Eberstein, tells her son, “You are not a woman. You may try—but you can never imagine what it is to have a man’s force of genius in you, and yet to suffer the slavery of being a girl.” Consider the female characters in the novel, including Gwendolen, Mrs. Glasher, Mirah, and the princess. What is their place in Victorian society, and how do they deal with their limited options? What gives Catherine Arrowpoint the strength to defy her parents and marry Herr Klesmer?

6. 6. In an 1876 letter to Harriet Beecher Stowe, George Eliot wrote, “As to the Jewish element in Deronda . . . precisely because I felt that the usual attitude of Christians towards Jews is—I hardly know whether to say more impious or more stupid when viewed in the light of their professed principles, I therefore felt urged to treat Jews with such sympathy and understanding as my nature and knowledge could attain to.” How would you characterize Eliot’s Victorian depiction of Jewish people and their cultural and religious heritage?

7. 7. Throughout the novel, how does Eliot explore the themes of social class, power, and respectability?

8. 8. On his wedding day, Daniel receives a letter from Gwendolen that repeats her emotional claim: “It is better—it shall be better with me because I have known you.” Do you think this is true? How would you describe the complex relationship between Gwendolen Harleth and Daniel Deronda?

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Daniel Deronda (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 55 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I do not know anyone who has ever read this book and had never heard of it, but what an unexpected surprise it was. I had a hard time putting it down. Follows the lives of two main characters - Gwendolyn - who reminded me of Scarlett O'Hara and Deronda- a man with a good and genuine heart. There is also the pompous Grandcourt character you just want to punch! Great plot - will keep the pages turning. Only negative (which can easily be skipped through without missing anything)was that some of the religious philosophy of Mordecai was a bit too wordy for me. However, you will not be disappointed.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I consider myself a fan of the nineteenth century British novel, but never have I read one as unputdownable as Daniel Deronda. Eliot mangages to craft a novel with texture as rich and complex as a Flemish tapestry, without ever slackening the pace of a riveting story. In Deronda himself she creates a hero whose unimpeachable moral integrity is balanced by a touching personal vulnerability. None of her characters, down to the members of Society who attend the balls and soirees to utter one line and be forgotten, are flat. I found Daniel Deronda to be a brilliant, evocative book, and a hugely satisfying read.
blkeyesuzi More than 1 year ago
Give yourself an opportunity to read a true classic and escape into a completely different time and place. Victorian England lays the stage as two major dramas unfold. Follow strong-willed Gwendolyn as she learns what it is that her heart really desires when she is forced to make a life-changing decision, thus realizing she is stronger than she ever imagined. Meanwhile Daniel Deronda saves a young woman from drowning and finds himself trying to unlock the mystery of her past and becomes all the more intrigued with her and the truths he uncovers. Daniel's search for truth about her past may ultimately bring him closer to knowledge of himself...Is he willing to change who he has believed himself to be all this time? I love a novel that is smart and well thought-out. No wonder this one is a classic! Beautifully rich characters. Great story!!! LOVED IT!!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
A great writer's moral passion embraces the Zionist cause in this complex and intricate novel.If not her greatest work certainly one worth careful reading and study.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is a moving, riviting, and spiritual thing. It has everything anyone is looking for in a good read. If you like the book,...buy the movie!
Cosmickate on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Daniel Deronda is one of the most admirable and remarkable characters I've ever encountered. He is saintly and kind but he hasn't been very dynamic in the novel. However, Gwendolyn Harneth takes the place of the female protagonist who was a spoiled brat at first but has encountered so many strifes, brought about by the consequences of her actions, which led her to a painful curve towards learning. Eliot's attempt to explore Jewish mysticism is difficult to muddle through, even with copious footnotes. I love this book but I'm looking forward to read Mill of the Floss and Middlemarch this year so I am not certain which one I will like best until I read the others.
gbill on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
There are few times when I find myself completely agreeing with critics of the books I read, but in the case of "Daniel Deronda" (1876) I found the observation from F.R. Leavis that the book ought to have been split in half and the good part be published separately under the title "Gwendolen Harleth" dead-on. For "Daniel Deronda" has two main story lines which are only loosely coupled, and while the one featuring haughty and spiritually bereft Gwendolen Harleth sizzles from the first page ("Was she beautiful or not beautiful?"), the other, featuring the Jewish characters Mirah, Mordecai, and Daniel drag the book down. Comparing the book to her masterpiece "Middlemarch" may be unfair, but what's missing is its breadth of characters and life; in the Deronda portions of the book in particular Eliot is too heavy-handed and often falls into over-analysis. There are some who will recoil at occasional overt anti-semitic statements; I cut Eliot some slack because (1) as with other authors we must remember the time in which she wrote, (2) the overall message about the profundity of the Jewish faith embodied in its spiritual characters is quite positive, and (3) Eliot was about 20 years ahead of her time in suggesting that a separate Israeli state be created (Herzl's "The Jewish State" was published in 1896), though she was a bit naive ("there will be a land set for a halting-place of enmities, a neutral ground..." Ha!). It's also clear from a letter she wrote to Harriet Beecher Stowe that her intentions were 100% good.The character of Gwendolen is memorable, as is her marriage to the reptilian Grandcourt, who slowly but surely squeezes the life out of her like a boa constrictor. If the book could have been 200-300 pages shorter such that the Deronda portions were present but streamlined and a subplot, it would have been far better.Quotes:On marriage:"...to become a wife and wear all the domestic fetters of that condition, was on the whole a vexatious necessity. Her observation of matrimony had inclined her to think it rather a dreary state, in which a woman could not do what she liked, had more children than were desirable, was consequently dull, and became irrevocably immersed in humdrum. Of course marriage was social promotion; she could not look forward to a single life; but promotions have sometimes to be taken with bitter herbs...""Perhaps other men's lives were of the same kind - full of secrets which made the ignorant suppositions of the women they wanted to marry a farce at which they were laughing in their sleeves."Further, on women's position in the world:"We women can't go in search of adventures - to find out the North-West passage or the source of the Nile, or to hunt tigers in the East. We must stay where we grow, or where the gardeners like to transplant us. We are brought up like flowers, to look as pretty as we can, and be dull without complaining. That is my notion about the plants: they are often bored, and that is the reason why some of them have got poisonous.""You are not a woman. You can try - but you can never imagine what it is to have a man's force of genius in you, and yet to suffer the slavery of being a girl. To have a pattern cut out - 'this is the Jewish woman; this is what you must be; this is what you are wanted for; a woman's heart must be of such a size and no larger, else it must be pressed small, like Chinese feet; her happiness is to be made as cakes are, by a fixed receipt.' That was what my father wanted."On the goodness that exists potentially in all of us:"...if only these two beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselves to each other then and there, and never through life have swerved from that pledge! For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there. Goodness is a large, often prospective word; like harvest, which at one stage when we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate future: is the germ prospering in the darkness? at anot
keristars on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is one of those works of classic British literature that is apparently absolutely fantastic and a must read for everyone (especially English majors), but which is extremely difficult and at times mind-numbingly boring.I like George Eliot, I really do. I think she was a great writer, and the themes and techniques she uses in her novels are pretty cool and make for some fun discussions (that is, if you're the kind of person who gets into conversations about, as one example, the rise of the middle class/democracy in the nineteenth century as shown in really long novels). But I don't like reading her books. Daniel Deronda didn't keep my attention, and I felt like I had to force myself through the middle section, and I never did read the entire thing, though I skipped to the end and I have a good idea of how the story goes. Maybe one day, I'll go back to the novel and try it again, but that probably won't be until I've read absolutely everything else on my shelves, I'm sure.Daniel Deronda is marginally more entertaining than Mill on the Floss, and definitely more enjoyable than David Copperfield, but it's really really long and Victorian, and, well, I'd rather see a film version than read it.
wordebeast on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Still, IMHO, the best Eliot. Bigger issues, and you always know Eliot's way smarter than you and point/counter-pointed it already.
awilliamson on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is my all time favorite novel. Eliot managed to combine the social issues of prejudice, upbringing, and class creating a wonderful tale of love and finding one's own self.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ivy~~Ferns then tries to rember where the book is and utterly fails. (All my searched got dleted during my absense.)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
"Thank thee, thy Majesty." When she was seated, she held the reigns. "Care to ride alongside me? Or is thy Highness to busy in courting the Princess Snow?" Her eyes held a teasing gleam.
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popeyeswench More than 1 year ago
Daniel Deronda is immensely quotable with such lines as, “I think I dislike what I don't like more than I like what I like.” And, “Ignorance gives one a large range of probabilities.” And, “I shall never love anybody. I can't love people. I hate them.” The aristocracy are great in Eliot’s hand.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I made it through all the scanning errors and - end of part one...
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Horrible digital transfer
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