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" "Tis a long journey, Sir, replied the master of the inn — — unless a man has great business. — — Tut! tut! said the stranger, I have been at the promontory of Noses; and have got me one of the goodliest, thank Heaven, that ever fell to a single man’s lot.
Whilst the stranger was giving this odd account of himself, the master of the inn and his wife kept both their eyes fixed full upon the stranger’s nose — — By saint Radagunda, said the inn-keeper’s wife to herself, there is more of it than in any dozen of the largest noses put together in all Strasburg! is it not, said she, whispering her husband in his ear, is it not a noble nose?
’Tis an imposture, my dear,' said the master of the inn — — ’tis a false nose.'
’Tis a true nose,' said his wife.
’Tis made of fir-tree,' said he, I smell the turpentine. — —
'There’s a pimple on it,' said she.
’Tis a dead nose,' replied the inn-keeper.
’Tis a live nose, if I am alive myself,' said the inn-keeper’s wife.
The stranger had not got half a league on his way towards Frankfort before were just ringing to call the Strasburgers to their devotions, and shut up the duties of the day in prayer: — no soul in all Strasburg heard ’em — the city was like a swarm of bees — — men, women, and children, (the Compline bells tinkling all the time) flying here and there — in at one door, out at another — — this way and that way — long ways and cross ways — up one street, down another street — — in at this alley, out of that — — did you see it? did you see it? did you see it? O! did you see it? — — who saw it? who did see it? for mercy’s sake, who saw it?
Alack o’day! I was at vespers! — I was washing, I was starching, I was scouring, I was quilting — — God help me! I never saw it — — I never touch’d it! — — would I had been a centinel, a bandy-legg’d drummer, a trumpeter, a trumpeter’s wife, was the general cry and lamentation in every street and corner of Strasburg.
Laurence Sterne (24 November 1713 – 18 March 1768) was an Anglo-Irish novelist and an Anglican clergyman. He is best known for his novels The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, and A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy; but he also published sermons, wrote memoirs, and was involved in local politics.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Time wastes too fast: every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen; the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about they neck, are flying over our heads light like clouds of a windy day, never to return more — every thing presses on — whilst thou art twisting that lock, — see! it grows grey; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make. — — Heaven have mercy on us both!
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