Mr. American

Mr. American

George MacDonald Fraser

Language: English

Pages: 592

ISBN: 078670554X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

"A self-confident performance by an old hand. . . . Mr. Fraser clearly enjoys being master of such a wide and wild plot and makes sure to leave room in it for his most famous creation, the eponymous hero of his "Flashman" adventure series."-- "The New Yorker"

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ten years back. Sayles and Charley Siringo got him." "That was Lonny!" Logan gestured impatiently. "I'm talking about Henry. You didn't know him--he never left Dodson, Missouri, and he's still there, working his ass off for his wife and family. He wasn't like me and Lonny--Henry was the straight one, who never played hooky and won the tickets in Sunday School and stayed out of saloons and cathouses. Respectable, Henry was; a good kid. If anyone can use the money well, he can. I want him to

I've said here today is gospel." She looked at the judge. "She didn't try to hit me with the axe. She was just hitting the painting. That's the truth, my lord." The judge nodded solemnly, and looked at Mr Lees, who sat down. Sir Huntly said nothing, since this aspect of the case was no concern of his, but Mr Stratton arose and did what he could on behalf of his client, Millicent Shore. But beyond getting Pip to restate that her evidence was true, and the account in the papers a mixture of

opponent this time had all his cards in the hole, none showing, and the opponent himself, with his long nose and sleepy eyes and avuncular manner and gentle voice was a damned sight more dangerous than any Kid Curry or Deaf Charley Hanks, heeled or not. If he was an opponent--he _must_ be--and yet Mr Franklin could still not be entirely sure. There was no absolute certainty yet that Crawford had even a hand or a stake to get into the game. "No, they're my own guns," he said easily, as any

who, if they could have come back to life, and could have known all that had happened in three hundred years, would have looked at him and thought, why, that is the son of Luke, who was the son of John, who was the child of Matthew's people who went to the New World in the time of the Great Rebellion, the King's War. But they were ghosts, from a long time ago--and yet, his own father was a ghost, too, from only a little closer in time. He had no kin, no one anywhere, who was really any closer

evident relief; Soveral was smiling at his elbow, and to Mr Franklin's surprise the packet he had brought for Mrs Keppel was twitched surreptitiously from his hand. There seemed to be about a dozen people in the room, in evening clothes--there was the King, portly but immaculate, seated by the fire, puffing on a cigarette, with Mrs Keppel at his elbow, a Junoesque figure in crimson, with diamonds in her hair and sparkling on her celebrated bosom; Soveral was attracting her attention. Mr Franklin

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