Your name?" George asked him directly. He had probably seen the man a dozen times before yet did not know anything about him. King Davit would have no doubt have known half the man's history already. "Henry." George took Henry's hand firmly in his own and looked into his eyes. This had to be done delicately, to make sure this Henry did not think him a fool. He tried to think of how his father would do it. "Thank you, Henry, for your concern. It is a comfort to know I am so well guarded. I will make sure to praise you when next I speak to the lord general. But for now I think there is no need to worry.
Mette Ivie Harrison
Charlotte, darling, Henry said to his wife, who was staring at im in gape-mouthed horror. Jassamine, beside her, was wided eyed. Sorry im late. You know, i think i might nearly have the sensor working- Will interrupted. Henry, he said, your on fire. You do know that, don't you? Oh, yes, Henry said eagerly. The flames were now nearly to his shoulder. I've been working like a man possessed all day. Charlotte, did you hear what i said about the sensor? Charlotte dropped her hand from her mouth. Henry! She shrieked. Your arm! Henry glanced down at his arm, and his mouth dropped open. Bloody hell!
I've gotten my Phosphor to work at last.' Henry proudly brandished the object. 'It functions on the principle of witchlight but is five times more powerful. Merely press a button, and you will see a blaze of light the like of which you have never imagined.' There was a silence. 'So, ' said Will finally, 'it's a very, very bright witchlight, then?' 'Exactly, ' Henry said. 'Is that useful, precisely?' Jem inquired. 'After all, witchlight is just for illumination. It's not as if it's dangerous... ' 'Wait till you see it!' Henry replied. He held up the object. 'Watch.' Will moved to object, but it was too late; Henry had already pressed the button. There was a blinding flare of light and a whooshing sound, and the room was plunged into blackness. Tessa gave a yelp of surprise, and Jem laughed softly. 'Am I blind?' Will's voice floated out of the darkness, tinged with annoyance. 'I'm not going to be at all pleased if you've blinded me, Henry.' 'No.' Henry sounded worried. 'No, the Phosphor seems to- Well, it seems to have turned all the lights in the room off.' 'It's not supposed to do that?' Jem sounded mild, as always. 'Er, ' said Henry, 'no.
HENRY BOY THEY BROKE YOUR TOYS THIS MORNING, HENRY RODE YOUR BOARD RIGHT INTO DUST SURROUNDED YOU WITH STRANGERS WHO YOU COULD NOT TRUST AND THEN THEY HAD THE GALL TO WRITE YOUR NAME UP ON THE GIRLS' ROOM WALL AND SEND YOU OUT TO MARIA WHO SPOKE OF BABIES AND ALL AND WANTED TO SHOOT YOUR JOY IT'S A HARD WORLD WHEN YOU'RE THE NEW KID IN TOWN AIN'T IT, HENRY BOY
Henry, ' at last said one, again dipping the spoon into the flaming spirit, 'hast thou read Hoffman?' 'I should think so, ' said Henry. 'What think you of him?' 'Why, that he writes admirably; and, moreover, what is more admirable - in such a manner that you see at once he almost believes that which he relates. As for me, I know very well that when I read him of a dark night, I am obliged to creep to bed without shutting my book, and without daring to look behind me.' 'Indeed; then you love the terrible and fantastic?' 'I do, ' said Henry. ("The Dead Man's Story
James Hain Friswell
Once Henry had heard a crying noise at sea, and had seen a mermaid floating on the ocean's surface. The mermaid had been injured by a shark. Henry had pulled the mermaid out of the water with a rope, and she had died in his arms..."what language did the mermaid speak?" Alma wanted to know, imagining that it like almost have to be Greek. "English!" Henry said. "By God, plum, why would I rescue a deuced foreign mermaid?
A young nurse, someone new whom he didn't recognise, came up to Henry and patted him on the arm. "Are you a friend or a family member?" She whispered the question in his ear, trying not to disturb Sheldon. The question hung there like a beautiful chord, ringing in the air. Henry was Chinese, Sheldon obviously wasn't. They looked nothing alike. Nothing at all. "I'm distant family, " Henry said.
A young nurse, someone new whom he didn't recognise, came up to Henry and patted him on the arm. "Are you a friend or a family member?" She whispered the question in his ear, trying not to disturb Sheldon. The question hung there like a beautiful chord, ringing in the air. Henry was Chinese, Sheldon obviously wasn't. They looked nothing alike. Nothing at all. "I'm distant family," Henry said.
Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're the Doctor of my dreams With your crinkly hair and your glassy stare And your Machiavellian schemes I know they say that you are very vain And short and fat and pushy But at least you're not insane Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer You're so chubby and so neat With your funny clothes and your squishy nose You're like a German parakeet All right so people say that you don't care But you've got nicer legs than Hitler And bigger tits than Cher Henry Kissinger How I'm missing yer And wishing you were here
While reading writers of great formulatory power "" Henry James, Santayana, Proust "" I find I can scarcely get through a page without having to stop to record some lapidary sentence. Reading Henry James, for example, I have muttered to myself, "C'mon, Henry, turn down the brilliance a notch, so I can get some reading done." I may be one of a very small number of people who have developed writer's cramp while reading.
English history turned on Henry VIII and his desires, his whims almost. And it was down to Cromwell to make those desires happen. He was the guy that fixed it. He was also the guy that eased Henry's conscience. Because Henry VIII had an enormous, tender conscience and great theological knowledge.
In a manner akin to the influence of Tiger Woods on the other side of the Atlantic, Thierry Henry has helped kick down a few of the remaining bigoted stereotypes. Through his undisputable class and dignity, Henry has made a deep-seated difference to race relations in this country. Racism will flounder whenever white children grow up with a black man as their hero. That so few comment on Henry's colour is a silent tribute to his impact.
Henry's face went red in anger as he blustered at her audacity. It wasn't often anyone got the better of him, and Sin knew no woman had ever flummoxed him before. Not even Eleanor. "You are willing to declare war for him ?" Henry asked indignantly. She didn't hesitate with her response. "I am. Are you?" Sin closed his eyes as he heard the most precious words of his life. She who believed in nothing but peace was willing to fight for him. He could die happily knowing that. Still, he couldn't let her do this. Henry would not rest until he buried her and her clan. A king's reputation was all he had, and if Henry lost face... "Callie, " Sin said, waiting until her gaze met his. "Thank you, but you can't do this. You can't start a war over me. I'm not worth the cost." "You are worth everything to me.
Tell me, Clare: why on earth would a lovely girl like you want to marry Henry?' Everything in the room seems to hold its breath. Henry stiffens but doesn't say anything. I lean forward and smile at Mr. DeTamble and say, with enthusiasm, as though he has asked me what flavor of ice cream I like best: 'Because he's really, really good in bed.' In the kitchen there's a howl of laughter. Mr. DeTamble glances at Henry, who raises his eyebrows and grins, and finally even Mr. DeTamble smiles, and says 'Touche, my dear.
This is a powder that when applied to the air causes ghosts to become visible, ' Henry said. Magnus tilted the jar of shining grains up to the lamp admiringly, and when Henry beamed in an encouraging fashion, Magnus removed the cork. 'It seems very fine to me, ' he said, and on a whim he poured it upon his hand. It coated his brown skin, gloving one hand in shimmering luminescence. 'And in addition to its practical uses, it would seem to work for cosmetic purposes. This powder would make my very skin glimmer for eternity.' Henry frowned. 'Not eternity, ' he said, but then he brightened. 'But I could make you up another batch whenever you please!' 'I could shine at will!' Magnus grinned at Henry
Charlotte, darling," Henry said to his wife, who was staring at him in gape-mouthed horror. Jessamine, beside her, was wide eyed. "Sorry I'm late. You know, I think I might nearly have the Sensor working-" Will interrupted. "Henry," he said, "You're on fire. You do know that don't you?
It had been an awful thing to lose Henry the first time, to matrimony, but to discover what a false front he was capable of was another kind of blow, and it had left her almost speechless. Then there was the fury with herself-for she had known what Henry's love was, and still she had gone back to suffer a little more at his hands.
It had been an awful thing to lose Henry the first time, to matrimony, but to discover what a false front he was capable of was another kind of blow, and it had left her almost speechless. Then there was the fury with herself""for she had known what Henry's love was, and still she had gone back to suffer a little more at his hands.
And as if the professor could read Henry's mind, he said, "It's a curious thing, change. You never get used to it, and you're never sure where it comes from, but you better learn to expect it." "I don't recognize the quotation." Henry frowned, trying to place it. "That's because it isn't one. It is simply advice, and advice you'd be well advised to take, especially now.
There are a lot of parallels between the historical Henry VIII and Jonathan Rhys Meyers. There's an oscillation and extremity of emotion throughout his repertoire that lends itself beautifully to the nature of Henry VIII, definitely. He will push things to the limit, and yet remain in emotional control.
We knew we were doomed. The kiss was a warm acceptance of years of bickering, years of me consuming foods that I found barely edible and Henry tidying up after someone who already thought she had tidied up. When I kissed Henry I wasn't imagining Ex-boyfriend #13; I was picturing Husband #1.
Henry turned as if to dart out of the room, then swung around and stared at them, a look of confusion passing over his freckled face, as if he had only now had cause to wonder why Will, Tessa, and Jem might be crouching together in a mostly disused storage room. "What are you three doing in here, anyway?" Will tilted his head to the side and smiled at Henry. "Charades, " he said. "Massive game.
And what does he feel?" "He feels uneasy. A little afaid. Angry. Oddly, a hint of pride." "Good, " Henry said. "ANd where are you?" "Backstage." Henry shook his head gravely. "THere's no such thing as backstage. The play begins, and there's only the world it dramatizes. Now, where are you?" "With my father, the president. In his chambers." "Right. With me. Your father. And now-this is important-do you love me?" Nelson considered this; or rather, Nelson, as Alejo, considered this. "Yes, " he said after a moment. "I do." "Good. Remember that. In every scene-even when you hate me, you also love me. That's why it hurts. Got it?" Nelson said that he did. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Good. Because it does hurt, " Henry said. "DOn't forget that. It's supposed to. Always.
Roger stooped, picked up a stone, aimed and threw it at Henry-threw it to miss. The stone, that token of preposterous time, bounced five yards to Henry's right and fell in the water. Roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them. Yet there was a space round Henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw. Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. Round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law. Roger was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.
I've been religiously reading the O. Henry Prize anthologies every year since college, when I first began trying to write stories. Many of the authors whose work I cherish the most were people I first learned about through The O. Henry Prize Stories - and then I'd go search for their books.
And in addition to its practical uses, it would seem to work for cosmetic purposes. This powder would make my very skin glimmer for eternity." Henry frowned. "Not eternity," he said, but then he brightened. "But I could make you up another batch whenever you please!" "I could shine at will!" Magnus grinned at Henry.
And then she said nothing else, for Henry put his arms around her and kissed her. Kissed her in such a way that she no longer felt plain, or conscious of her hair or the ink spot on her dress or anything but Henry, whom she had always loved. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks, and when he drew away, he touched her wet face wonderingly. "Really," he said. "You love me, too, Lottie?
Henry shook his head, 'I was drunk, ' he said, trying to sound both ashamed and firm in this belief. He remembered the rosebush incident very clearly, of course, but he knew that sneaking into the bedroom window of his fiancee's little sister wasn't something he wanted to explain to his father. Sometimes, Henry reflected, being taken for a perpetual drunk was sort of convenient.
Henry shook his head, 'I was drunk,' he said, trying to sound both ashamed and firm in this belief. He remembered the rosebush incident very clearly, of course, but he knew that sneaking into the bedroom window of his fiancee's little sister wasn't something he wanted to explain to his father. Sometimes, Henry reflected, being taken for a perpetual drunk was sort of convenient.
Henry patted Charlotte's shoulder anxiously. "Would you like a cool cloth? What can I do to help?" "You could ride up to Yorkshire and chop that old goat's head off." Charlotte sounded mutinous. "Won't that make things rather awkward with the Clave?" asked Henry. "They're not generally very receptive about, you know, beheadings and things.
Another strike of lightening - now accompanied by the deep-bellied rumble, and the horse reared, incidentally setting Henry very picturesquely against the inconstant moon. Alas, Catherine was deeply engaged in her argument with Old Edric and this missed entirely the melodramatic display. But we may assume that, possessing so strong an imagination, Catherine had often pictured Henry thus...
Emily C.A. Snyder
The cave exploded with the sound of trumpets. A heavenly choir began to sing. A surge of power ran up the sword into Henry's hand. A voice thundered through the cavern. "Whosoever Pulleth The Sword From Out The Stone, Is Rightwise Born King of All England." Henry screamed and threw the sword into the lake.
That he'll never let you down. That boy's got a heart the size of Kentucky, and he loves you. That's important. Take it from someone who knows. My mom used to tell me that whatever you do, marry someone who loves you more than you love him. And I listened to her. Why do you think Henry and I get along so well? I'm not saying that I don't love him, because I do. But if I ever left Henry or something, God forbid, ever happened to me, I don't think he'll be able to go on. And that guy would risk his life for mine in a heartbeat.
(Patrick) Henry rightly understood that the moral condition of the American people was a direct product of their religious faith, and that politics and morality were inevitably intertwined. Thus, the political structure ultimately rested on a religious foundation. The "great pillars of all government and of social life, "Henry once observed, are virtue, morality, and religion.
David J. Vaughan
WELL THE NORTH SIDE IS FOR DIAMOND-STUDDED WOMAN SUBTLY SELLING THEIR WARES AND THE WEST SIDE IS FOR DEBUTANTES AND WOULD BE MILLIONAIRES OH THE EAST SIDE IS FOR LOST BOYS WHO KNOW THEIR MOVES TOO WELL THE SOUTH SIDE IS FOR GAMBLERS, HENRY BOY THE TRAIN STOPS ONCE FOR HELL IT'S A HARD WORLD WHEN THEY'RE FORCING YOU TO LIVE YOUR LIFE OUT ON BROADWAY BUT HENRY I'M SURE YOU'RE GONNA LIKE IT WELL
A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note of music, and the way the back of a baby's neck smells if it's mother keeps it tidy," answered Henry. "Correct," said Stuart. "Those are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?" "He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it," said Mary quickly.
E. B. White
I will say I was a lot bigger as Superman. A lot bigger. I'm not saying how much. It's modesty about the weight - I've always been worried about my weight - but I also don't want to invite that debate: 'Henry weighs this, so he's the perfect Superman.' Or, 'Henry doesn't weigh this, and therefore he's not believable in the role.'
No one was more important to the game of baseball in the last half of the 20th century than Henry Aaron and no one writes about that supremely talented man, that tumultuous time and this treasure of a game better than Howard Bryant. Together, they are an extraordinary combination, and the book Bryant has written gets to the heart of the complicated and dignified, patient and consistent genuine hero that is Henry Aaron.
It's a fine, warm day, ' Henry replied. 'I thought a spot of fishing?' 'Just the thing!' said Felix. 'Will you join us, Lucy?' Lucy felt Kitty and Sophia staring at her. Well-bred ladies, evidently, did not fish. 'Oh, no! I assure you, Mr. Crowley-Cumberbatch, I have given up those hoyden pursuits of my youth.' She turned to Toby. 'I haven't been fishing in ages. I can't remember the last time.' 'Really, Luce?' Toby sounded incredulous. 'Henry-is it true?' Henry sawed away at a slice of ham. 'If you count six days as ages, then I suppose it's true. But if you can't remember six days back, Lucy, and you've forgotten Felix's Christian name, I'm concerned for you. Perhaps you've been spending too much time with Aunt Matilda.
Owen, " Henry said excitedly, "I think Coach wants you to hit for Meccini." Owen closed The Voyage of the Beagle, on which he had recently embarked. "Really?" "Runners on first and second, " Rick said. "I bet he wants you to bunt." "What's the bunt sign?" "Two tugs on the left earlobe, " Henry told him. "But first he has to give the indicator, which is squeeze the belt. But if he goes to his cap with either hand or says your first name, that's the wipe-off, and then you have to wait and see whether-" "Forget it, " Owen said. "I'll just bunt.
At first I protested and rebelled against poetry. I was about to deny my poetic worlds. I was doing violence to my illusions with analysis, science, and learning Henry's language, entering Henry's world. I wanted to destroy by violence and animalism my tenuous fantasies and illusions and my hypersensitivity. A kind of suicide. The ignominy awakened me. Then June came and answered the cravings of my imagination and saved me. Or perhaps she killed me, for now I am started on a course of madness.
[Henry Miller] was such a scribomaniac that even when he lived in the same house as Lawrence Durrell they often exchanged letters. For most of his life, Henry wrote literally dozens of letters a day to people he could have easily engaged in conversation - and did. The writing process, in short, was essential. As it is to all real writers, writing was life and breath to him. He put out words as a tree puts out leaves.
Frank, I ran into Gladys and Billy at the store yesterday. Do you know what he said to me?" The girls went very quiet. Frank didn't look up. "Hello?" he asked, and kept rubbing Henry's knife. Dotty hit him with her rag. "He said that. And so did she. But the important part was when he said, 'Frank ever get that door open?' Do you know what I said? What I said was-Are you ready for this? I said, 'No, '" "Ah" Frank said. He lifted Henry's knife up to his mouth and dabbed the blade with his tongue. "That's my honest wife. I appreciate you lookin' out for my dignity.
Dear Eloisa (said I) there's no occasion for your crying so much about such a trifle. (for I was willing to make light of it in order to comfort her) I beg you would not mind it - You see it does not vex me in the least; though perhaps I may suffer most from it after all; for I shall not only be obliged to eat up all the Victuals I have dressed already, but must if Henry should recover (which however is not very likely) dress as much for you again; or should he die (as I suppose he will) I shall still have to prepare a Dinner for you whenever you marry any one else. So you see that tho perhaps for the present it may afflict you to think of Henry's sufferings, yet I dare say he'll die soon and then his pain will be over and you will be easy, whereas my Trouble will last much longer for work as hard as I may, I am certain that the pantry cannot be cleared in less than a fortnight
You can't learn to write in college. It's a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do""and they don't. They have prejudices. They may like Henry James, but what if you don't want to write like Henry James? They may like John Irving, for instance, who's the bore of all time. A lot of the people whose work they've taught in the schools for the last thirty years, I can't understand why people read them and why they are taught.
Henry Ford has several times sneered at unproductive stockholders.... Well, now. Let's see. Who made Henry Ford's own automobile company possible? The stockholders who originally advanced money to him. Who makes it possible for you and me to be carried to and from business by train or street car? Stockholders.... Who made our vast telephone and telegraph service possible? Stockholders.... Were stockholders all over the country to withdraw their capital from the enterprises in which they are invested, there would be a panic ... on a scale never before known.
B. C. Forbes
Henry flopped onto his bed, and his steam leaked slowly out. He began telling himself a story in his head. It was about how just and kind and understanding he was. It was about right he had been, how necessary his tone and word choice. It was about a girl who just didn't understand, who was completely ignorant. Then, for some reason, the narrator of the story included an incident in which Henry ha pushed an envelope into a strange place just to see what would happen. It hadn't even been an accident. The incident did not fit with the rest of the story, so Henry tried to ignored it. He couldn't ignore it, so he tried to explain it. Completely different things. The post office was obviously not dangerous. It was yellow. I just wanted to see what the mailman would do. The flashlight was stupid. I didn't shine a flashlight into the post office. She didn't even act sorry. I would have acted sorry. I always act sorry when people get upset. She didn't even care that I probably saved her life. She didn't know. She was unconscious. Oh, shut up.
What say you, Luxa?" said Vikus. "What can I say, Vikus? Can I return to our people and tell them I withdrew from the quest when our survival hangs in the balance?" said Luxa bitterly. "Of course you cannot, Luxa. This is why he times it so," said Henry. "You could choose to - " started Vikus. "I could choose! I could choose!" retorted Luxa. " Do not offer me a choice when you know none exits!" She and Henry turned their backs on Vikus.
I also remember when I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer  at, like, age 15. That scared the crap out of me. Because it didn't operate inside the usual conventions of the horror genre in the way that I could accept. I can accept horny teenager counselors being murdered at camp. But I couldn't accept the derangement of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which was that anyone could be murdered at any moment - whole families, with no build-up music and no meaning. It terrified me.
You can't learn to write in college. It's a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do-and they don't. They have prejudices. They may like Henry James, but what if you don't want to write like Henry James? They may like John Irving, for instance, who's the bore of all time. A lot of the people whose work they've taught in the schools for the last thirty years, I can't understand why people read them and why they are taught. The library, on the other hand, has no biases. The information is all there for you to interpret. You don't have someone telling you what to think. You discover it for yourself.
THE STORIES WE TELL fearlessly explores the textures of the human heart, finding a path toward hope through a Savannah that is jagged with class issues, faith misused, and broken trust. Henry loses you in a landscape peopled with secret keepers, storytellers and liars, and proves that in the end, love is the only reliable compass. This is everything you expect from Patti Callahan Henry""lyrical writing, characters worth rooting for, a sure-footed belief in the power of goodness""plus a twisty plot that will keep the pages turning long into the night.
Giraldus claimed that he had heard about Eleanor's adultery with Geoffrey from the saintly Bishop Hugh of Lincoln, who had learned of it from Henry II of England, Geoffrey's son and Eleanor's second husband. Eleanor was estranged from Henry at the time Giraldus was writing, and the king was trying to secure an annulment of their marriage from the Pope. It would have been to his advantage to declare her an adulterous wife who had had carnal relations with his father, for that in itself would have rendered their marriage incestuous and would have provided prima facie grounds for its dissolution.
I suppose I should include Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Alexandra's husband, but as he never spoke a word to me in my life except to say, 'Get off the fence, ' once, I never saw any reason to take notice of him. Neither did Aunt Alexandra. Long ago, in a burst of friendliness, Aunt and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named Henry, who left home as soon as was humanly possible, married, and produced Francis. Henry and his wife deposited Francis at his grandparents' every Christmas, then pursued their own pleasures.
To cope, he and his siblings - older and younger sisters, a younger brother - created a game called Henry Kissinger. Palahniuk remembers that as their parents fought, lots would be drawn to see who would play Kissinger. 'This was the early to mid-70s, when Kissinger was a hero, forging peace in the Middle East, ' he explains. 'Whoever became Henry Kissinger would have to go and redirect our parents' attention or anger to a different crisis.' The child who drew the short straw would severely hurt himself, presenting himself as 'this injured thing' in an effort to diffuse conflict.
La vida de Henry era tan fre¡gil como la de Xander o la de mi madre, y sente que empezaba a resquebrajarme. Me abrumaba tener que luchar sola por el. Henry se habea quedado en el banquillo porque yo lo habea obligado, porque lo habea llevado alle a rastras y lo habea obligado a seguir expectante, a mantenerse en guardia. No podea, sin embargo, obligarlo a que aquello le importara. Yo era la eºnica que luchaba por el, y ya no estaba segura de estar a la altura de las circunstancias.
Well, over here, this is a Sensor. It senses when demons are near.' He moved toward Magnus, and the Sensor made a loud wailing noise. 'Impressive!' Magnus exclaimed, pleased. He lifted a construction of fabric with a large dead bird perched atop it. 'And what is this?' 'The Lethal Bonnet, ' Henry declared. 'Ah, ' said Magnus. 'In times of need a lady can produce weapons from it with which to slay her enemies.' 'Well, no, ' Henry admitted. 'That does sound like a rather better idea. I do wish you had been on the spot when I had the notion. Unfortunately this bonnet wraps about the head of one's enemy and suffocates them, provided that they are wearing it at the time.' 'I imagine that it will not be easy to persuade Mortmain into a bonnet, ' Magnus observed. 'Though the color would be fetching on him
I don't know', ' he said. 'Those three words from a willing soul are the start of a grand and magnificent voyage.' And with that he began a discourse that lasted for several weeks, covering scene-setting, establishing conflict, plot twists, and first- and third-person narration. [ I learned in these rapid-fire mini-dissertations that like most literature lovers I would come to know, Henry was a book snob. He assumed that if a current author was popular and widely enjoyed, then he or she had no merit. He made a few exceptions, such as Kurt Vonnegut, although that was mostly because Vonnegut lived on Cape Cod and so he probably had some merits as a human being, if not as a writer. I think that the way Henry saw it was that he was not being a snob. In fact I would venture that in his view of things, snobbery had nothing to do with it. Rather, it was a matter of standards. It was bout quality in the author's craftsmanship.
John William Tuohy