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55 |
Blowback.txt
| 44 |
was jumping on a grenade thrown by a bad one. Kelly chose his words carefully. He reminded everyone in the room about the importance of swearing an oath to the Constitution instead of to a person. If we swore allegiance to a particular man or woman, he said, we’d be living in a despotism. Not a democracy. With that, a black-robed judge in front of the Resolute desk asked the general to raise his right hand and led him through a civic ritual that felt like last rites. Everyone who came with Kelly to the ceremony shared his view of the oath of office. He’d hired us for that reason. Kirstjen Nielsen, Elizabeth Neumann, Chad Wolf, Gene Hamilton, Chris Krebs, and me. We stood together feet from Donald Trump, united against the turbulence he was creating in the executive branch. The unity wouldn’t last. In the years to come, our group would fracture, as the commander in chief tested whether we were loyal to the Constitution—or to him. PART II The Founders intended for executive branch employees to be an internal guardrail for democracy. Although the chief executive was empowered to personally nominate the “assistants or deputies” to run agencies, the Senate would confirm them to ensure responsible leaders were picked. In addition, the Founders envisioned “the steady administration of the laws” by a workforce of duty-minded public servants who would faithfully operate the daily functions of government, regardless of who was president. “The true test of a good government,” Hamilton wrote under the pen name Publius, “is its aptitude and tendency to produce a good administration.” Donald Trump thoroughly dismantled this guardrail. He systematically sidelined or eliminated anyone who objected to his agenda or sought to restrain his impulses. By the end of four years, only the sycophants remained. It will be worse the next time around. In my interviews and conversations with former Trump officials, the most oft-repeated view was that a future MAGA administration would not be led by “the best men in the country,” as Publius hoped, but by the worst. THE NEXT TRUMP WILL INSTALL ONLY DEVOUT LOYALISTS IN TOP POSITIONS, WHILE PURGING DISSENTERS FROM THE EXECUTIVE BRANCH. The MAGA movement learned a hard lesson in Donald Trump’s first term: people are policy. The president appointed a vast array of public figures to key government posts, most of whom didn’t know the mercurial businessman. And they certainly weren’t willing to carry out policies that were plainly irresponsible, immoral, or illegal. In some cases, the internal resistance set Trump back years in carrying out his true intentions. John Bolton saw himself as one of those people. The former ambassador agreed to serve as White House national security advisor partway through Trump’s term. For a time, Bolton thought he was shielding agencies from Trump’s disruptive mood swings and sudden changes in policy direction. But the more the ambassador objected to the president’s bad ideas, the more he got left out of the conversation. “There would be secret meetings at Mar-a-Lago on national security issues,” a former aide to Bolton
| 0 |
41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 19 |
up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make. When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping. "Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened. "I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary." Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face. "I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things is about." He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy. "Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked. He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come." He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped. "I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other seeds." "Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said. She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made
| 1 |
57 |
Cold People.txt
| 67 |
holding it aloft – the head of their leader, the president of people. Echo was staggered by the savage spectacle and the delight they took in an execution. Arriving at her family’s side, she stood with them, ready to die if need be. Cho, the eldest female, attacked from the side. She picked Echo up, lifting her above her head. Despite her weight, she threw her with ease. It was Echo’s first fight and her first experience of pain. She’d never been trained in the art of combat, she’d never studied martial arts, she’d never even thrown a punch. Though she looked formidable, she was no warrior and had no knowledge of how to defend herself, let alone from a creature which seemed bred for conflict. Before she could get to her feet, Cho charged at her, as fast as a horse, her thin arms slashing downwards, razor-sharp digits cutting across Echo’s chest. With barely enough time to parry the blow, Echo covered her face, unsure whether her scales would be strong enough to resist the attack. The digits glanced over her arm without making a cut. Recalculating the strength of her opponent, Cho abandoned the attempt at slicing her open, picking her up once more and throwing her into the smouldering ruins of McMurdo City. Echo crashed through the charred timbers of the chapel, coming to a rest in hot ash. The heat from the remains of fire was awful, her scales turning black as they began to radiate the excess warmth. Standing up, she saw that Cho couldn’t come close, remaining on the outskirts of the fire, even more sensitive to the heat than she was. Echo realized that rather than radiating this surplus heat, she could use it as a weapon, exploiting these creatures’ only weakness – their inability to deal with warmth. As soon as she stepped off the ash and embers, Cho charged, but Echo was ready, sliding across the ice, under Cho’s torso and climbing onto her back. As Cho tried to shake her free, Echo held tight, clambering up to Cho’s head. Gripping on either side, channelling as much heat as possible, she released all the warmth her body had stored. For Cho, it was excruciating. Unable to cool down, unable to radiate this heat, she cried out, an anguished sound, charging madly across the ice, trying to dislodge Echo from her back. But Echo wouldn’t let go, aware she wouldn’t get a second chance. She could feel her own body cooling down as the heat raced into Cho’s head. She could hear the panicked telepathic cries for help. Eitan and the others hurried down the slope to assist. Echo pushed a final wave of intense warmth through her skull. Cho’s eyes turned white, like the eyes of a cooked fish, her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the ice. THE RUINS OF MCMURDO CITY SAME DAY THE COLONY OF COLD CREATURES gathered around the body of Cho, unable to comprehend that one of their family was gone, grappling with their mortality for the first
| 0 |
60 |
Divine Rivals.txt
| 75 |
a bomb that close … would it obliterate Marisol’s house? Would the blast level Avalon Bluff to the ground? Iris squinted against the sun, but the distance was too great; she couldn’t discern any details of the moving figure, other than they seemed to be briskly walking in defiance of the siren, and she hurried into Attie’s bedroom, finding her binoculars on the desk. Iris returned to her window with them, palms sweating profusely, and she looked through the lenses. It was blurry at first, a world of amber and green and shadows. Iris drew a long, calming breath and brought the binoculars into focus. She searched the field for the lone individual, at last finding them after what felt like a year. A tall, broad-shouldered body dressed in a gray jumpsuit was striding through the grass. They carried a typewriter case in one hand, a leather bag in the other. There was a badge over their chest—another war correspondent, Iris realized. She didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed as she dragged her eyes upward to their face. A sharp jaw, a scowling brow, and thick hair the color of ink, slicked back. Her mouth fell open with a gasp. She felt her pulse in her ears, swallowing all sound but that of her heart, pounding heavy and swift within her. She stared at the boy in the field; she stared at him as if she were dreaming. But then the truth shivered through her. She would know that handsome face anywhere. It was Roman Confounded Kitt. Her hands went cold. She couldn’t move as the seconds continued to pass and she realized he was this close to her and yet so far away, walking in a field. His ignorance was going to draw a bomb. He was destined to be blown apart and killed, and Iris tried to envision what her life would be like with him dead. No. She set down the binoculars. Her mind whirled as she turned and ran from her room, passing Attie on the stairs. “Iris? Iris!” Attie cried, reaching out to snag her arm. “Where are you going?” There was no time to explain; Iris evaded her friend and bolted down the hallway, out the back doors and through the garden they had just been kneeling and planting in mere minutes ago. She leapt over the low stone wall and dashed across the street, winding through the neighbor’s yard. Her lungs felt as if they had caught fire, and her heart was thrumming at the base of her throat. She finally reached the field. Iris sprinted, feeling the jolt in her knees, the wind dragging through her loose hair. She could see him now; he was no longer an unfamiliar shadow in a sea of gold. She could see his face, and the scowl lifted from his brow as he saw her. Recognized her. He finally sensed her terror. He set down his typewriter case and leather bag and broke into a run to meet her. Iris had lost count in her mind.
| 0 |
36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 60 |
and half ditto,--one containing flour, another apples, and a third, perhaps, Indian meal. There was likewise a square box of pine-wood, full of soap in bars; also, another of the same size, in which were tallow candles, ten to the pound. A small stock of brown sugar, some white beans and split peas, and a few other commodities of low price, and such as are constantly in demand, made up the bulkier portion of the merchandise. It might have been taken for a ghostly or phantasmagoric reflection of the old shopkeeper Pyncheon's shabbily provided shelves, save that some of the articles were of a description and outward form which could hardly have been known in his day. For instance, there was a glass pickle-jar, filled with fragments of Gibraltar rock; not, indeed, splinters of the veritable stone foundation of the famous fortress, but bits of delectable candy, neatly done up in white paper. Jim Crow, moreover, was seen executing his world-renowned dance, in gingerbread. A party of leaden dragoons were galloping along one of the shelves, in equipments and uniform of modern cut; and there were some sugar figures, with no strong resemblance to the humanity of any epoch, but less unsatisfactorily representing our own fashions than those of a hundred years ago. Another phenomenon, still more strikingly modern, was a package of lucifer matches, which, in old times, would have been thought actually to borrow their instantaneous flame from the nether fires of Tophet. In short, to bring the matter at once to a point, it was incontrovertibly evident that somebody had taken the shop and fixtures of the long-retired and forgotten Mr. Pyncheon, and was about to renew the enterprise of that departed worthy, with a different set of customers. Who could this bold adventurer be? And, of all places in the world, why had he chosen the House of the Seven Gables as the scene of his commercial speculations? We return to the elderly maiden. She at length withdrew her eyes from the dark countenance of the Colonel's portrait, heaved a sigh, --indeed, her breast was a very cave of Aolus that morning, --and stept across the room on tiptoe, as is the customary gait of elderly women. Passing through an intervening passage, she opened a door that communicated with the shop, just now so elaborately described. Owing to the projection of the upper story--and still more to the thick shadow of the Pyncheon Elm, which stood almost directly in front of the gable--the twilight, here, was still as much akin to night as morning. Another heavy sigh from Miss Hepzibah! After a moment's pause on the threshold, peering towards the window with her near-sighted scowl, as if frowning down some bitter enemy, she suddenly projected herself into the shop. The haste, and, as it were, the galvanic impulse of the movement, were really quite startling. Nervously--in a sort of frenzy, we might almost say--she began to busy herself in arranging some children's playthings, and other little wares, on the shelves and at the shop-window. In the aspect of
| 1 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 84 |
godly, efflorescence; (v) prosper, flourish, lost. ANTONYMS: (adj) religious thrive, progress, unfold. unimpressed, clear, oriented, blasted: (adj) cursed, infernal, ANTONYMS: (v) wither, Nathaniel Hawthorne 263 deteriorate, struggle, shrivel, shrink, bounding: (n) jumping, confinement; latitude, extent, area, broadness, fade, die; (n) withering (v) confine, salient; (adj) terminal, stretch. ANTONYMS: (n) length, blush: (n, v) glow, color; (v) redden, moving, subsultory longitude, emptiness, thinness crimson; (n) red, bloom, rosiness, boundless: (adj) limitless, endless, breastplate: (n) corselet, armour ruddiness, redness; (adj) bashful; unlimited, infinite, bottomless, plate, armor plating, armor plate; (n, (adv) blushingly. ANTONYMS: (v) incalculable, immense, v) shield, bulletproof vest; (v) blanch, pale, blench; (n) paleness immeasurable, interminable, cuirass, mask, gauntlet, apron, blushing: (adj) rosy, coy, blushful, unbounded, vast. ANTONYMS: armored vest flushed, red, shy, bashful, (adj) limited, restricted, confined, breathed: (adj) unvoiced, inaudible, overmodest, ruddy; (adv) finite, incomplete, negligible, small breathing, aphonic blushingly, ablush. ANTONYM: bounty: (adj, n) largesse; (n) breathless: (adj, adv) out of breath; (adj) pale abundance, bounteousness, (adj) panting, inanimate, bodice: (n) corsage, stays, corset, premium, blessing, prize, breathtaking, winded, choking, brassiere, top, slip, waist, corselet munificence, beneficence, puffing; (v) all agog, aghast; (adj, n) boldly: (adj, adv) courageously, generosity; (v) benefaction; (n, v) eager; (n) in hysterics. ANTONYMS: valiantly, heroically; (adv) gift. ANTONYMS: (n) miserliness, (adj) dull, expected, boring fearlessly, daringly, bravely, fine, insufficiency, penalty, brethren: (n) congregation, assembly, intrepidly, impudently, audaciously, meanness brother, people, laity, family, flock, shamelessly, brashly. ANTONYMS: bout: (n, v) round; (n) attack, spell, fold (adv) discreetly, modestly, turn, competition, fight, battle, brig: (n) barque, hermaphrodite brig, nervously, hesitantly, shyly, fighting, effort, game, fit snow, jail, bridge, prison, big house, fearfully, meekly, submissively, bowed: (adj) arched, curved, inclined, penal institution, ship secretly, respectfully, diffidently crooked, arciform, arching, arced, brightening: (n) blooming, polishing, boldness: (n) prowess, face, daring, bandy, arcuate, twisted, bended. limb, illumination, first blush, break valor, nerve, assurance, heroism, ANTONYMS: (adj) straight, of day audaciousness, spirit, cheek, valour. concave, plucked brightly: (adv) vividly, luminously, ANTONYMS: (n) cowardice, bowing: (n) obeisance, playing, radiantly, gaily, clearly, shiningly, shyness, timidity, meekness, gesticulation, capitulation, intensely, cheerfully, smartly, reticence genuflection, scraping, submission; bright, lustrously. ANTONYMS: bondage: (n) thrall, thraldom, (adj) bowed, bent, fawning, (adv) gloomily, drearily, bleakly, thralldom, slavery, captivity, submissive stupidly, dully, blankly, seriously, enslavement, duress, restraint, yoke, boyhood: (n) babyhood, adolescence, pessimistically vassalage; (adj, n) villenage. youth, youthhood, infancy, brightness: (n) luminance, light, ANTONYMS: (n) independence, girlhood, age, boyism, puberty. shine, clarity, lustre, glow, glare, emancipation, freedom ANTONYM: (n) adulthood glitter, luminosity; (n, v) boon: (n) blessing, benefit, mercy, boyish: (adj) young, puerile, illumination, gloss. ANTONYMS: concession, good, gratuity; (n, v) adolescent, youthful, babyish, (n) cloudiness, murkiness, dimness, benefaction, gift, grant; (adj) jocund, childish, girlish, kittenish, boylike, darkness, mistiness, softness, hilarious. ANTONYMS: (n) callow, immature. ANTONYM: (adj) sadness, bleakness, dirtiness, disadvantage, privation, disaster, mature pessimism; (adv) seriously minus branded: (adj) identified, known, brilliancy: (n, v) brightness; (n) boorish: (adj) loutish, vulgar, proprietary, recognized brilliance, lustre, luster, splendor, churlish, gruff, discourteous, rough, brat: (n) imp, bairn, rogue, urchin, glitter, glory, radiance, splendour; rude, crude, unrefined, coarse, scamp, kid, monkey, (adj, n) gorgeousness; (v) gloss barbaric. ANTONYMS: (adj) gallant,
| 1 |
29 |
Tarzan of the Apes.txt
| 34 |
left in it, we do not know how we can procure meat, though Mr. Philander says that we can exist indefinitely on the[O wild fruit and nuts which abound in the jungle. I am very tired now, so I shall go to my funny bed of grasses which Mr. Clayton gathered for me, but will add to this from day to day as things happen. Lovingly, JANE PORTER. TO HAZEL STRONG, BALTIMORE, MD. Tarzan sat in a brown study for a long time after he finished reading the letter. It was filled with so many new and wonderful things that his brain was in a whirl as he attempted to digest them all. So they did not know that he was Tarzan of the Apes. He would tell them. In his tree he had constructed a rude shelter of leaves and boughs, beneath which, protected from the rain, he had placed the few treasures brought from the cabin. Among these were some pencils. He took one, and beneath Jane Porter's signature he wrote: I am Tarzan of the Apes He thought that would be sufficient. Later he would return the letter to the cabin. In the matter of food, thought Tarzan, they had no need to worry--he would provide, and he did. The next morning Jane found her missing letter in the exact spot from which it had disappeared two nights before. She was mystified; but when she saw the printed words beneath her signature, she felt a cold, clammy chill run up her spine. She showed the letter, or rather the last sheet with the signature, to Clayton. Chapter 18 "And to think," she said, "that uncanny thing was probably watching me all the time that I was writing--oo! It makes me shudder just to think of it." "But he must be friendly," reassured Clayton, "for he has returned your letter, nor did he offer to harm you, and unless I am mistaken he left a very substantial memento of his friendship outside the cabin door last night, for I just found the carcass of a wild boar there as I came out." From then on scarcely a day passed that did not bring its offering of game or other food. Sometimes it was a young deer, again a quantity of strange, cooked food--cassava cakes pilfered from the village of Mbonga--or a boar, or leopard, and once a lion. Tarzan derived the greatest pleasure of his life in hunting meat for these strangers. It seemed to him that no pleasure on earth could compare with laboring for the welfare and protection of the beautiful white girl. Some day he would venture into the camp in daylight and talk with these people through the medium of the little bugs which were familiar to them and to Tarzan. But he found it difficult to overcome the timidity of the wild thing of the forest, and so day followed day without seeing a fulfillment of his good intentions. The party in the camp, emboldened by familiarity, wandered farther and yet farther into the jungle
| 1 |
52 |
A-Living-Remedy.txt
| 54 |
changed in the years since I left home. Four months after my mother died, a fire started fifteen minutes from her neighborhood. High winds carried the sparks far afield, allowing the blaze to grow and fan out for miles. Unlike the wildfires I remember from childhood, this one roared parallel to some of the busiest roads in the area, ravaging parkland, businesses, and thousands of homes. I was shocked to see news of the runaway destruction, although California wildfires had been in the news for weeks, and I’d heard about the terrible air quality in the Bay Area, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver. My home region lacks a major urban center and rarely draws outside media attention. But the damage was too vast to be ignored, and terrifying headlines and images from my parents’ tiny town of a few thousand residents soon filled my social media feeds. I checked on friends and acquaintances and tried to call my aunt, who had inherited my parents’ house after my mother died. When I didn’t get an answer, I texted Paula, who confirmed that she, her husband, and my aunt were safe—and so was Buster. They were all hunkered down at Paula’s, in sight of the flames but hoping they wouldn’t need to evacuate. They couldn’t say whether my parents’ home had survived. Dan and I scoured the internet for local news reports, searching for the name of my parents’ park and other nearby landmarks. We watched shaky video footage shot by local residents; paused and zoomed in on aerial video shared by local news outlets, trying to identify my parents’ neighborhood. When I stumbled over an article about entire groves of ponderosa pines lost to wildfire, I felt another kind of grief. What if the cemetery had been leveled, too? I pictured the peaceful graveyard, with its hundred-year-old oaks and pines, bare and smoking; my parents’ gravestones scorched and illegible. I thought again of their house, their windows facing the mountains, their closets stuffed with clothing and linens and boxes of family photos, their shelves full of books and religious art and my grandmother’s glassware and collectibles—was any of it left? When they sold the house I’d grown up in, the thought of strangers owning it—whether they made it their own, updated and flipped it, or tore it down to build something new—hadn’t caused me a moment’s distress. I’d never lived in their second Oregon home or grown deeply attached to it, but it was a place that was theirs, a place that held memories of our final visits. Even if all their belongings were gone, the loss was a small one compared with what many in the region were experiencing: people had lost their loved ones, their homes, their livelihoods. Still, I knew that I would grieve if all that remained of my parents’ life together was now ash and smoke. * * * Before wildfire season began, I had a video call with a friend who had recently moved to San Francisco. She took the call outside on her balcony, angling her screen to
| 0 |
92 |
The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt
| 79 |
Arin tipped my chin up, waiting until I stopped glaring at his forehead to speak. “You said you revolt me. You do, but not for the reasons you think.” A strand of his hair slid against his cheek, the silk of it sending a shiver of unease along my spine. “I do not think it is fear motivating you at all. I could understand you, then. A cornered beast will lash out to protect itself. But you…” His hand moved to my jaw in an unstoppable motion, turning my head to his. I could see every shade of blue in his pale eyes, count the silver lashes curling around them. I was caught fast in his hold. “You are a creature of pure spite. You would not react out of fear, but out of fury. I think daily of chaining you to a wall and seeing which you would attack first—me, or the wall.” His voice was low, threaded with… curiosity? No, it couldn’t be that. Endeavors to unravel my identity nonewithstanding, Arin seemed to find me as noteworthy as a blunt axe. I grabbed his arm, digging my fingers into his coat. If he made one more move, I would strike him in his unprotected throat. “You. Definitely you.” “I almost believed you, Suraira. Almost. But you forgot one thing.” He moved a curl from my cheek. There it was again—the flash of curiosity. “You gave me your name without asking anything in return.” CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Two weeks before the Champions’ Banquet, my magic continued to pose an intractable obstacle. Arin wanted it to work. He had assured me on numerous occasions how efficiently death would find me if I competed against the other Champions without my magic’s help. To this end, our trainings escalated. In intensity and quantity. On the sixth day until we were to leave for Lukub, I entered the training center, winding my braid into a knot atop my head. I sensed the wrongness in the air immediately. My apprehension rose at the sight of the day’s tools scattered carelessly in front of the trunk. Arin threw a familiar dagger—Dania’s dagger, from the war room—upward and caught it. He did it again, catching the hilt at each descent. “What’s wrong?” He kept tossing up the dagger. I picked up the tools, trying to remember how he liked to sort them. Did the three-pronged lance go after the spear or hammer? When Arin’s silence lengthened, I rubbed the furrow above my nose and said, “Why do you insist on torturing yourself?” That caught his attention. He closed his hand around the dagger’s handle. “Torturing myself.” The tone itself, thin as a thread and dripping in condescension, should have warned me away. “I know what you do when you disappear to the surface. The Mufsids and Urabi have claimed lives all over the kingdoms. Evaded your most capable soldiers. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m your bait. Let them be lured instead of constantly giving chase.” Arin’s humorless laugh echoed. “My bait whose magic could not induce a
| 0 |
42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 52 |
the Sindar became welded into one people, and spoke the same tongue; though this difference remained between them, that the Noldor had the greater power of mind and body. and were the mightier warriors and sages, and they built with stone, and loved the hill-slopes and open lands. But the Sindar had the fairer voices and were more skilled in music, save only Maglor son of Fanor, and they loved the woods and the riversides; and some of the Grey-elves still wandered far and wide without settled abode, and they sang as they went. Chapter 14 Of Beleriand and Its Realms This is the fashion of the lands into which the Noldor came, in the north of the western regions of Middle-earth, in the ancient days; and here also is told of the manner in which the chieftains of the Eldar held their lands and the leaguer upon Morgoth after the Dagor Aglareb, the third battle in the Wars of Beleriand. In the north of the world Melkor had in the ages past reared Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains, as a fence to his citadel of Utumno; and they stood upon the borders of the regions of everlasting cold, in a great curve from east to west. Behind the walls of Ered Engrin in the west, where they bent back northwards, Melkor built another fortress, as a defence against assault that might come from Valinor; and when he came back to Middle-earth, as has been told, he took up his abode in the endless dungeons of Angband, the Hells of Iron, for in the War of the Powers the Valar, in their haste to overthrow him in his great stronghold of Utumno, did not wholly destroy Angband nor search out all its deep places. Beneath Ered Engrin he made a great tunnel, which issued south of the mountains; and there he made a mighty gate. But above this gate, and behind it even to the mountains, he piled the thunderous towers of Thangorodrim, that were made of the ash and slag of his subterranean furnaces, and the vast refuse of his tunnellings. They were black and desolate and exceedingly lofty; and smoke issued from their tops, dark and foul upon the northern sky. Before the gates of Angband filth and desolation spread southward for many miles over the wide plain of Ard-galen; but after the coming of the Sun rich grass arose there, and while Angband was besieged and its gates shut there were green things even among the pits and broken rocks before the doors of hell. To the west of Thangorodrim lay Hsilme, the Land of Mist, for so it was named by the Noldor in their own tongue because of the clouds that Morgoth sent thither during their first encampment; Hithlum it became in the tongue of the Sindar that dwelt in those regions. It was a fair land while the Siege of Angband lasted, although its air was cool and winter there was cold. In the west it was bounded by Ered Lmin, the Echoing Mountains that marched
| 1 |
20 |
Jane Eyre.txt
| 61 |
w a s t o m a k e m e h a p p y ; I m u s t g o w i t h i t o u t o f t h e c o m m o n w o r l d t o a l o n e l y p l a c e s u c h a s t h e m o o n , f o r i n s t a n c e a n d i t n o d d e d i t s h e a d t o w a r d h e r h o r n , r i s i n g o v e r H a y H i l l ; i t t o l d m e o f t h e a l a b a s t e r c a v e a n d s i l v e r v a l e w h e r e w e m i g h t l i v e . I s a i d I s h o u l d l i k e t o g o , b u t r e m i n d e d i t a s y o u d i d m e , t h a t I h a d n o w i n g s t o f l y . " ' O h , ' r e t u r n e d t h e f a i r y , ' t h a t d o e s n o t s i g n i f y ! H e r e i s a t a l i s m a n w i l l r e m o v e a l l d i f f i c u l t i e s ; ' a n d s h e h e l d o u t a p r e t t y g o l d r i n g . ' P u t i t , ' s h e s a i d , ' o n t h e f o u r t h f i n g e r o f m y l e f t h a n d , a n d I a m y o u r s , a n d y o u a r e m i n e ; a n d w e s h a l l l e a v e e a r t h , a n d m a k e o u r o w n h e a v e n y o n d e r . ' S h e n o d d e d a g a i n a t t h e m o o n . T h e r i n g , A d l e , i s i n m y b r e e c h e s - p o c k e t , u n d e r t h e d i s g u i s e o f a s o v e r e i g n , b u t I m e a n s o o n t o c h a n g e i t t o a r i n g a g a i n . " " B u t w h a t h a s m a d e m o i s e l l e t o d o w i t h i t ? I d o n ' t c a r e f o r t h e f a i r y ; y o u s a i d i t w a s m a d e m o i s e l l e y o u w o u l d t a k e t o t h e m o o n . " " M a d e m o i s e l l e i s a f a i r y , " h e s a i d , w h i s p e r i n g m y s t e r i o u s l y . W h e r e u p o n I t o l d h e r n o t t o m i n d h i s b a d i n a g e ; a n d s h e , o n h e r p a r t , e v i n c e d a f u n d o f g e n u i n e F r e n c h s k e p t i c i s m : d e n o m i n a t i n g M r . R o c h e s t e r " u n v r a i m e n t e u r , " a n d a s s u r i n g h i m t h a t s h e h a d m a d e n o a c c o u n t w h a t e v e r o f h i s " C o n t e s d e f e , " a n d t h a t " d u r e s t e , i l n ' y a v a i t p a s d e f e s , e t q u a n d m m e i l y e n a v a i t , " s h e w a s s u r e t h e y w o u l d n e v e r a p p e a r t o h i m , n o r e v e r g i v e h i m r i n g s , o r o f f e r t o l i v e w i t h h i m i n t h e m o o n . T h e h o u r s p e n t a t M i l l c o t e w a s a s o m e w h a t h a r a s s i n g o n e t o m e . M r . R o c h e s t e r o b l i g e d m e t o g o t o a c e r t a i n s i l k w a r e h o u s e ; t h e r e I w a s o r d e r e d t o c h o o s e h a l f a d o z e n d r e s s e s . I h a t e d t h e b u s i n e s s , I b e g g e d l e a v e t o d e f e r i t ; n o i t s h o u l d b e g o n e t h r o u g h w i t h n o w . B y d i n t o f e n t r e a t i e s e x p r e s s e d i n e n e r g e t i c w h i s p e r s , I r e d u c e d t h e h a l f - d o z e n t o t w o ; t h e s e , h o w e v e r , h e v o w e d h e w o u l d s e l e c t h i m s e l f . W i t h a n x i e t y I w a t c h e d h i s e y e r o v e o v e r t h e g a y s t o r e s ; h e f i x e d o n a r i c h s i l k o f t h e m o s t b r i l l i a n t a m e t h y s t d v e a n d a s u p e r b p i n k s a t i n . I t o l d h i m i n a n e w s e r i e s o f w h i s p e r s t h a t h e m i g h t a s w e l l b u y m e a g o l d g o w n a n d s i l v e r b o n n e t a t o n c e ; I s h o u l d c e r t a i n l y n e v e r v e n t u r e t o w e a r h i s c h o i c e . W i t h i n f i n i t e d i f f i c u l t y , f o r h e w a s s t u b b o r n a s a s t o n e , I p e r s u a d e d h i m t o m a k e a n e x c h a n g e i n f a v o r o f a s o b e r b l a c k s a t i n a n d p e a r l - g r a y s i l k . " I t m i g h t p a s s f o r t h e p r e s e n t , " h e s a i d , " b u t h e w o u l d y e t s e e m e g l i t t e r i n g l i k e a p a r t e r r e . " G l a d w a s I t o g e t t o g e t h i m o u t o f t h e s i l k w a r e h o u s e , a n d t h e n o u t o f a j e w e l e r ' s s h o p ; t h e m o r e h e b o u g h t m e , t h e m o r e m y c h e e k b u r n e d w i t h a s e n s e o f a n n o y a n c e a n d d e g r a d a t i o n . A s w e r e - e n t e r e d t h e
| 1 |
58 |
Confidence_-a-Novel.txt
| 3 |
to the mash, struggling to raise my arm from the plate to my mouth. “Didn’t Kimborough tell you? We make calls on pay phones. The only good thing to do is read, really.” He nodded. “That’s fine,” he said, too chipper. And then he extended his hand to shake. “You should shake my hand.” “What?” He kept it extended. “You should shake it.” “Dude, what the fuck?” His insistence—the small smile, the way he nodded toward his outstretched hand—was both frustrating and inviting. “I swear I’m going to stand up and leave this fucking table,” I said. He shrugged, his hand still extended. “You’re too tired to stand up. I know that for a fact.” His smile broadened. “Jesus,” I muttered, and took his hand in mine. I felt something between our palms and pulled away, frightened, but not so frightened that I would risk dropping it in front of the counselors, who were roaming the mess hall in their utility belts and too-short haircuts. When I opened my hand, I saw that he’d given me a perfectly rolled joint. I pocketed it immediately. “I don’t drink or do drugs of any sort,” he said, as though this could possibly be an explanation for what had just happened. “I’ve always been pretty straight-edge. My dad just, you know, sits on the sofa in front of the TV the minute he gets home and drinks a six-pack. So I’m trying to be different.” And yet he’d just given me a joint. I was too shocked to speak. “You seem nice,” he said, and winked so quickly I almost missed it. “You seem reliable.” At night, the barn and the mess hall were locked: if we wanted to go to the bathroom, we had to use a latrine that stank from years of use at the edge of the property, close to the barbed wire fence that kept us pent in. The joint wedged in my right shoe, a book of matches I’d stolen from my bunkmate wedged in my left, I took our cabin’s designated flashlight and switched it on. Pretending to test it, I shone it in the direction of Orson, who was asleep in the bunk across from me. He whinnied a little in his sleep but didn’t snore, and when he rolled onto his back, I snatched the light away for fear I’d wake him up. I saw poorly in the dark and was nearly drained of strength, so I had to walk slowly to the latrine, and even with the flashlight’s guidance I tripped twice. When I got to the latrine I sat next to the hole, the putrid smell of which made me even more light-headed, and lit the joint. I rarely smoked, so I was dizzyingly high after two hits. The wood walls seemed to swell with the scent of the purplest, stickiest weed I’d smoked in my life. Within minutes I was no longer in the latrine, no longer at Last Chance—I was a numb and giggly spirit emerged from a bottle. I stumbled back to
| 0 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 28 |
it was, with Ben Gunn’s salted sufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we goat and some delicacies and a bottle of old wine from the thought, besides, they had had more than enough of fight- HISPANIOLA. Never, I am sure, were people gayer or hap- ing. pier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out of the Therefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Contents firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when Gunn came and went with the boat, while the rest during anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter— their absences piled treasure on the beach. Two of the bars, the same bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out. slung in a rope’s end, made a good load for a grown man— Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 284 285 one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part, as I was lowed by the former silence. not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave “Heaven forgive them,” said the doctor; “’tis the mutineers!” packing the minted money into bread-bags. “All drunk, sir,” struck in the voice of Silver from behind It was a strange collection, like Billy Bones’s hoard for the us. diversity of coinage, but so much larger and so much more Silver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in varied that I think I never had more pleasure than in sorting spite of daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as them. English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Georges, and quite a privileged and friendly dependent. Indeed, it was re- Louises, doubloons and double guineas and moidores and markable how well he bore these slights and with what sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the last unwearying politeness he kept on trying to ingratiate himself hundred years, strange Oriental pieces stamped with what with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than a dog, looked like wisps of string or bits of spider’s web, round pieces unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his and square pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if old quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to to wear them round your neck—nearly every variety of money thank him for; although for that matter, I suppose, I had in the world must, I think, have found a place in that collec- reason to think even worse of him than anybody else, for I tion; and for number, I am sure they were like autumn leaves, had seen him meditating a fresh treachery upon the plateau. so that my back ached with stooping and my fingers with Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor answered sorting them out. him. Day after day this work went on; by every evening a for- “Drunk or raving,” said he. tune had been stowed aboard, but there was another fortune “Right you were, sir,” replied Silver; “and precious little waiting for the morrow; and all
| 1 |
33 |
The Age of Innocence.txt
| 1 |
the while that he is doing it. He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantly struck by the fact that Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful, however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr. Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a disagreement. "Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr. Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his elbow. On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness, he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it. They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom. "May!" he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight glance of surprise at his tone. "This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously. "I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr. Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought: "How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go on!" He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps." Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly. The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it paled as she looked up. "On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there could be no other conceivable reason, and that she had put the question automatically, as if merely to finish his own sentence. "On business, naturally. There's a patent case coming up before the Supreme Court--" He gave the name of the inventor, and went on furnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts's practised glibness, while she listened attentively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see." "The change will do you good," she said simply, when he had finished; "and you must be sure to go and see Ellen," she added, looking him straight in the eyes with her cloudless
| 1 |
81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 54 |
been a few late payments and, once earlier this year, a warning that service was about to be terminated. Grocery bill. Paid like clockwork every Tuesday when the delivery from the market in town arrives. At the bottom of the box is a stack of checks all made out to Ocean View Retirement Home. One thousand dollars a month, going back at least a dozen years. I’ve heard of Ocean View, of course. It’s the only nursing home in town. I even applied to be an aide there after Mr. Gurlain suspended me. I was told I was overqualified for the job, which somehow felt more insulting than if they had told me the truth—that, given my reputation, they thought hiring me would be like inviting a wolf to watch over a flock of sheep. What I don’t understand is why Mrs. Baker is paying all that money for a nursing home when Lenora’s right here, being cared for by me, Mary, a long line of other nurses. I’m still looking at the cleared checks when my attention is caught by a sound in the hallway. Footsteps. Coming down the hall. Almost at the door. I slap the lid atop the shoebox and shove it back under the bed. Then I leap to my feet and hurry . . . nowhere. There’s no place for me to go. I can’t sprint out the door if Mrs. Baker’s coming in, and the only hiding place I can think of is in the bathroom, which is likely where she’ll head first. Resigned to being caught—which this time will surely get me fired—I start to raise my hands in surrender. That’s when I spot the armoire. Without thinking, I bolt toward it, throw open the doors, and back myself inside. Crouched behind identical black sheaths, I pull the armoire doors shut just as the bedroom door is pushed open. Through the thin crack between the armoire doors, I see Mrs. Baker enter the room. From the way she sways, I assume she quickly polished off the entire bottle of wine herself. She drifts to the gramophone on the sideboard and turns it on. One dropped needle later, music starts blasting through the room. “Let’s Misbehave.” Mrs. Baker drunkenly sings along, croaking out every other word. “Alone . . . chaperone.” Her head bobs in time to the music, her hands undulate in the air, and her singing gets louder. “Can get . . . number.” She plops down at the dressing table and yanks the same drawer I’d opened minutes earlier, pulling out a tube of lipstick. “World’s . . . slumber . . . misbehave!” Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, Mrs. Baker swipes the tube across her bottom lip, her unsteady hand smearing it outside the lip line. She wipes it with her thumb, making it worse. A crimson streak now runs halfway to her cheek. Mrs. Baker chuckles softly to herself, leans forward, stares at her drunken reflection. Something in the mirror suddenly catches her attention. I can tell by the way
| 0 |
39 |
The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt
| 0 |
circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry. Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint. This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled. It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot: SONNET Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green, Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The light'ning smile, the animated grace-- The portrait well the lover's voice supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile! These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books,
| 1 |
7 |
Casino Royale.txt
| 68 |
for MWD. But when I found out what had been done to you, even though it was Le Chiffre who did it and he turned out to be a traitor, I decided I couldn't go on. By that time I had begun to fall in love with you. They wanted me to find out things from you while you were recovering, but I refused. I was controlled from Paris. I had to ring up an Invalides number twice a day. They threatened me, and finally they withdrew my control and I knew my lover in Poland would have to die. But they were afraid I would talk, I suppose, and I got a final warning that SMERSH would come for me if I didn't obey them. I took no notice. I was in love with you. Then I saw the man with the black patch in the Splendide and I found he had been making inquiries about my movements. This was the day before we came down here. I hoped I could shake him off. I decided that we would have an affair and I would escape to South America from Le Havre. I hoped I would have a baby of yours and be able to start again somewhere. But they followed us. You can't get away from them. I knew it would be the end of our love if I told you. I realized that I could either wait to be killed by SMERSH, would perhaps get you killed too, or I could kill myself. There it is, my darling love. You can't stop me calling you that or saying that I love you. I am taking that with me and the memories of you. I can't tell you much to help you. The Paris number was Invalides 55200. I never met any of them in London. Everything was done through an accommodation address, a newsagent's at 450 Charing Cross Place. At our first dinner together you talked about that man in Yugoslavia who was found guilty of treason. He said: 'I was carried away by the gale of the world.' That's my only excuse. That, and for love of the man whose life I tried to save. It's late now and I'm tired, and you're just through two doors. But I've got to be brave. You might save my life, but I couldn't bear the look in your dear eyes. My love, my love. V. Bond threw the letter down. Mechanically he brushed his fingers together. Suddenly he banged his temples with his fists and stood up. For a moment he looked out towards the quiet sea, then he cursed aloud, one harsh obscenity. His eyes were wet and he dried them. He pulled on a shirt and trousers and with a set cold face he walked down and shut himself in the telephone booth. While he was getting through to London, he calmly reviewed the facts of Vesper's letter. They all fitted. The little shadows and question-marks of the past four weeks, which his instinct had noted but his
| 1 |
77 |
Maame.txt
| 25 |
sis.” * * * A few hours go by and the cramps subside, but the ache is still there. I’m staring at Nia’s number when a message comes through. Ben I know we said we’d see each other tomorrow but can I come over? Work was rough Maddie Yes I get off the floor, clean the bathroom, wash my face, and wait. I think about how to tell Ben, whether I even should tell him, or if I can pretend for a little while longer that my dad is still alive. When Ben knocks on the door, I still haven’t decided, but I’ve barely got the latch off when he bursts through, loosening his tie. “They had to call me in on a Sunday—can you imagine? Incompetence will be that company’s ruin, mark my words,” he says. I immediately want to shrink his presence. To package him up and send him home. “I’m so glad to see you.” He kisses me, slamming the door shut, and presses me up against the wall. He’s heavy, and I can’t feel enough of myself to pull away. He’s had a rough day, and he’s glad to see me. Just like on our cinema date. He’s always glad to see me. I close my eyes and try to sink into his attention, and although rough and hard, there’s a bite to him that I enjoy, or at least need. It’s painful and Ben is sharp and quick with his pleasure. There’s a thin crack in the hallway ceiling that I never noticed before. I briefly wonder if it will suddenly stretch open and bury us both in rubble. I suck in my breath whilst Ben’s escapes in guttural grunts. I’m sore, again. I use the toilet, again. I sit on the bathroom floor, feeling nauseous but enjoying the cold tiles on my skin. Ben must hear me because he knocks and walks in to find me naked with my knees under my chin and my eyes wet, rocking gently with an empty head on tight shoulders, a weightless stomach, and a pressure building in my chest. On the floor of my bathroom in a rented flat is where I tell Ben that my father is gone and he won’t ever come back, and he says the expected: the exclamation to a God he probably doesn’t believe in (I still haven’t found out) and a subtle shift of accountability—he really wishes I’d told him earlier (maybe I should have). Still, I suppose the news was surprising to him, too. But he’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry, Maddie. * * * Ben is very sweet, kind, and delicate when he needs to be and they’re qualities I should be grateful for. He holds me on the bathroom floor for what feels like hours as I explain that although Dad was ill, it was unexpected. Ben kisses my forehead and says, “It will always be unexpected.” He wraps me in his shirt and stays with me until I’m ready to peel myself off the floor and get into bed.
| 0 |
11 |
Emma.txt
| 60 |
known.-- "Jane," indeed!--You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.-- She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.-- She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.--This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?-- too cheerful in my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.-- What was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.-- I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be
| 1 |
20 |
Jane Eyre.txt
| 64 |
r e t u r n t o t h e n u r s e r y , a n d f e a r e d t o g o f o r w a r d t o t h e p a r l o r ; t e n m i n u t e s I s t o o d i n a g i t a t e d h e s i t a t i o n . T h e v e h e m e n t r i n g i n g o f t h e b r e a k f a s t - r o o m b e l l d e c i d e d m e . I m u s t e n t e r . " W h o c o u l d w a n t m e ? " I a s k e d i n w a r d l y , a s w i t h b o t h h a n d s I t u r n e d t h e s t i f f d o o r - h a n d l e , w h i c h f o r a s e c o n d o r t w o r e s i s t e d m y e f f o r t s . " W h a t s h o u l d I s e e b e s i d e s a u n t R e e d i n t h e a p a r t m e n t ? a m a n o r a w o m a n ? T h e h a n d l e t u r n e d , t h e d o o r u n c l o s e d , a n d p a s s i n g t h r o u g h a n d c o u r t e s y i n g l o w , I l o o k e d u p a t a b l a c k p i l l a r ! s u c h , a t l e a s t , a p p e a r e d t o m e , a t f i r s t s i g h t , t h e s t r a i g h t , n a r r o w , s a b l e - c l a d s h a p e s t a n d i n g e r e c t o n t h e r u g ; t h e g r i m f a c e a t t h e t o p w a s l i k e a c a r v e d m a s k , p l a c e d a b o v e t h e s h a f t b y w a y o f c a p i t a l . M r s . R e e d o c c u p i e d h e r u s u a l s e a t b y t h e f i r e s i d e ; s h e m a d e a s i g n a l t o m e t o a p p r o a c h ; I d i d s o , a n d s h e i n t r o d u c e d m e t o t h e s t o n y s t r a n g e r w i t h t h e w o r d s : " T h i s i s t h e l i t t l e g i r l r e s p e c t i n g w h o m I a p p l i e d t o y o u . " H e ( f o r i t w a s a m a n ) t u r n e d h i s h e a d s l o w l y t o w a r d w h e r e I s t o o d , a n d h a v i n g e x a m i n e d m e w i t h t h e t w o i n q u i s i t i v e - l o o k i n g g r a y e y e s w h i c h t w i n k l e d u n d e r a p a i r o f b u s h y b r o w s , s a i d s o l e m n l y , a n d i n a b a s s v o i c e , " H e r s i z e i s s m a l l ; w h a t i s h e r a g e ? " " T e n y e a r s . " " S o m u c h ? " w a s t h e d o u b t f u l a n s w e r ; a n d h e p r o l o n g e d h i s s c r u t i n y f o r s o m e m i n u t e s . P r e s e n t l y h e a d d r e s s e d m e : " Y o u r n a m e , l i t t l e g i r l ? " " J a n e E y r e , s i r . " I n u t t e r i n g t h e s e w o r d s I l o o k e d u p . H e s e e m e d t o m e a t a l l g e n t l e m a n : b u t t h e n I w a s v e r y l i t t l e ; h i s f e a t u r e s w e r e l a r g e , a n d t h e y a n d a l l t h e l i n e s o f h i s f r a m e w e r e e q u a l l y h a r s h a n d p r i m . " W e l l , J a n e E y r e , a n d a r e y o u a g o o d c h i l d ? " I m p o s s i b l e t o r e p l y t o t h i s i n t h e a f f i r m a t i v e m y l i t t l e w o r l d h e l d a c o n t r a r y o p i n i o n I w a s s i l e n t . M r s . R e e d a n s w e r e d f o r m e b y a n e x p r e s s i v e s h a k e o f t h e h e a d , a d d i n g s o o n , " P e r h a p s t h e l e s s s a i d o n t h a t s u b j e c t t h e b e t t e r , M r . B r o c k l e h u r s t . " " S o r r y i n d e e d t o h e a r i t ! s h e a n d I m u s t h a v e s o m e t a l k ; " a n d b e n d i n g f r o m t h e p e r p e n d i c u l a r , h e i n s t a l l e d h i s p e r s o n i n t h e a r m - c h a i r , o p p o s i t e M r s . R e e d ' s . " C o m e h e r e , " h e s a i d . I s t e p p e d a c r o s s t h e r u g ; h e p l a c e d m e s t r a i g h t a n d s q u a r e b e f o r e h i m . W h a t a f a c e h e h a d , n o w t h a t i t w a s a l m o s t o n a l e v e l w i t h m i n e ! w h a t a g r e a t n o s e ! a n d w h a t a m o u t h ! a n d w h a t l a r g e , p r o m i n e n t t e e t h ! " N o s i g h t s o s a d a s t h a t o f a n a u g h t y c h i l d , " h e b e g a n , " e s p e c i a l l y a n a u g h t y l i t t l e g i r l . D o y o u k n o w w h e r e t h e w i c k e d g o a f t e r d e a t h ? " " T h e y g o t o h e l l " w a s m y r e a d y a n d o r t h o d o x a n s w e r . " A n d w h a t i s h e l l ? C a n y o u t e l l m e t h a t ? "
| 1 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 30 |
hatches was seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and dictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin. Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the sea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at times by the ragged Elijah's diabolical incoherences uninvitedly recurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived of. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish prophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or uneasiness --to call it so --which I felt, yet whenever I came to look about me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to .. <p 120 > cherish such emotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew, were a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me acquainted with, still I ascribed this --and rightly ascribed it --to the fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was most forcibly calculated to allay these colorless misgivings, and induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage. Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed, gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension; Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck. There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when
| 1 |
21 |
Little Women.txt
| 87 |
Christmas as we are." -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.3 The Laurence Boy "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the HEIR OF REDCLYFFE, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight. "`Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will
| 1 |
31 |
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt
| 32 |
business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner. "Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to pa. "The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank. "Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and
| 1 |
84 |
Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 34 |
about Montero. She couldn’t remember when the woman had been born. Could she still be alive? If she was still around, it might be a good idea to interview her. “No chicken. Sushi Ito opened up a few blocks from here,” Tristán said as he rummaged inside the refrigerator and pushed containers aside. “Sushi Ito is no good. There are real sushi places in the city, you know?” “Well, I don’t want to go all the way to a decent place. I don’t have any proteins. Fuck. This milk expired.” Tristán took out a carton of Leche Lala and dumped its contents into the sink. Montserrat peered into his refrigerator. If she was guilty of not having enough food in her apartment, Tristán was guilty of having too much and always eating out anyway. Everything went bad in his refrigerator. He maintained a carefully curated collection of moldy tomatoes and overripe fruits. Montserrat didn’t know why he even bothered venturing into the supermarket if he was going to scarf down enchiladas at the Sanborns anyway. Nevertheless, when the fancy struck him, which, granted, was less and less these days, Tristán could cook a veritable feast. Montserrat knew how to make five dishes, and four of them she’d learned from Tristán’s mom. The lush red of pomegranates and saturated green of pistachios. The scent of rose water and warm bread. That was Tristán’s kitchen, and he hummed an old song as he chopped vegetables. It was usually one of the same melodies his mother used to sing to them. Montserrat checked the expiration date on a yogurt container. “Have you ever used those phone lines?” he asked. She handed him the yogurt, which had also expired, and he began scooping out its contents into the sink. “Have I asked an astrologer to draw my natal chart over the phone?” “No, the singles hotlines.” “They’re scams. I’d rather be alone than pretend someone cares about me when they don’t give a damn.” Tristán seemed to consider that, thoughtful, as he stood by the sink. The light from the refrigerator traced shadows and lines across his face, emphasizing the faint scar under the eye that worried him so much and that he thought marred his looks. A few hairs at his temples glinted silver. He could not have been photographed better if von Sternberg had brought reflectors and lamps into the apartment. She thought about what Urueta had said, that Ewers believed magic could be performed using film stock, and for a second she believed he wasn’t so off the mark. Maybe certain people could cast spells with one look and a line of dialogue. Tristán opened the tap, let the water flow, then closed it again and closed the refrigerator door, tearing away the wispy enchantment of light and shadow he’d conjured. On the refrigerator he had a magnet with the number of a pizza parlor. “Now here’s a truly important question: triple cheese or quadruple cheese?” She smiled and picked up the receiver. “Quadruple.” FEATURE FILM 6 Montserrat still missed the old Cineteca.
| 0 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 42 |
to The Rosary Killer.” “I’m not sure yet,” Kristi said, recovering. “I’m discussing it now with my agent.” “I’m sure it would be another best seller! Just like both the original book and The God Complex and Murder, the story about Dr. Hamilton Cooke, our last guest. These best sellers can be viewed through our sister station or by streaming. You won’t want to miss either one!” Again both book covers showed on the screen. “Thank you, Kristi Bentz,” the hostess said as the camera focused on her again. “You all will want to stick around because coming up we have one of New Orleans’s premier saxophone players, Tom Bigelow, here to play his most recent jazz composition, and later on I’ll interview Dana Metcalf, president of a local cat breeders club, and her prizewinning Persian cat, Mr. Precious. They are here to tell us all about the upcoming cat show this weekend, which would be the perfect outing for the whole family!” The program cut to commercial and Kristi’s microphone was unhooked by Jen, who then motioned Bigelow onto the set. Less than five minutes later, Kristi stepped into the parking lot and spied a black BMW idling at the exit to the lot. Hamilton Cooke was behind the wheel. He cast Kristi a look replete with hatred. As she stared at him, he raised his hand, pointed his finger like a gun and pretended to fire directly at Kristi. Then he trod hard on the accelerator and his Beemer roared into traffic. Kristi noticed that his wife wasn’t in the passenger seat. Instead Reggie Cooke was stepping out of the interior of a sleek, red Mercedes parked just two slots from Kristi’s Subaru. Reggie’s expression said it all: she was pissed. “We need to talk,” she said as Kristi approached. “Okay.” “I don’t like what happened in there.” She gestured to the building housing the television station. “Neither do I.” “You set it up.” “No.” She thought about trying to explain, but decided it would do no good. Reggie obviously thought she was lying, but Kristi didn’t care. She’d already said as much as she was going to. “I can’t believe that little bitch brought up Bethany and Aldo. Ancient history. Nothing to do with now.” She was nearly gnashing her teeth. “Anything for a buck, you know. To keep ratings in the stratosphere no matter what. No matter whom you hurt. And you—that’s your bread and butter, isn’t it? Exposing everyone’s little secrets, creating lies, all to sell a few more copies.” “I told you—” “I know what you said. So, what? Now you’re trying to tell me that this was what—random?” Kristi reached her car and opened the door. “No. I doubt that. I’m saying I had nothing to do with it.” She slid inside. “But it’s over now.” “Is it?” Reggie glanced back at the huge brick building housing the television station. “I hope so.” At this point, there was no reason to continue the conversation. Kristi closed the door and started the engine. She was still
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Jane Eyre.txt
| 71 |
h a v e g o n e o n m y w a y a n d n o t f e l t a n y v o c a t i o n t o r e n e w i n q u i r i e s ; b u t t h e f r o w n , t h e r o u g h n e s s o f t h e t r a v e l e r , s e t m e a t m y e a s e : I r e t a i n e d m y s t a t i o n w h e n h e w a v e d t o m e t o g o , a n d a n n o u n c e d : " I c a n n o t t h i n k o f l e a v i n g y o u , s i r , a t s o l a t e a n h o u r , i n t h i s s o l i t a r y l a n e , t i l l I s e e y o u a r e f i t t o m o u n t y o u r h o r s e . " H e l o o k e d a t m e w h e n I s a i d t h i s ; h e h a d h a r d l y t u r n e d h i s e y e s i n m y d i r e c t i o n b e f o r e . I s h o u l d t h i n k y o u o u g h t t o b e a t h o m e y o u r s e l f , " s a i d h e , " i f y o u h a v e a h o m e i n t h i s n e i g h b o r h o o d ; w h e r e d o y o u c o m e f r o m ? " " F r o m j u s t b e l o w ; a n d I a m n o t a t a l l a f r a i d o f b e i n g o u t l a t e w h e n i t i s m o o n l i g h t ; I w i l l r u n o v e r t o H a y f o r y o u w i t h p l e a s u r e , i f y o u w i s h i t ; i n d e e d , I a m g o i n g t h e r e t o p o s t a l e t t e r . " " Y o u l i v e j u s t b e l o w d o y o u m e a n a t t h a t h o u s e w i t h t h e b a t t l e m e n t s ? " p o i n t i n g t o T h o r n f i e l d H a l l , o n w h i c h t h e m o o n c a s t a h o a r y g l e a m , b r i n g i n g i t o u t d i s t i n c t a n d p a l e f r o m t h e w o o d s , t h a t , b y c o n t r a s t w i t h t h e w e s t e r n s k y , n o w s e e m e d o n e m a s s o f s h a d o w . " Y e s , s i r . " " W h o s e h o u s e i s i t ? " " M r . R o c h e s t e r ' s . " " D o y o u k n o w M r . R o c h e s t e r ? " " N o ; I h a v e n e v e r s e e n h i m . " " H e i s n o t r e s i d e n t , t h e n ? " " N o . " " C a n y o u t e l l m e w h e r e h e i s ? " " I c a n n o t . " " Y o u a r e n o t a s e r v a n t a t t h e h a l l , o f c o u r s e . Y o u a r e " H e s t o p p e d , r a n h i s e y e o v e r m y d r e s s , w h i c h , a s u s u a l , w a s q u i t e s i m p l e a b l a c k m e r i n o c l o a k , a b l a c k b e a v e r b o n n e t ; n e i t h e r o f t h e m h a l f f i n e e n o u g h f o r a l a d y ' s m a i d . H e s e e m e d p u z z l e d t o d e c i d e w h a t I w a s : I h e l p e d h i m . " I a m t h e g o v e r n e s s . " " A h , t h e g o v e r n e s s ! " h e r e p e a t e d ; " d e u c e t a k e m e , i f I h a d n o t f o r g o t t e n ! T h e g o v e r n e s s ! " a n d a g a i n m y r a i m e n t u n d e r w e n t s c r u t i n y . I n t w o m i n u t e s h e r o s e f r o m t h e s t i l e ; h i s f a c e e x p r e s s e d p a i n w h e n h e t r i e d t o m o v e . " I c a n n o t c o m m i s s i o n y o u t o f e t c h h e l p , " h e s a i d ; " b u t y o u m a y h e l p m e a l i t t l e y o u r s e l f , i f y o u w i l l b e s o k i n d . " " Y e s , s i r . " " Y o u h a v e n o t a n u m b r e l l a t h a t I c a n u s e a s a s t i c k ? " " N o . " " T r y t o g e t h o l d o f m y h o r s e ' s b r i d l e a n d l e a d h i m t o m e . Y o u a r e n o t a f r a i d ! " I s h o u l d h a v e b e e n a f r a i d t o t o u c h a h o r s e w h e n a l o n e , b u t w h e n t o l d t o d o i t I w a s d i s p o s e d t o o b e y . I p u t d o w n m y m u f f o n t h e s t i l e a n d w e n t u p t o t h e t a l l s t e e d . I e n d e a v o r e d t o c a t c h
| 1 |
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Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 2 |
been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.' `You are old,' said the youth, `as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?' `In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey
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Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 43 |
“What are you apologizing for? Compared to you, all your little friends are deeply polite.” Little friends. She always says that, like they’re not real or they don’t count just because they aren’t Celine-approved. Or possibly because they’re dicks? My friends are not dicks! Donno’s just a poor representation of the group today. “Maybe I’d be polite to you,” I say, “if I thought you were even physically capable of being polite back.” She raises her left hand, flashing the cast beneath her coat. “There’s a lot I’m not physically capable of doing right now.” The and it’s your fault part is silent. I click my teeth together and drive. The meeting is being held in the Sherwood, a fancy hotel about twenty minutes away from school, in the center of Nottingham. I get nervous on busy roads, but if I let nerves stop me, I would never leave the house, so I do it anyway. Celine doesn’t comment when it takes me three tries to get into our parking space because I want to be perfectly central. But when I switch off the engine and open my door…she pipes up. “Where are you going?” I turn to find her eyeing me with alarm, her arms crossed over her chest. “What,” I say incredulously, “you want me to wait in the car?” “That was the plan, yes.” “What do you think this is, Driving Miss Daisy?” “Oh, get a grip, Bradley,” she mutters, as if I’m being unreasonable, and slips out, heading toward the hotel. I lock up and follow. “You’re not even interested in the meeting,” she says briskly. “I’d be bored in the car!” “God forbid, you absolute five-year-old. You don’t know how to entertain yourself?” “Do you enjoy pissing me off?” I ask. “Would you consider it, like, a hobby?” This week is the most time we’ve spent together in the last four years, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was a zing of satisfaction beneath all her dry insults. The worst part is, I’m starting to think I feel that same zing. Which is ridiculous because I’m a nice person! I don’t enjoy snapping at Celine. It just…happens. This girl would provoke the Pope. “Don’t flatter yourself. You are not nearly interesting enough to be a hobby,” she says with this scathing hint of amusement, and I find myself making a mental note of that exact tone so I can replicate it next time I tell her— Wait. No. Arguing with Celine is not a competitive sport. Instead, I focus on my surroundings as we move through the hotel. This place—the Sherwood—has pillars of gleaming, unsmudged glass, and puffy brown chairs all over the lobby, and tropical-looking flowers stuck in posh gold vases everywhere. The signs directing us to a conference hall where Katharine Breakspeare will be speaking are subtle but clear. We’re ten minutes early—that’s kind of my thing—but there’s a healthy trickle of teenagers heading in the same direction as us, and I find myself scoping them out. Most people are easy
| 0 |
75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 9 |
that comes from not having had monthly moon water for many, many years. She’s known to have the best embroidery skills in the household, but it can also be said that her mind is even more nimble than her fingers. Although not a mother herself, she’s often called upon to bind feet if a mother is susceptible to her daughter’s tears, and she has assisted at the births of most children in the household. “Shall I tell it?” she asks. This is greeted with a chorus of yeses, although I notice that Fourth Aunt looks far from enthusiastic. Spinster Aunt begins. “There once was a woman who beat her husband so badly that he ran to the bedchamber to hide. ‘Come out! Come out!’ she hollered. But he didn’t—” “The husband believed he had the will of a tiger. He cried, ‘No, no, no!’ ” This comes from Lady Kuo’s great-aunt, whose face is as wrinkled as a salted plum. The family she married into died out, leaving her nowhere to go. That Lady Kuo and Master Yang took her in is considered a great benevolence. “He was insistent, yelling, ‘When a brave man says no, he means no!’ ” “His words were indeed formidable,” Spinster Aunt agrees. “But wait! What is that mewling?” She leans forward and cups a hand to her ear. From around the room come the plaintive mews and whines of kittens. “The wife narrowed her eyes and opened her ears. Ah!” Spinster Aunt exclaims. “The sounds were coming from under the bed. It turned out that the brave tiger was nothing but a kitten when faced with his wife’s venom. Is there a man anywhere who does not quail before a woman who has become a terror of the back apartments?” The end of the story is met with appreciative laughter. The positions of these old ones are tenuous, but today they have earned their keep. They live, even more than I do, under the rule of Lady Kuo, and I do not have a place among them. “Yunxian, you want to know how best to please a man? Come sit with us. We know every wile and ploy.” The speaker is Miss Chen, Master Yang’s newest concubine and current favorite, which gives her a surprising amount of power over the other concubines. She’s my age and flawless in her beauty and comportment. She and the other concubines paint their faces, dress in elegant gowns, and nibble from trays laden with pears, nuts, dates, and persimmons. She has nothing to gain from having me join her circle, but her offer is even less appealing than sitting with the high-ranking wives. I look around for the final category of women who live here and find them sitting together in a corner. My husband’s three sisters have their heads together as they embroider bound-foot shoes for their future husbands’ mothers and revered aunties. Miss Zhao’s warnings about them could not have been more accurate. I’m lucky when they ignore me. Too often I’ve been the target of their pranks,
| 0 |
81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 15 |
told is that finding a suitable replacement has been a problem.” “Is the patient . . .” I pause. I can’t say difficult, even though it’s the word I most want to use. “In need of specialized care?” “I don’t think the trouble is her condition, as delicate as it might be,” Mr. Gurlain says. “The issue, quite frankly, is the patient’s reputation.” I shift in my seat. “Who’s the patient?” “Lenora Hope.” I haven’t heard that name in years. At least a decade. Maybe two. Hearing it now makes me look up from my lap, surprised. More than surprised, actually. I’m flabbergasted. An emotion I’m not certain I’ve experienced before. Yet there it is, a sort of anxious shock fluttering behind my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. “The Lenora Hope?” “Yes,” Mr. Gurlain says with a sniff, as if offended to be even slightly misunderstood. “I had no idea she was still alive.” When I was younger, I hadn’t even understood that Lenora Hope was real. I had assumed she was a myth created by kids to scare each other. The schoolyard rhyme, forgotten since childhood, worms its way back into my memory. At seventeen, Lenora Hope Hung her sister with a rope Some of the older girls swore that if you turned out all the lights, stood in front of a mirror, and recited it, Lenora herself might appear in the glass. And if that happened, look out, because it meant your family was going to die next. I never believed it. I knew it was just a variation on Bloody Mary, which was completely made up, which meant Lenora Hope wasn’t real, either. It wasn’t until I was in my teens that I learned the truth. Not only was Lenora Hope real, but she was local, living a privileged life in a mansion several miles outside of town. Until one night, she snapped. Stabbed her father with a knife Took her mother’s happy life “She is very much alive,” Mr. Gurlain says. “God, she must be ancient.” “She’s seventy-one.” That seems impossible. I’d always assumed the murders occurred in a different century. An era of hoop skirts, gas lamps, horse-drawn carriages. But if Mr. Gurlain is correct, that means the Hope family massacre took place not too long ago, all things considered. I do the math in my head, concluding that the killings were in 1929. Only fifty-four years ago. As the date clicks into place, so do the final lines of the rhyme. “It wasn’t me,” Lenora said But she’s the only one not dead Which is apparently still the case. The infamous Lenora Hope is alive, not so well, and in need of care. My care, if I want the assignment. Which I don’t. “There’s nothing else available? No other new patients?” “I’m afraid not,” Mr. Gurlain says. “And none of the other caregivers are available?” “They’re all booked.” Mr. Gurlain steeples his fingers. “Do you have a problem with the assignment?” Yes, I have a problem. Several of them, starting with the fact
| 0 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 41 |
the locality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround him. It is not love but instinct. The new inhabitant--who came himself from a foreign land, or whose father or grandfather came--has little claim to be called a Salemite; he has no conception of the oyster--like tenacity with which an old settler, over whom his third century is creeping, clings to the spot where his successive generations have been embedded. It is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres;--all these, and whatever faults besides he may see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. The spell survives, and just as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my case. I felt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould of features and cast of character which had all along been familiar here--ever, as one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another assuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the main street--might still in my little day be seen and recognised in the old town. Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence that the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at least be severed. Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into accustomed earth.% On emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in Uncle Sam's brick edifice, when I might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. My doom was on me, It was not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone Thesaurus connexion: (n) conjunction, connector, (adj) active, industrious, vigorous, squatter, planter, newcomer, connective, connection, association, diligent. colonizer, sockdolager, standish. bond, concatenation, join, linkage, joyless: (adj) cheerless, gloomy, ANTONYM: (n) native. link, junction. dreary, dark, sad, melancholy, sire: (v) generate, engender, beget, grandsire: (n) grandfather, ancestor. funereal, comfortless, dolorous, procreate, mother, get, make; (n) homestead: (n, v) farm; (n) home, doleful, desolate. ANTONYMS: (adj) forefather, ancestor, patriarch, pater. abode, farmhouse, farmstead, joyous, happy. tempestuous: (adj, n) rough, dwelling, habitation, estate, demesne, kindred: (adj) cognate, akin, similar, boisterous, severe; (adj) raging, homestall, house. allied, related; (n) kin, consanguinity, furious, wild, angry, windy, fierce, indolent: (adj) idle, lazy, slothful, relation, folk, folks, kin group. gusty; (adj, v) turbulent. sluggish, careless, slow, dull, torpid, settler: (n) migrant, colonist, ANTONYMS: (adj) mild, moderate, inert, drowsy, listless. ANTONYMS: immigrant, inhabitant, homesteader, relaxed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 15 away--as it seemed, permanently--but yet returned, like the bad halfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe.
| 1 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 60 |
field – and from its highest turret flew the True Sword, the sign of royal authority. Together, they proclaimed that the Lord Protector was in residence. The wind blew hard. Wulf coughed into a gloved hand. Inys might not be half as icy as Hróth in late winter, but their hideaway was damp and cold, and they dared not risk a fire. As the sun rose, Mara returned from her scouting, coming on foot from the hills. Wulf stared when he saw who was with her. While Thrit slept on, he stood aside to let them in. Lord Mansell folded him straight into his arms. ‘Wulf,’ he breathed. ‘Saint, I can’t believe it. You don’t even look hurt.’ ‘I missed you, Pa.’ When Lord Mansell finally drew back, his eyes were stony with resolve. ‘I came from Langarth,’ he said to them both. ‘Father brought me abreast of your doubts.’ He set down a basket. ‘Last night, a messenger arrived from Lady Helisent – she paid him for his haste. Queen Glorian had word that Lord Robart means to stay here until the Feast of Early Spring.’ ‘How does he explain that?’ Wulf folded his arms. ‘The regent should be with the queen.’ ‘He claims to be taking stock of the trees in the haithwood. To see how much timber Inys has for weapons.’ Wulf rubbed his stubbled jaw. ‘By the Saint.’ ‘The Saint wants nothing to do with this, son.’ Lord Mansell went to the window. ‘We all have our orders in the north. There’s no reason he can’t return to Queen Glorian.’ ‘Has the plague reached this province?’ ‘In one village, at least. Its inhabitants have sealed themselves off, so Roland and I have been leaving supplies at its boundary stone.’ ‘They all mean to die there?’ ‘If needs must.’ Lord Mansell nodded to the basket. ‘I brought you some more food.’ Mara passed Wulf a loaf of seeded bread. For now, it could still be made in the province, but when the wyrms returned, once the mills stopped and the flour ran dry, there would certainly be famine. People were already hungry after the poor harvest. ‘If Lord Robart does go into the haithwood on that night, we’ll need a member of the Virtues Council to act as witness,’ Lord Mansell continued. ‘The Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch has agreed to speak on behalf of his foresters, but one of the Dukes Spiritual should help us investigate, someone of the same rank as Lord Robart. I must ride to Lady Gladwin.’ He kissed Wulf on the cheek. ‘Be careful, all of you. Don’t be seen.’ When he was gone, Mara took out a pear. ‘I had an idea,’ she said. ‘If Lord Robart does leave on the Feast of Early Spring, I was thinking I might stay behind and have a look through Parr Castle.’ ‘Sneak inside the home of the regent?’ Wulf sat opposite her. ‘Why would you do that?’ ‘To see what I can see.’ She tossed him the pear. ‘You did tell me to find a pursuit
| 0 |
47 |
Ulysses.txt
| 8 |
of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying: --Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his name? He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. --Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox. --Ay. Where's Monks? --Monks! Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out. --Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a good place I know. --Monks! --Yes, sir. Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show. A DAYFATHER He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage ALLELUIA. SHEMA ISRAEL ADONAI ELOHENU. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher. And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers. Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there. He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that
| 1 |
14 |
Five On A Treasure Island.txt
| 16 |
"So do we," said Julian. "We may not like you, of course." "Oh!" said George, as if that thought hadn't occurred to her. "Well- you may not, of course. Lots of people don't like me, now I come to think of it." Anne was staring out over the blue bay. At the entrance to it lay a curious rocky island with what looked like an old ruined castle on the top of it. "Isn't that a funny place?" she said. "I wonder what it's called." "It's called Kirrin Island," said George, her eyes as blue as the sea as she turned to look at it. "It's a lovely place to go to. If I like you, I may take you there some day. But I don't promise. The only way to get there is by boat." "Who does the funny island belong to?" asked Julian. George made a most surprising answer. "It belongs to me," she said. "At least, it will belong to me- some day! It will be my very own island- and my very own castle!" Chapter Three A QUEER STORY - AND A NEW FRIEND Contents- Prev/Next The three children stared at George in the greatest surprise. George stared back at them. "What do you mean?" said Dick, at last. "Kirrin Island can't belong to you. You're just boasting." "No, I'm not," said George. "You ask Mother. If you're not going to believe what I say I won't tell you another word more. But I don't tell untruths. I think it's being a coward if you don't tell the truth- and I'm not a coward." Julian remembered that Aunt Fanny had said that George was absolutely truthful, and he scratched his head and looked at George again. How could she be possibly telling the truth? "Well, of course we'll believe you if you tell us the truth," he said. "But it does sound a bit extraordinary, you know. Really it does. Children don't usually own islands, even funny little ones like that." "It isn't a funny little island," said George, fiercely. "It's lovely. There are rabbits there, as tame as can be- and the big cormorants sit on the other side- and all kinds of gulls go there. The castle is wonderful too, even if it is all in ruins." "It sounds fine," said Dick. "How does it belong to you, Georgina?" George glared at him and didn't answer. "Sorry," said Dick, hastily. "I didn't mean to call you Georgina. I meant to call you George." "Go on, George- tell us how the island belongs to you," said Julian, slipping his arm through his sulky little cousin's. She pulled away from him at once. "Don't do that," she said. "I'm not sure that I want to make friends with you yet." "All right, all right," said Julian, losing patience. "Be enemies or anything you like. We don't care. But we like your mother awfully, and we don't want her to think we won't make friends with you." "Do you like my mother?" said George, her bright blue eyes softening
| 1 |
54 |
Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt
| 44 |
what?” said Mrs. King, voice taut. Mrs. Bone let out a short bark of laughter. “What sort of person doesn’t know what’s going on under her own roof?” “Winnie?” said Mrs. King. Winnie sagged against the wall, closing her eyes. “I only found out three years ago.” “Found out what?” “Girls,” said Mrs. Bone. “They’ve been meddling with the girls.” Mrs. King’s face went very still. She took this in, assessed it. Clearly, she understood what that word meant, what meddling was: of course she did. Everyone did. “No,” she said, her voice growing cold. “That’s not correct.” Mrs. Bone snapped her fingers at Winnie. “You. Tell us. What do you know?” Winnie rubbed her hand over her face. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I was here. I mean...here, in the garden. The mews house has a loft above it. There’s a little staircase that comes down to the stables. They used to keep a carriage there, but it’s empty now. I saw a man, someone I didn’t recognize. He had a beautiful coat on. It was... I don’t know. Seal gray. Sealskin.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was very smooth, like silk. I thought: Oh, what a lovely coat.” She paused, frowning. “He was walking a girl down the stairs. I mean, he had his hand on her shoulder. He was pressing her down. Pushing her along. Like he was shoving her out. I knew at once it was wrong. I mean, my whole body felt it.” Mrs. King watched her the whole time she was speaking. Her face changed, grew ashen. “It was Ida,” said Winnie. “One of the kitchen girls. And I didn’t know the man at all.” Mrs. Bone knew that mews house. She’d seen it every time she crossed the yard. Pale gray plasterwork, ivy beginning to climb the walls. One small window. “How old?” she said. “I don’t know.” “How old, Winnie?” said Mrs. King, voice hard. “Not old, not old enough. She looked...” Winnie screwed up her face. “Sick. As if he’d made her sick. She looked like she was going to...to throw up.” Silence. Mrs. Bone absorbed this, felt the knowledge shifting in her gut. Mrs. King asked, “Did they see you?” “No.” “What happened to that girl?” Winnie clasped her hands together. Didn’t reply. Mrs. King took a step closer. “Winnie.” Winnie squeezed her eyes shut, as if to hide from it. “Shepherd told me one of the housemaids had given notice. That I’d better let the agency know. I must have asked him who it was. Just to...test him. And he must have told me—he must have said it was Ida.” Winnie looked at the ceiling. “He just told me as if it was nothing, as if it meant nothing at all.” “Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone. Her mind was working quickly. “Mr. Shepherd. So Danny might not have known, either. He might not have had a thing to do with it.” Winnie lowered her voice. “Oh, he knew.” Mrs. Bone pictured her house in Deal. The treasures she’d stockpiled. The banker’s
| 0 |
15 |
Frankenstein.txt
| 85 |
you only could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions and passions and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the human form. "My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings. "I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me. "I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid
| 1 |
25 |
Oliver Twist.txt
| 84 |
our way downstairs in the pitch dark,--as it might be so.' Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed. 'It was a knock,' said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. 'Open the door, somebody.' Nobody moved. 'It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morning,' said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very blank himself; 'but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?' Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the question. 'If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,' said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, 'I am ready to make one.' 'So am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep. Brittles capitualated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely. These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker's arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timourously over each other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion. 'A boy!' exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. 'What's the matter with the--eh?--Why--Brittles--look here--don't you know?' Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof. 'Here he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; 'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.' '--In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the
| 1 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 54 |
shop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had been intending to alter the name over the window, but had never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston's head. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing. He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval--a month, say--he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted. However----! Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement Danes, take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington's memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming to an improvised tune Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the---- Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not seen him. For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. It was
| 1 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 86 |
he had always been searching for someone, and for the first time, he had an impression: kindness, a voice singing low, love that crushed the breath from him. Then another face, pale and terrified. The memories were far away, so far they no longer held a clear shape, and ran like water. But he knew he had been to this part of the wood before. How had he escaped, the first time? He was laughing and the sun was bright, and he tasted honey like a prayer on his lips. Who are you? He stopped, a stitch ripping into his side. His hand shook so hard the candle guttered in the lantern. Light was glimmering through the trees. He stepped towards it, so entranced that all fear left his bones. Above him, a long mark was daubed on an oak, silver and faded, sending a sickly glow over the trunks. Even though its shape was strange, it was familiar. He knew, then, to turn north. A few more paces, to another tree. As he approached, more marks flared to life on the trees, each one extending his path through the blackness. At the end, there was light, both white and gold. Wulf glanced over his shoulder. He had thought Lord Robart would have heard the commotion with the wolves, but the wood was so gathered and dense, there was no trace of anyone else. It occurred to him that he might not find any of them again. There must be thousands of skeletons in these woods. Keeping low, he moved into the undergrowth. He bent a branch aside, and it was suddenly there, the place he had sought – a clearing surrounded by hulking oaks and beeches. In front of them grew smaller trees, their branches heavy with white blossom. Hawthorns. Growing them had been forbidden since the days of the Saint, who had ordered them all uprooted. Instinctively, Wulf knew this was the heart of the haithwood. Its very oldest part, its cradle. Two layers of memory were purling over one another, both so distant as to be almost unreachable. The honeybees and the dark wood. Two faces and two voices. Cold and warm light. He shook himself and kept watching. Lord Robart wore a green tunic, like a sanctarian, and the brown pelt of a cave bear over his broad shoulders. He, too, was crowned with flowers, though his circlet was also home to twigs and antlers and acorns. He stood before a yew that looked as old as Inys itself – twenty armspans wide, at least. Corpulent branches reached across the clearing, hung with hundreds of straw figures – some that looked coarsely human, others braided into wreaths or intricate loops and knots. Below, the Lord Protector of Inys was intoning in a tongue Wulf knew. The realisation soured in him. Even if the song was nonsense to his ear, it was a salve to his heart. He had heard it before. Across the clearing, barefoot dancers circled among the blossom trees, moving widdershins to the beat of a
| 0 |
86 |
Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt
| 9 |
the battle lines today. They might be working together for a greater cause in public. In private, his favorite pastime was scorning her for being born into privilege while he’d done life the hard way. Although . . . she didn’t know a lot about the path he’d taken. Maybe she should find out. Just in case anyone asked. She should probably know at least the basics about her fake fiancé. “Psst,” came a hiss from the darkness. Natalie lurched for the knife block, pausing only when Hallie stepped into the dim kitchen wearing a Stanford shirt that went well past her knees. “Jesus,” Natalie breathed, slapping a hand to the middle of her chest, positive her heart was about to explode straight out of her rib cage. “What are you doing sneaking up on me like an old Victorian ghost or something? I almost hurled a butcher knife at you.” Hallie pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Natalie tilted her head. “Now you’re really freaking me out.” “Sorry,” Hallie whispered, creeping forward barefoot, each of her toes painted a different color, an ankle bracelet jangling softly. “I don’t want to wake up Julian.” “Really? You seem to love waking him up. Along with the dead.” Her brother’s girlfriend pinkened slightly, but she wasn’t thwarted by the innuendo. No, she appeared to be extremely focused for six A.M. “Can we chat?” “Um . . .” What was going on here? Natalie picked up her freshly brewed coffee and sipped it black for an initial kick before heading to the fridge for milk. “Sure. What’s on your mind?” Whatever the reason for this predawn rendezvous, Hallie was deadly serious about it. “I’m here to offer my services.” Natalie did a double take while adding a splash of milk to her coffee. “In what way?” Hallie frowned as if the answer should be obvious. “Why, for your fake wedding, of course. I’m here to help.” “Don’t get comfortable calling it that. There are eyes and ears everywhere in St. Helena, you know.” Natalie mock shivered. “We’re just going to exchange vows at the courthouse, but I suppose if you want to make me a bouquet—?” Hallie’s giggle stopped her short. “The courthouse. That’s adorable. Didn’t you hear your mother demand a proper wedding?” Natalie’s smile vanished, dread curling in her stomach. “Yes, but there’s no way she could plan a wedding within the time frame we need. Right? What do you know?” “Your mother told Julian to have a tuxedo rented by this Saturday.” Hallie took her time continuing. “And then she had to get off the phone because the caterer was calling on the other line.” “Caterer?” Natalie choked out. She should have seen this coming. No way Corinne could get down with a courthouse ceremony. Not with the pageantry and tradition of the Vos name to uphold. What was August going to say about this? And why did his very name transport her back to the wine train, where he’d wrapped her in warmth and slowed the rate of her heart
| 0 |
74 |
Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt
| 80 |
me in that way that makes me melt. “Hand to God, the grocery store was a coincidence.” He pauses. “Now, did I ‘run into you’ in the Coffee Cove, where I happen to know you go get a pick-me-up at two every afternoon? Maybe not.” I laugh, marveling at this spark that is still between us, even seven years after we broke up. I have also marveled at it, my heart racing a mile a minute, in the frozen foods section at the Piggly Wiggly and during a “quick” catch-up-over-coffee that lasted three hours. “Well, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t just happen to be in Little Washington last week at the boat ramp either. I may or may not have overheard that you were trout fishing.” Huff gasps as if in shock. He is not in shock at all. I obviously had no business being an hour and a half from home at a boat ramp on a Saturday while Steven had Henry at a baseball game. But four hours later, we were still riding around the river, totally lost in each other, and Huff hadn’t so much as baited a hook, making me think that was the only place I had any business being after all. I take in his imperfectly tied bow tie and, as if by impulse, untie it. I begin to tie it back, neater, and Huff asks, “How’s Henry? I stalk you relentlessly on Instagram, so, I mean, I saw him in his new police uniform. I know he’s here to protect and serve. But in general.” I laugh, pulling the ends of the tie tight. “He’s cute, isn’t he?” He nods. “He looks shockingly like you.” “Well, when you meet Steven, you might change your mind.” His face falls, and I realize mentioning Steven is a misstep. I let my fingers linger on his tie, so close to that face I loved for so long. So I add, “But he does look like me. And thank goodness. Let’s face it: I’m the one who did all the hard work to get him here.” “I can’t wait to finally meet him,” Huff says. “He is all Lanier talks about.” Shit. Lanier. I smile a little uncomfortably, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself of all the reasons we cannot, should not, will not be together. But trying to convince myself of all that when Huff is in a tux just isn’t fair. “Huff!” Mary Stuart calls from somewhere behind the swirling mass of bridesmaids and groomsmen and assorted family members waiting for their turn in front of the lens. I have forgotten any of them are there. For a solid minute or so, it was just Huff and me. I will myself to stop it as Mary Stuart hugs Huff. “So excited for you, Mar,” Huff says. “And don’t let Ted forget we have a big game next week.” He walks toward the door. Mary Stuart sidles as close to me as she can get in her giant gown. “Big game?” I ask her. “Yeah. Ted
| 0 |
20 |
Jane Eyre.txt
| 48 |
o w n t h o u g h t s . S h e w a s n o t a l l o w e d m u c h t i m e f o r m e d i t a t i o n ; a m o n i t o r , a g r e a t r o u g h g i r l , p r e s e n t l y c a m e u p , e x c l a i m i n g i n a s t r o n g C u m b e r l a n d a c c e n t : " H e l e n B u r n s , i f y o u d o n ' t g o a n d p u t y o u r d r a w e r i n o r d e r , a n d f o l d u p y o u r w o r k t h i s m i n u t e , I ' l l t e l l M i s s S c a t c h e r d t o c o m e a n d l o o k a t i t ! " H e l e n s i g h e d a s h e r r e v e r i e f l e d , a n d g e t t i n g u p o b e y e d t h e m o n i t o r w i t h o u t r e p l y a s w i t h o u t d e l a y . | G o t o C o n t e n t s | C h a p t e r V I I M Y F I R S T q u a r t e r a t L o w o o d s e e m e d a n a g e ; a n d n o t t h e g o l d e n a g e e i t h e r : i t c o m p r i s e d a n i r k s o m e s t r u g g l e w i t h d i f f i c u l t i e s i n h a b i t u a t i n g m y s e l f t o n e w r u l e s a n d u n w o n t e d t a s k s . T h e f e a r o f f a i l u r e i n t h e s e p o i n t s h a r a s s e d m e w o r s e t h a n t h e p h y s i c a l h a r d s h i p s o f m y l o t , t h o u g h t h e s e w e r e n o t r i f l e s . D u r i n g J a n u a r y , F e b r u a r y , a n d p a r t o f M a r c h , t h e d e e p s n o w s , a n d , a f t e r t h e i r m e l t i n g , t h e a l m o s t i m p a s s a b l e r o a d s , p r e v e n t e d o u r s t i r r i n g b e y o n d t h e g a r d e n w a l l s , e x c e p t t o g o t o c h u r c h ; b u t w i t h i n t h e s e l i m i t s w e h a d t o p a s s a n h o u r e v e r y d a y i n t h e o p e n a i r . O u r c l o t h i n g w a s i n s u f f i c i e n t t o p r o t e c t u s f r o m t h e s e v e r e c o l d ; w e h a d n o b o o t s , t h e s n o w g o t i n t o o u r s h o e s a n d m e l t e d t h e r e ; o u r u n g l o v e d h a n d s b e c a m e n u m b e d a n d c o v e r e d w i t h c h i l b l a i n s , a s w e r e o u r f e e t ; I r e m e m b e r w e l l t h e d i s t r a c t i n g i r r i t a t i o n I e n d u r e d f r o m t h i s c a u s e e v e r y e v e n i n g , w h e n m y f e e t i n f l a m e d ; a n d t h e t o r t u r e o f t h r u s t i n g t h e s w e l l e d , r a w , a n d s t i f f t o e s i n t o m y s h o e s i n t h e m o r n i n g . T h e n t h e s c a n t y s u p p l y o f f o o d w a s d i s t r e s s i n g ; w i t h t h e k e e n a p p e t i t e s o f g r o w i n g c h i l d r e n , w e h a d s c a r c e l y s u f f i c i e n t t o k e e p a l i v e a d e l i c a t e i n v a l i d . F r o m t h i s d e f i c i e n c y o f n o u r i s h m e n t r e s u l t e d a n a b u s e w h i c h p r e s s e d h a r d l y o n t h e y o u n g e r p u p i l s ; w h e n e v e r t h e f a m i s h e d g r e a t g i r l s h a d a n o p p o r t u n i t y , t h e y w o u l d c o a x o r m e n a c e t h e l i t t l e o n e s o u t o f t h e i r p o r t i o n . M a n y a t i m e I h a v e s h a r e d b e t w e e n t w o c l a i m a n t s t h e p r e c i o u s m o r s e l o f b r o w n b r e a d d i s t r i b u t e d a t t e a - t i m e ; a n d a f t e r r e l i n q u i s h i n g t o a t h i r d h a l f t h e c o n t e n t s o f m y m u g o f c o f f e e , I h a v e s w a l l o w e d t h e r e m a i n d e r w i t h a n a c c o m p a n i m e n t o f s e c r e t t e a r s , f o r c e d f r o m m e b y t h e e x i g e n c y o f h u n g e r . S u n d a y w e r e d r e a r y d a y s i n t h a t w i n t r y s e a s o n . W e h a d t o w a l k t w o m i l e s t o B r o c k l e b r i d g e C h u r c h , w h e r e o u r p a t r o n o f f i c i a t e d . W e s e t o u t c o l d , w e a r r i v e d a t c h u r c h c o l d e r ; d u r i n g t h e m o r n i n g s e r v i c e w e b e c a m e a l m o s t p a r a l y z e d . I t w a s t o o f a r t o r e t u r n t o d i n n e r , a n d a n a l l o w a n c e o f c o l d m e a t a n d b r e a d , i n t h e s a m e p e n u r i o u s p r o p o r t i o n o b s e r v e d i n o u r o r d i n a r y m e a l s , w a s s e r v e d r o u n d b e t w e e n t h e s e r v i c e s . A t t h e c l o s e o f t h e a f t e r n o o n s e r v i c e w e r e t u r n e d b y a n e x p o s e d a n d h i l l y r o a d , w h e r e t h e b i t t e r w i n t e r w i n d , b l o w i n g o v e r a r a n g e o f s n o w y s u m m i t s t o t h e n o r t h , a l m o s t f l a y e d t h e s k i n f r o m o u r f a c e s .
| 1 |
10 |
Dune.txt
| 68 |
shouldered through the crowd to the ledge, leaped lightly up to it and faced the people. "Do it!" someone shrieked. Murmurs and whispers arose behind the shriek. Paul waited for silence. It came slowly amidst scattered shufflings and coughs. When it was quiet in the cavern, Paul lifted his chin, spoke in a voice that carried to the farthest corners. "You are tired of waiting," Paul said. Again, he waited while the cries of response died out. Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier. The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements! Again, Paul raised his voice: "You think it's time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!" Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: "Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?" There was stunned silence. He's accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it! "It's the way!" someone shouted. Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. "Ways change." An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: "We'll say what's to change!" There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng. "As you wish," Paul said. And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him. "You will say," he agreed. "But first you will hear my say." Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. "That is the way, too," he said. "The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad'Dib is a Fremen." "The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?" Paul asked. Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: "Thus our steps are guided." "All right," Paul said. "Then, who rules this troop of our tribe -- and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we've trained in the weirding way?" Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came. Presently, he said: "Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council." There was shuffling silence among the crowd. "So," Paul said. "Does my mother rule?" He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. "Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?" Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs. This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul's intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose
| 1 |
38 |
The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 24 |
tonsils were painful from the cabman's fingers, and the skin of my neck had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent and quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me. "Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my lodging burning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed, except my cheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats--if ever a man did! The place was blazing." The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the window. "Yes?" he said. "Go on." Chapter 22 In the Emporium "So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air about me--and if it settled on me it would betray me!--weary, cold, painful, inexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced of my invisible quality, I began this new life to which I am committed. I had no refuge, no appliances, no human being in the world in whom I could confide. To have told my secret would have given me away--made a mere show and rarity of me. Nevertheless, I was half minded to accost some passer-by and throw myself upon his mercy. But I knew too clearly the terror and brutal cruelty my advances would evoke. I made no plans in the street. My sole object was to get shelter from the snow, to get myself covered and warm; then I might hope to plan. But even to me, an Invisible Man, the rows of London houses stood latched, barred, and bolted impregnably. "Only one thing could I see clearly before me, the cold exposure and misery of the snowstorm and the night. "And then I had a brilliant idea. I turned down one of the roads leading from Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road, and found myself outside Omniums, the big establishment where everything is to be bought--you know the place--meat, grocery, linen, furniture, clothing, oil paintings even--a huge meandering collection of shops rather than a shop. I had thought I should find the doors open, but they were closed, and as I stood in the wide entrance a carriage stopped outside, and a man in uniform--you know the kind of personage
| 1 |
53 |
After Death.txt
| 27 |
but gliding across the open land at between fourteen and sixteen miles per hour. In the moonlight, their exquisitely engineered bodies are as silvery and seem almost as liquid as if they are shapes of coherent mercury. Although the F-150 is capable of far greater speed than their quarry currently exhibit, Walter says, “Don’t lose them.” “I won’t lose them,” Juan declares. “They’re probably scouts.” “Yeah. I’m hoping they’ll lead us to the ship.” “Is that a good thing?” Walter wonders. “Why wouldn’t it be a good thing?” “What if the aliens are evil?” “They aren’t evil.” Walter says, “You would know—how?” “I’m more with Spielberg than Ridley Scott.” “So it’s an issue of faith with you.” “No. Logic. The ETs in Alien were just bugs. They weren’t able to build robots, spaceships. ETs with spaceships are advanced beyond violence.” At the top of a hill, the robots halt and turn and rear up on their hind legs, mantis-like in the headlights, and something about their posture suggests they might be equipped with weapons. In the lightless attic with Nina and John to his left, sitting with his back to the wall, Michael Mace takes over control of Gog and Magog out there in the night, while he also enters the universal service network that all telecom companies share. He locates the provider of service to Juan Louis Gainza, who was earlier identified in the DMV files as the owner of the F-150. Perhaps because she is sitting shoulder to shoulder against Michael, Nina senses him reacting to the crisis. “What’s wrong?” she whispers. He murmurs, “Stay calm. I’ve got to make a call. I’ll explain later.” Once he has Juan Gainza’s number, he is able to identify the maker of the phone in six seconds. Apple. He’s been there before. Easy to enter their system. From Apple’s ocean of data, he siphons the transponder code built into that particular iPhone. He departs Apple and trampolines from the internet to an orbiting navigation-service satellite from which he seeks the current location of the signal being emitted by Gainza’s phone. He finds it, funnels down the microwave linkage into that device, and switches it on. Mindful that Calaphas is searching the house below them, he keeps his voice as low as he can without whispering, while nonetheless sounding authoritative. “Juan Gainza, stop.” Evidently, the trap ladder was retracted from above. Calaphas isn’t so foolish as to pull it down and use it. The noise will alert them. Mace will be in the most advantageous position he could find. Calaphas can’t climb a steep ladder quickly, with a rifle in both hands. No one can. Impossible. That’s Hollywood action. He isn’t John Wick or Jason Bourne or Harry Callahan. Neither were Keanu Reeves nor Matt Damon nor Clint Eastwood, not for real. The bennies have pumped him up. He’s wound so tight with rage that his ears are ringing. He feels the arteries throbbing in his neck. The taste of blood is in his mouth because he’s bitten his lip in frustration, such is
| 0 |
84 |
Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 31 |
shivering. It was no use. He was brutally shoved down. They held him in place, making him kneel next to the porcelain bowl, and he bowed his head, whimpering. “What are they doing?” Tristán asked softly. She knew, of course. She remembered what José had said about the runes, the chickens sacrificed, the natural next step after that: the blood of a man. “Don’t look now,” she said, like she did when they went to the movies and she warned Tristán about certain scenes. Don’t look now, like when they had been small and Tristán grabbed her hand, except it was not the movies and she could not look away after all. Slowly, almost gently, Clarimonde took out a dagger from between the folds of her clothes and sliced the man’s neck with an expert hand. The sight of the spray of blood sent Montserrat reeling against Tristán’s chest, clutching his shirt. Her fingers felt unnaturally warm, blistering almost, and in her mouth there was a sour taste. The blood dripped into the bowl, turning it crimson. Clarimonde Bauer motioned to her assistants, signaling for them to come closer. Tristán and Montserrat were pushed forward. She moved mechanically, one foot in front of the other, heart thumping, until Clarimonde stepped behind the projectors and greeted them with a half smile. The woman extended her hands, and one of the men gave her the can of film and the book Montserrat had been carrying in her purse. Clarimonde looked at the objects reverently. “I’m so pleased you could come,” Clarimonde said, carefully handing back the film and the book to one of her men. “Wilhelm has given me exact instructions as to how we should proceed.” Now that they had approached the projectors, Montserrat could smell the blood that was dripping into the bowl, as well as another sickly, pungent, almost sickeningly sweet scent. The aroma of rotting meat. “The three of you must be present to cast the spell,” Clarimonde said. “All six runes must be drawn using fresh blood, while the nitrate print plays. The dubbed copy you made will play at the same time, mixing sound and image. There are a few words to be said: we shall speak them. Then we will coax Wilhelm back from the dead.” Clarimonde motioned to one of the women who had walked with her into the room, and who now drifted toward the low table with the yellow cloth. The woman slipped the cloth aside, revealing the corpse of Abel Urueta. This was the source of the stench in the room. “That…my god, you are all insane,” Tristán said, shaking his head. He turned, looking at Ewers’s congregation. “All of you! Bunch of crazies!” As Tristán spoke, Montserrat tilted her head and looked at one of the mirrors decorating the ballroom. She’d caught sight of a blurred reflection there, a swift, subtle movement that made her swallow. Ewers. Behind the glass. Watching and listening. Her hands were trembling, but she clasped them together. “I said all three,” Clarimonde replied, her half smile now
| 0 |
26 |
Pride And Prejudice.txt
| 98 |
Bingleys they both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. __ FINIS __ Addendum: According to the _Memoir_of_Jane_Austen_, published in 1870 by her nephew James Edward Austen-Leigh, Jane Austen told her family that Kitty (Catherine) Bennet was ``satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley'', while Mary Bennet ``obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle Philips' clerks'' in marriage, and ``was content to be considered a star in the society of Meryton''. ================================================================ Chronology of _Pride_and_Prejudice_, according to MacKinnon and Chapman 1811 Before Michaelmas (Sept. 29): Bingley takes possession of Netherfield. Tues 15 Oct. Mr. Collins's letter. Tues 12 Nov. Jane is invited to dine at Netherfield Wed 13 Nov. Her illness. Thurs 14 Nov. Mrs. Bennet at Netherfield. Elizabeth remains.
| 1 |
29 |
Tarzan of the Apes.txt
| 86 |
foolish attempt, which can only end in your death." Tarzan laughed, and in another moment the jungle had swallowed him. The men stood silent for some moments and then slowly turned and walked back to the hotel veranda. Tarzan had no sooner entered the jungle than he took to the trees, and it was with a feeling of exultant freedom that he swung once more through the forest branches. This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance. At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. How easy it would be to circle back to the coast, and then make toward the south and his own jungle and cabin. Now he caught the scent of Numa, for he was traveling up wind. Presently his quick ears detected the familiar sound of padded feet and the brushing of a huge, fur-clad body through the undergrowth. Chapter 26 148 Tarzan came quietly above the unsuspecting beast and silently stalked him until he came into a little patch of moonlight. Then the quick noose settled and tightened about the tawny throat, and, as he had done it a hundred times in the past, Tarzan made fast the end to a strong branch and, while the beast fought and clawed for freedom, dropped to the ground behind him, and leaping upon the great back, plunged his long thin blade a dozen times into the fierce heart. Then with his foot upon the carcass of Numa, he raised his voice in the awesome victory cry of his savage tribe. For a moment Tarzan stood irresolute, swayed by conflicting emotions of loyalty to D'Arnot and a mighty lust for the freedom of his own jungle. At last the vision of a beautiful face, and the memory of warm lips crushed to his dissolved the fascinating picture he had been drawing of his old life. The ape-man threw the warm carcass of Numa across his shoulders and took to the trees once more. The men upon the veranda had sat for an hour, almost in silence. They had tried ineffectually to converse on various subjects, and always the thing uppermost in the mind of each had caused the conversation to lapse. "MON DIEU," said the wagerer at length, "I can endure it no longer. I am going into the jungle with my express and bring back that mad man." "I will go with you," said one. "And I"--"And I"--"And I," chorused the others. As though the suggestion had broken the spell of some horrid nightmare they hastened to their various quarters, and presently were headed toward the jungle--each one heavily armed. "God! What was that?" suddenly cried one of the party, an Englishman, as Tarzan's savage cry came faintly to their ears. "I heard the same thing once before," said a Belgian, "when I was in the gorilla country. My carriers said it was the cry of a
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45 |
Things Fall Apart.txt
| 80 |
a woman. At his age I was already fending for myself. No, my friend, he is not too young. A chick that will grow into a cock can be spotted the very day it hatches. I have done my best to make Nwoye grow into a man, but there is too much of his mother in him." "Too much of his grandfather," Obierika thought, but he did not say it. The same thought also came to Okonkwo's mind. But he had long learned how to lay that ghost. Whenever the thought of his father's weakness and failure troubled him he expelled it by thinking about his own strength and success. And so he did now. His mind went to his latest show of manliness. "I cannot understand why you refused to come with us to kill that boy," he asked Obierika. "Because I did not want to," Obierika replied sharply. "I had something better to do." "You sound as if you question the authority and the decision of the Oracle, who said he should die." "I do not. Why should I? But the Oracle did not ask me to carry out its decision." "But someone had to do it. If we were all afraid of blood, it would not be done. And what do you think the Oracle would do then?" "You know very well, Okonkwo, that I am not afraid of blood and if anyone tells you that I am, he is telling a lie. And let me tell you one thing, my friend. If I were you I would have stayed at home. What you have done will not please the Earth. It is the kind of action for which the goddess wipes out whole families." "The Earth cannot punish me for obeying her messenger," Okonkwo said. "A child's fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm." "That is true," Obierika agreed. "But if the Oracle said that my son should be killed I would neither dispute it nor be the one to do it." They would have gone on arguing had Ofoedu not come in just then. It was clear from his twinkling eyes that he had important news. But it would be impolite to rush him. Obierika offered him a lobe of the kola nut he had broken with Okonkwo. Ofoedu ate slowly and talked about the locusts. When he finished his kola nut he said: "The things that happen these days are very strange." "What has happened?" asked Okonkwo. "Do you know Ogbuefi Ndulue?" Ofoedu asked. "Ogbuefi Ndulue of Ire village," Okonkwo and Obierika said together. "He died this morning," said Ofoedu. "That is not strange. He was the oldest man in Ire," said Obierika. "You are right," Ofoedu agreed. "But you ought to ask why the drum has not beaten to tell Umuofia of his death." "Why?" asked Obierika and Okonkwo together. "That is the strange part of it. You know his first wife who walks with a stick?" "Yes. She is called Ozoemena." "That is so,"
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19 |
Hound of the Baskervilles.txt
| 51 |
in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran: Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE. The second: Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to trace cut sheet of Times. CARTWRlGHT. "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent." "We have still the cabman who drove the spy." "Exactly. I haw wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question." The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satis- factory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself. "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me." "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions." "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with a grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?" "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again." "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station." Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street." The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone." "My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his
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11 |
Emma.txt
| 29 |
and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.-- He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him
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Tarzan of the Apes.txt
| 57 |
weak. Tarzan had to lift him that he might drink from the gourd. The fever had not been the result of infection, as D'Arnot had thought, but one of those that commonly attack whites in the jungles of Africa, and either kill or leave them as suddenly as D'Arnot's had left him. Two days later, D'Arnot was tottering about the amphitheater, Tarzan's strong arm about him to keep him from falling. They sat beneath the shade of a great tree, and Tarzan found some smooth bark that they might converse. D'Arnot wrote the first message: What can I do to repay you for all that you have done for me? And Tarzan, in reply: Teach me to speak the language of men. And so D'Arnot commenced at once, pointing out familiar objects and repeating their names in French, for he thought that it would be easier to teach this man his own language, since he understood it himself best of all. It meant nothing to Tarzan, of course, for he could not tell one language from another, so when he pointed to the word man which he had printed upon a piece of bark he learned from D'Arnot that it was pronounced HOMME, and in the same way he was taught to pronounce ape, SINGE and tree, ARBRE. He was a most eager student, and in two more days had mastered so much French that he could speak little sentences such as: "That is a tree," "this is grass," "I am hungry," and the like, but D'Arnot found that it was difficult to teach him the French construction upon a foundation of English. The Frenchman wrote little lessons for him in English and had Tarzan repeat them in French, but as a literal translation was usually very poor French Tarzan was often confused. D'Arnot realized now that he had made a mistake, but it seemed too late to go back and do it all over again and force Tarzan to unlearn all that he had learned, especially as they were rapidly approaching a point where they would be able to converse. Chapter 23 130 On the third day after the fever broke Tarzan wrote a message asking D'Arnot if he felt strong enough to be carried back to the cabin. Tarzan was as anxious to go as D'Arnot, for he longed to see Jane again. It had been hard for him to remain with the Frenchman all these days for that very reason, and that he had unselfishly done so spoke more glowingly of his nobility of character than even did his rescuing the French officer from Mbonga's clutches. D'Arnot, only too willing to attempt the journey, wrote: But you cannot carry me all the distance through this tangled forest. Tarzan laughed. "MAIS OUI," he said, and D'Arnot laughed aloud to hear the phrase that he used so often glide from Tarzan's tongue. So they set out, D'Arnot marveling as had Clayton and Jane at the wondrous strength and agility of the apeman. Mid-afternoon brought them to the clearing, and as Tarzan
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80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 41 |
a laugh. This version of myself—I don’t hate her. She’s carefree and laid-back, two adjectives I’ve never associated with myself. She’s fun. He glances down. “It’s probably been that way for hours, huh?” “I’ll fix it for you.” I lean in as he gamely holds out his arms, and now my knee is pressed against his, too. “Do you want them both up or both down?” I ask the question hoping for a specific answer. Up would give me more reasons to touch him. “Up, please,” he says, blushing again. His skin is warm, his breath even. I take my time, making sure his sleeves are the same length, each roll of fabric revealing more freckles. When my thumb grazes the underside of his forearm, he twitches but doesn’t move away. The next time I do it, it isn’t an accident, and his eyes lock on mine with a steady intensity. I didn’t think rolling up the sleeves of a man’s shirt could be erotic, but here we are. My heart is hammering against my rib cage and this close, I can see how long his lashes are. Those lines around his eyes, the graying of his hair. I wonder how he feels about it, if he’s fighting it or if he’s made his peace, or if it’s something that’s never bothered him at all. His scent, something woodsy that might be leftover cologne he wore to his sales conference or something purely him. He’s really lovely, this man, and suddenly it seems unfair that I have only one night with him. The mysterious Drew. “Thank you,” he says in a new kind of voice. Rougher. Richer. My throat has gone dry, and when I reach into my bag for my entrepreneurial water bottle, my fingers skim the top of Maddy’s book. I fight back a laugh as I pull it out. “I—I accidentally stole this,” I say. “I was supposed to pay for it after I got it signed, but then I went to the bar and forgot. We have to go back.” “All this time, I’ve been cavorting about with a common criminal?” he says, but the look on his face is sheer amusement. “I could just as easily blame you!” I pat the book gently against his chest, and he clutches his heart, pretending I’ve wounded him. “If you hadn’t been so charming, maybe I wouldn’t have been cavorting about with you and forgotten to pay.” As though summoned, a dimple appears in one cheek. “You think I’m charming?” “I think you’re an accessory to petty theft,” I say as we get to our feet. “And I also think I’ve never heard someone use the word ‘cavorting’ in casual conversation before. I kind of love it?” “Ah, you see, that’s what makes me so charming.” We haven’t ventured too far from the bookstore, only about five blocks. Except now when we walk, I’m more aware of Drew’s body than I have been all night. The way he makes his steps smaller to keep pace with me, his arm brushing
| 0 |
34 |
The Call of the Wild.txt
| 60 |
It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon. And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,--strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops. But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge's grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king,--king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's place, humans included. His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge's inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large,--he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds,--for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights
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Maame.txt
| 12 |
a thing at the office.” That sounds awful. “That sounds great.” “It won’t be. It’ll be lavish and overstated and he’s denied two pay rise requests this month alone.” He pulls me close. “I’ve got you a plus-one, but I won’t be offended if you decide not to use it. If you don’t, maybe I’ll start coughing two days before and suddenly be too ill to attend.” “No, I’d like to come.” I wouldn’t, but attending work events is a relationship thing, isn’t it? And this is a relationship now, right? “It’ll be fun.” Ben smiles. “On your own head be it. I was just leaving for a run but wanted to give you something before.” He hands me a pink rectangular box wrapped in a black ribbon. I suddenly wish I was wearing something other than his T-shirt. “What is it?” I ask. “Open it.” Inside the box, nestled spaciously on pink tissue paper are three macarons—one pale pink, one violet and one green. “Macarons?” “These are London’s best macarons,” he says. “I saw them and thought of you.” He pulls my thighs apart and stands between them. “Try one?” “What? Now?” “I did intend to give it to you last night, but we got distracted.” He leans in to bite my bottom lip. He smells different today and I wonder if it’s me he smells of. “Have one,” he says. I look up at him. “Ben, it’s eight in the morning.” “So?” He kisses me. If this were all happening on-screen, I’d ask if the macarons were poisoned. Ben stares at me and I can’t decide if his eyes have darkened or if I’m seeing things. “Okay then.” I really don’t want one but it doesn’t feel like enough of a big deal. Ben begins stroking my thighs and says, “The pink one.” I move my fingers away from the violet and lift the pink macaron from its place. I take a bite. The shell is crisp and crunches noisily between my teeth. Its sweetness stings. Ben taps my thighs, and I look at him. He smiles, then watches me chew. “What do you think?” he asks. I’m hearing a tone that isn’t there. Ben’s voice is, as always, gentle and conversational. I nod and swallow. I only briefly consider placing the other half of the macaron back into the box before Ben’s thigh tapping begins again. My chest feels weak and I want to cry. What is wrong with you? I eat the other half. This half is dry and I have difficulty swallowing it. His tapping doesn’t stop until I look at him again. I almost whisper, “Sorry.” “Decadent breakfast,” I say. He kisses my shoulder through his shirt, and I quickly close the box. Chapter Seventeen Nia I’m baaaaccckkkkk Maddie YAAAY! When can I see you? Nia Any time next week Maddie After I see my dad? Nia Sounds good. Let him know I said happy birthday I’m thinking tonight might be the night for a bath when in the kitchen Jo says, “I’m meeting some friends
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8 |
David Copperfield.txt
| 30 |
he went on ahead. This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone out of sight; which happened so often, that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I came into the world. It always kept me company. It was there, among the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was with me on my waking in the morning; it went before me all day. I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light; and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, grey Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came, at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached that first great aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town itself, on the sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then, strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream, and to leave me helpless and dispirited. I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and received various answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light, and had singed her whiskers by doing so; another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a third, that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind, and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in London. The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up, encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my lips. 'Trotwood,' said he. 'Let me
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79 |
Quietly-Hostile.txt
| 55 |
fact that Sick Nun isn’t doing well, and Sick Nun takes her face in her hands and kisses her in a way that would be hot if I wasn’t wondering what disease Sick Nun supposedly has. Is “deathbed porn” a genre? These two do a solid minute of kissing, and I love that. Ten out of ten. A+. No notes. I will watch any video of people kissing, it doesn’t matter who. I love being kissed. Kissing is the best. Wait, this is actually three minutes of fully clothed kissing only, and somehow this movie is better than I originally gave it credit for? Yes, we are 12:39 into it, but also why was I skipping past this loving, sensual part? At 12:49 we get our first boob after a shockingly realistic struggle for Mean Nun to wrestle her way out of a top with absolutely zero stretch and a cheap quarter zip at the back of her neck. There’s no easy way out of a top like that! Especially when you have a huge rack and aren’t wearing a bra!! Okay, now they’re doing some topless kissing—although Sick Nun still has her flimsy nightgown on—and hugging, which is funny to me because if I hug you with my shirt off that means I’m about to go to sleep. If the momentum slows for even a second, I will fall off a cliff into the deepest slumber possible because I am a cat. They’re clutching each other, now they’re rocking back and forth, and maybe this is why the video was tagged “mommy.” It’s giving very much “I skinned my knee, please make it better,” and also like…………is Sick Nun okay? She really is leaning on Mean Nun like she’s about to die of consumption. Have I accidentally stumbled across a movie from 1883? Finally Mean Nun’s scowl cracks, and she starts smiling! Then laughing! Sick Nun kissed her meanness away, and now she’s happy enough to have sex!!!!!!! Sick Nun pulls her nightgown over her head and goes in for another gentle embrace, and now I’m wondering how wet her fitted sheet is because this is an awful lot of foreplay with very little digital insertion. Sick Nun commands Mean Nun to stand, and she yanks her black nun dress down and: OH SHIT, this is the first time I have ever seen my preferred style of underpants in a porn??? Mean Nun is wearing high-waisted white full briefs, and I have never felt more recognized by a piece of cinema. Well, okay, now the video is kind of glitching. I’ve had to reload the browser a couple of times when the video refused to play and the sidebar ads keep popping up all over the screen. I tried to skip ahead to see if that would fix it, to the part at 17:10 when it starts to get good, when Sick Nun finally slips her moisturized hand into Mean Nun’s Hanes Cool Comfort breathable cotton briefs and starts fiddling around, but all I’m getting is the spinning wheel of death
| 0 |
22 |
Lord of the Flies.txt
| 8 |
most of the children, feeling too late the smart of sunburn, had put their clothes on. The choir, less of a group, had discarded their cloaks. Ralph sat on a fallen trunk, his left side to the sun. On his right were most of the choir; on his left the larger boys who had not known each other before the evacuation; before him small children squatted in the grass. Silence now. Ralph lifted the cream and pink shell to his knees and a sudden breeze scattered light over the platform. He was uncertain whether to stand up or remain sitting. He looked sideways to his left, toward the bathing pool. Piggy was sitting near but giving no help. Ralph cleared his throat. "Well then." All at once he found he could talk fluently and explain what he had to say. He passed a hand through his fair hair and spoke. "We're on an island. We've been on the mountain top and seen water all round. We saw no houses, no smoke, no footprints, no boats, no people. We're on an uninhabited island with no other people on it." Jack broke in. "All the same you need an army--for hunting. Hunting pigs--" "Yes. There are pigs on the island." All three of them tried to convey the sense of the pink live thing struggling in the creepers. "We saw--" "Squealing--" "It broke away--" "Before I could kill it--but--next time!" Jack slammed his knife into a trunk and looked round challengingly. The meeting settled down again. "So you see," said Ralph, "We need hunters to get us meat. And another thing." He lifted the shell on his knees and looked round the sun-slashed faces. "There aren't any grownups. We shall have to look after ourselves." The meeting hummed and was silent. "And another thing. We can't have everybody talking at once. We'll have to have 'Hands up' like at school." He held the conch before his face and glanced round the mouth. "Then I'll give him the conch." "Conch?" "That's what this shell's called. I'll give the conch to the next person to speak. He can hold it when he's speaking." "But--" "Look--" "And he won't be interrupted: Except by me." Jack was on his feet. "We'll have rules!" he cried excitedly. "Lots of rules! Then when anyone breaks 'em--" "Whee--oh!" "Wacco!" "Bong!" "Doink!" Ralph felt the conch lifted from his lap. Then Piggy was standing cradling the great cream shell and the shouting died down. Jack, left on his feet, looked uncertainly at Ralph who smiled and patted the log. Jack sat down. Piggy took off his glasses and blinked at the assembly while he wiped them on his shirt. "You're hindering Ralph. You're not letting him get to the most important thing." He paused effectively. "Who knows we're here? Eh?" "They knew at the airport." "The man with a trumpet-thing--" "My dad." Piggy put on his glasses. "Nobody knows where we are," said Piggy. He was paler than before and breathless. "Perhaps they knew where we was going to; and perhaps not.
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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt
| 99 |
lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left. Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up." Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. "Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!' " "UP!" everyone shouted. Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years. "Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two -- " But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips. "Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle -- twelve feet -- twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and -- WHAM -- a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his. "Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's all right, up you get.". She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear." Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" The other Slytherins joined in. "Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil. "Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat
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42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 0 |
them to Menegroth. Then Thingol received Trin, and took him even to his own fostering, in honour of Hrin the Steadfast; for Thingol's mood was changed towards the houses of the Elf-friends. Thereafter messengers went north to Hithlum, bidding Morwen leave Dor-lmin and return with them to Doriath; but still she would not leave the house in which she had dwelt with Hrin. And when the Elves departed she sent with them the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin, greatest of the heirlooms of the house of Hador. Trin grew fair and strong in Doriath, but he was marked with sorrow. For nine years he dwelt in Thingol's halls, and during that time his grief grew less; for messengers went at times to Hithlum, and returning they brought better tidings of Morwen and Nienor. But there came a day when the messengers did not return out of die north, and Thingol would send no more. Then Trin was filled with fear for his mother and his sister, and in grimness of heart he went before the King and asked for mail and sword; and he put on the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin and went out to battle on the marches of Doriath, and became the companion in arms of Beleg Cthalion. And when three years had passed, Trin returned again to Menegroth; but he came from the wild, and was unkempt, and his gear and garments were way-worn. Now one there was in Doriath, of the people of the Nandor, high in the counsels of the King; Saeros was his name. He had long begrudged to Trin the honour he received as Thingol's fosterson; and seated opposite to him at the board he taunted him, saying: 'If the Men of Hithlum are so wild and fell, of what sort are the women of that land? Do they run like deer clad only in their hair?' Then Trin in great anger took up a drinking-vessel, and cast it at Saeros; and he was grievously hurt. On the next day Saeros waylaid Trin as he set out from Menegroth to return to the marches; but Trin overcame him, and set him to run naked as a hunted beast through the woods. Then Saeros fleeing in terror before him fell into the chasm of a stream, and his body was broken on a great rock in the water. But others coming saw what was done, and Mablung was among them; and he bade Trin return with him to Menegroth and abide the judgement of the King, seeking his pardon. But Trin, deeming himself now an outlaw and fearing to be held captive, refused Mablung's bidding, and turned swiftly away; and passing through the Girdle of Melian he came into the woods west of Sirion. There he joined himself to a band of such houseless and desperate men as could be found in those evil days lurking in the wild; and their hands were turned against all who came in their path Elves and Men and Orcs. But when all that had befallen was told and searched out before Thingol,
| 1 |
86 |
Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt
| 77 |
let alone her bare hands. Still, he couldn’t walk away from Natalie if she needed him. Not when she’d sucked it up and asked for assistance when it clearly had been very difficult to set aside her pride. No, he’d dwell on it forever. So he crossed the stupid street in his hot, restrictive suit with his molars grinding together, scanning the crowd for the black-haired goddess he would never get to sleep with but would apparently be marrying, because he’d lost his fucking mind. It was so hot under the tent that he immediately started to sweat. Why did these people insist on gathering to celebrate fermented grape juice? Had none of them heard of baseball? Now that was a reason to gather outside in the sun— Natalie. Up ahead. Hot. Damn. As usual, when August laid eyes on the woman, he had to squeeze his thumbs hard in the palms of his hands. She had these incredibly smart eyes and a soft mouth. He’d never felt the need to categorize another woman’s features before. He sort of stopped at registering the color of someone’s eyes and hair. Brown. Blue. Blond. Green. Easy. There was nothing easy about looking at Natalie. All sorts of shit was happening on her features at once and for some reason, he wanted to keep up with all of it. Sometimes she might look bored, but she’d rub her lips together over and over, letting him know she was actually anxious and hiding it. Other times, two little lines formed between her eyebrows like she might be concerned about something, but she’d hoist her chin up in the air like she didn’t have a care in the world. Bottom line, Natalie wasn’t a simple combination of colors, she was an ever-changing kaleidoscope he couldn’t seem to stop peering into. Although today the color purple was front and center, because in a sea of muted colors, her short lilac dress stood out. Cut high around her throat with a low back and a soft, fluttery skirt. Those long, lithe legs had his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against the starched collar of his shirt. He could see them all tangled up in his sheets. Could see them bending, locking, being pressed open onto the mattress by his hands. Those images would never become a reality, and yet he’d love someone to try to stop him from fake marrying this kaleidoscopic woman. On his way across the tent, he finally noticed Natalie was standing with her mother, her brother, Julian, and the blonde whom August assumed was Julian’s girlfriend. They were speaking in low tones over glasses of wine, seemingly unaware that, as the legendary Vos family, they were of interest to every guest in the tent. Classy, sophisticated. A quiet dynasty that had perhaps seen better days but remained legendary. Maybe it would be fun to mess that image up for a while. Fun or not, this was happening. Because if Natalie was desperate enough to ask August to marry her, then she would eventually find
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55 |
Blowback.txt
| 91 |
think the rational side is losing, if not having already lost. “For a party that’s all sensitive about the Left canceling them, they do a pretty good job of canceling their own,” he added. “That’s why the hammer came down so hard on Liz Cheney—to send a message of fear. No one wants to be targeted the way she’s been targeted, which makes this period we are in perhaps the most dangerous.” Observing what has happened to the party of Lincoln, we can make one conclusion with confidence: we’ve only seen the beginning of Trumpism. The rational faction of the GOP has been put down by the radical one and is no longer a check on the system. The conditions are right for the Next Trump to emerge. Worse still for our democracy, when he or she enters the White House, the rest of the guardrails will be weaker than ever. Chapter 2 THE DEPUTY Once an efficient national government is established, the best men in the country will not only consent to serve, but also will generally be appointed to manage it. —JOHN JAY, FEDERALIST NO. 3, 1787 PART I Today the Department of Homeland Security sits on a hill just outside of the nation’s capital, a behemoth visible from the Potomac River. But the original Homeland Security headquarters was nestled in the sleepy D.C. neighborhood of Tenleytown, largely unnoticed by pedestrians. The network of interconnected brick office buildings had previously been a secret National Security Agency hub and, later, a naval research facility. After 9/11, it became the home of DHS and almost blended in with nearby American University, were it not for two layers of barbed-wire fence and a fleet of armored SUVs that regularly transited the premises, flashing red and blue lights. I was awed to work there during the Bush administration, proudly swiping my badge each day to enter the compound. HQ was responsible for overseeing the department’s nearly 250,000 employees—helping them do their jobs and protecting the American people by responding to everything from natural disasters to cyberattacks. When I returned years later during the Trump administration, little had changed at the compound, except that now the government’s third-largest department was more worried about one person than the many thousands in its ranks. DHS was in a constant battle with the president of the United States. I soon found out why. “The ‘adults’ are winning.” The DHS Visitor Center was backed up when a group of anxious bureaucrats arrived on March 22, 2017. They cut to the front of the line at the magnetometers—shuffling past framed photos on the wall of President Donald Trump and the newly confirmed DHS secretary, John Kelly—and discreetly flashed blue badges at the guards. In my mind, the matching tote bags gave these spy community employees away. CIA, maybe NSA. They were clutching otherwise unremarkable nylon pouches with thick zippers and pick-proof locks, the kind used to deliver classified material to decision-makers. Was it good news or bad news in the bags? The visitors’ impatience suggested the latter. They vanished into
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4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 80 |
now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?' `HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. `Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."' `Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked. `Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you have of putting things!' `It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice. `Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; `there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours."' `Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, `it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is.' `I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; `and the moral of that is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put more simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."' `I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very politely, `if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it.' `That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. `Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,' said Alice. `Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. `I make you
| 1 |
10 |
Dune.txt
| 20 |
even know." Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized. A hand gripped his shoulder. Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it -- the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood. "The one who led Tabr sietch before me," Stilgar said, "he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine." "I am your friend, Stilgar," Paul said. "No man doubts it," Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. "It's the way." Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way. "We should leave this maker in deep sand," Paul said. "Yes," Stilgar agreed. "We could walk to the cave from here." "We've ridden him far enough that he'll bury himself and sulk for a day or so," Paul said. "You're the mudir of the sandride," Stilgar said. "Say when we . . ." He broke off, stared at the eastern sky. Paul whirled. The spice-blue overcast on his eyes made the sky appear dark, a richly filtered azure against which a distant rhythmic flashing stood out in sharp contrast. Ornithopter! "One small 'thopter," Stilgar said. "Could be a scout," Paul said. "Do you think they've seen us." "At this distance we're just a worm on the surface," Stilgar said. He motioned with his left hand. "Off. Scatter on the sand." The troop began working down the worm's sides, dropping off, blending with the sand beneath their cloaks. Paul marked where Chani dropped. Presently, only he and Stilgar remained. "First up, last off," Paul said. Stilgar nodded, dropped down the side on his hooks, leaped onto the sand. Paul waited until the maker was safely clear of the scatter area, then released his hooks. This was the tricky moment with a worm not completely exhausted. Freed of its goads and hooks, the big worm began burrowing into the sand. Paul ran lightly back along its broad surface, judged his moment carefully and leaped off. He landed running, lunged against the slipface of a dune the way he had been taught, and hid himself beneath the cascade of sand over his robe. Now, the waiting . . . Paul turned, gently, exposed a crack of sky beneath a crease in his robe. He imagined the others back along their path doing the same. He heard the beat of the 'thopter's wings before he saw it.
| 1 |
4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 69 |
began by producing from under his arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, `For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.' The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the words a little, `From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.' Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together. Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky. Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked. `There's no sort of use in knocking,' said the Footman, `and that for two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.' And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces. `Please, then,' said Alice, `how am I to get in?' `There might be some sense in your knocking,' the Footman went on without attending to her, `if we had the door between us. For instance, if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.' He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil. `But perhaps he can't help it,' she said to herself; `his eyes are so VERY nearly at the top of his head. But at any rate he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she repeated, aloud. `I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, `till tomorrow--' At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him. `--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened. `How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone. `ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. `That's the first question, you know.' It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. `It's really dreadful,' she muttered to herself, `the way all the creatures argue. It's enough to drive one crazy!' The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations. `I shall sit here,' he said, `on and off, for days and days.' `But what am I to do?' said Alice. `Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling. `Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately: `he's perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in. The door led
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Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt
| 42 |
“I would.” “As what?” Jane-two considered it. “Helen of Troy.” Jane-one snorted. “Oh, very good. Here’s your wooden horse.” She rolled the next box, filled to the brim with treasures, along the tracks they’d laid down the corridor, and ran a quick hand through her hair. Don’t stop, she told herself. Not even for a minute. She didn’t need to look at the clock. She knew what it would say. Midnight was fast approaching. “We need to speed up,” she muttered. * * * Alice had recognized the man in the mews lane the second she saw him. He had come without his usual companion. For some reason this made her more afraid, not less. One man, alone, without constraints, with his shirt collar loosened. Even debt collectors felt the heat, she thought, smothering a desperate bubble of laughter. Usually he showed perfect courtesy, and tipped his hat. But tonight he wasn’t wearing a hat at all. He looked bigger than before, and the lamp shone on his bald head. She searched for his hands, but they were shoved into his pockets. He let out a breath when he saw her. This, too, made her feel weak. It was a tiny gesture, a little huff of...what? Anger? He was impatient to get this job done, sorted, over with. She could see he had something concealed in his pocket. A lead pipe or a rope or a knife: her imagination unraveled all the possibilities, fear rattling through her chest. “You’re late on your payment,” he said. Alice ran her eyes down the lane. She looked over her shoulder, back into the yard. No one there. No one who could help. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She turned and ran, straight back to the mews house. Run, said her body, run and hide. She scurried through the lower offices, dodging the waiters and footmen. Think, she urged herself. Think, think, think. “Alice?” A face looked around the corner of the kitchen passage. It sent a jolt through her skin: she gasped. It was one of the under-footmen. He gave Alice a quizzical expression. “Steady on. Madam just asked for you. She’s gone and torn her gown. Run upstairs and fix it for her, will you?” Madam. Alice’s mind was whirring. Yes: Madam. Someone fierce, someone in charge, someone who could offer immediate protection... Alice could feel her chest tightening, worse than being laced. The under-footman’s frown deepened. “What are you waiting for? Go!” 29 Mr. Lockwood kept Mrs. King waiting for the best part of an hour. She didn’t let this rile her. She held herself upright and calm, in one of the vast wing-backed chairs in the corner of the library. It was such a good place for a private conversation. The walls were muffled by the bookcases, layers of vellum and gold-stamped leather. Mrs. King could hear the guests as if through water, a distant roar. Mr. Lockwood sat opposite, ignoring her, writing a letter. His patience equaled hers. Mrs. King’s women didn’t know she’d come up here. This conversation formed
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10 |
Dune.txt
| 70 |
man-made tunnel to the floor of the basin. Stilgar crossed to Paul. "What was so important that they couldn't send a cielago with the message?" Paul asked. "They're saving their birds for the battle," Stilgar said. He glanced at the communications equipment, back to Paul. "Even with a tight beam, it is wrong to use those things, Muad'Dib. They can find you by taking a bearing on its emission." "They'll soon be too busy to find me," Paul said. "What did the men report?" "Our pet Sardaukar have been released near Old Gap low on the rim and are on their way to their master. The rocket launchers and other projectile weapons are in place. The people are deployed as you ordered. It was all routine." Paul glanced across the shallow bowl, studying his men in the filtered light admitted by the camouflage cover. He felt time creeping like an insect working its way across an exposed rock. "It'll take our Sardaukar a little time afoot before they can signal a troop carrier," Paul said. "They are being watched?" "They are being watched," Stilgar said. Beside Paul, Gurney Halleck cleared his throat. "Hadn't we best be getting to a place of safety?" "There is no such place," Paul said. "Is the weather report still favorable?" "A great grandmother of a storm coming," Stilgar said. "Can you not feel it, Muad'Dib?" "The air does feel chancy," Paul agreed. "But I like the certainty of poling the weather." "The storm'll be here in the hour," Stilgar said. He nodded toward the gap that looked out on the Emperor's hutment and the Harkonnen frigates. "They know it there, too. Not a 'thopter in the sky. Everything pulled in and tied down. They've had a report on the weather from their friends in space." "Any more probing sorties?" Paul asked. "Nothing since the landing last night," Stilgar said. "They know we're here. I think now they wait to choose their own time." "We choose the time," Paul said. Gurney glanced upward, growled: "If they let us." "That fleet'll stay in space," Paul said. Gurney shook his head. "They have no choice," Paul said. "We can destroy the spice. The Guild dares not risk that." "Desperate people are the most dangerous," Gurney said. "Are we not desperate?" Stilgar asked. Gurney scowled at him. "You haven't lived with the Fremen dream," Paul cautioned. "Stil is thinking of all the water we've spent on bribes, the years of waiting we've added before Arrakis can bloom. He's not --" "Arrrgh," Gurney scowled. "Why's he so gloomy?" Stilgar asked. "He's always gloomy before a battle," Paul said. "It's the only form of good humor Gurney allows himself." A slow, wolfish grin spread across Gurney's face, the teeth showing white above the chip cup of his stillsuit. "It glooms me much to think on all the poor Harkonnen souls we'll dispatch unshriven," he said. Stilgar chuckled. "He talks like a Fedaykin." "Gurney was born a death commando," Paul said. And he thought: Yes, let them occupy their minds with small talk be
| 1 |
31 |
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt
| 78 |
just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavoring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene." "Is it possible?" gasped the banker. "You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret." "And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!' "When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me. "There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but
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42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 55 |
hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel; and the rocks were rent by their clamour and fell from on high and choked the falls of Esgalduin. There they fought to the death; but Thingol gave no heed, for he knelt by Beren, seeing that he was sorely hurt. Huan in that hour slew Carcharoth; but there in the woven woods of Doriath his own doom long spoken was fulfilled, and he was wounded mortally, and the venom of Morgoth entered into him. Then he came, and falling beside Beren spoke for the third time with words; and he bade Beren farewell before he died. Beren spoke not, but laid his hand upon the head of the hound, and so they parted. Mablung and Beleg came hastening to the King's aid, but when they looked upon what was done they cast aside their spears and wept. Then Mablung took a knife and ripped up the belly of the Wolf; and within he was well nigh all consumed as with a fire, but the hand of Beren that held the jewel was yet incorrupt. But when Mablung reached forth to touch it, the hand was no more, and the Silmaril lay there unveiled, and the light of it filled the shadows of the forest all about hem. Then quickly and in fear Mablung took it and set it in Beren's living hand; and Beren was aroused by the touch of the Silmaril, and held it aloft, and bade Thingol receive it. 'Now is the Quest achieved,' he said, 'and my doom full-wrought'; and he spoke no more. They bore back Beren Camlost son of Barahir upon a bier of branches with Huan the wolfhound at his side; and night fell ere they returned to Menegroth. At the feet of Hrilorn the great beech Lthien met them walking slow, and some bore torches beside the bier. There she set her arms about Beren, and kissed him bidding him await her beyond the Western Sea; and he looked upon her eyes ere the spirit left him. But the starlight was quenched and darkness had fallen even upon Lthien Tinviel. Thus ended the Quest of the Silmaril; but the Lay of Leithian, Release form Bondage does not end. For the spirit of Beren at her bidding tarried in the halls of Mandos, unwilling to leave the world, until Lthien came to say her last farewell upon the dim shores of the Outer Sea, whence Men that die set out never to return. But the spirit of Lthien fell down into darkness, and at the last it fled, and her body lay like a flower that is suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the grass. Then a winter, as it were the hoar age of mortal Men, fell upon Thingol. But Lthien came to the halls of Mandos, where are the appointed places of the Eldali, beyond the mansions of the West upon the confines of the world. There those that wait sit in the shadow of their thought. But her
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87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 15 |
spent with him, but she assumed he was just as conditioned to report everything to Anton as Gabe was. “Gabe thought Bastian might be here, but it appears he’s spending his leisure hours elsewhere.” Like in the stables, trying to feed apples to a dead horse. Malcolm looked down from the second story, leaning over the gilded railing just long enough to see the cover of Lore’s book. His dark eyes widened as he snorted a laugh. “Taking get close to Bastian very seriously, I see.” “I always follow orders,” Lore replied. Gabe grimaced, but was too preoccupied with what Malcolm was doing to make a snide comment. “Is Anton moving more books out of the Church library?” “Not quite.” Malcolm set his book pile down on the floor, then hefted one of them into an empty space in the shelf. The thing was thick, and Malcolm’s muscles strained as he pushed it into place. Truly, it was a waste how goodlooking all the Presque Mort were. “He asked for these to be brought to him for study. Newer editions of the Compendium, some translated from other languages and then back into Auverrani.” Another over-thick book was pushed into its space. “No idea why, since there are literally hundreds of Compendiums in the Church library, including the original. Especially since from what I’ve seen, he’s only looking at the Book of Holy Law. But what do I know! I’m just the librarian.” He shoved the last book into the shelf and turned to face them, bracing his hands on the railing. “Compendiums are easy to find, at least. A couple of months ago, he made me look for a book on dreamwalking. I had to write to a university all the way in Farramark, and it took ages to get here, even by sea. Of course he just had to have it when the Ourish Pass was frozen over.” “He must be looking for something specific in the translations,” Gabe murmured. “Any Tract in particular?” “When he left them all open yesterday,” Malcolm said, making his way down the stairs, “it was to the Law of Opposites.” He shrugged. “Who knows. I certainly couldn’t tell a difference.” “Are differences common?” Lore asked. “Not really.” Malcolm pushed the door open for them, this time, waving them gracefully into the hall. “The Compendiums are the least interesting thing in the Church’s catalog, to be honest. The firsthand accounts of the Godsfall and the notes on experiments with elemental magic are much more entertaining.” “I’d bet,” Lore said softly. He caught the gleam of interest in her eye, smiled to see it. “You’re welcome to come look at them sometime. Just let me know beforehand, so I can make sure Anton isn’t going to be around. He’s picky about the Church library.” A scowl flickered at the corner of Gabe’s mouth, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll take you up on that.” Lore turned in the direction she thought would take them toward the southeast turret. “Assuming I can find the time to unsew myself
| 0 |
4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 51 |
call him Tortoise--' `Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked. `We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock Turtle angrily: `really you are very dull!' `You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,' added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, `Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!' and he went on in these words: `Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--' `I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice. `You did,' said the Mock Turtle. `Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. `We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--' `I'VE been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; `you needn't be so proud as all that.' `With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. `Yes,' said Alice, `we learned French and music.' `And washing?' said the Mock Turtle. `Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly. `Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. `Now at OURS they had at the end of the bill, "French, music, AND WASHING--extra."' `You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; `living at the bottom of the sea.' `I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. `I only took the regular course.' `What was that?' inquired Alice. `Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle replied; `and then the different branches of Arithmetic-- Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.' `I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. `What is it?' The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. `What! Never heard of uglifying!' it exclaimed. `You know what to beautify is, I suppose?' `Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: `it means--to--make--anything-- prettier.' `Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, `if you don't know what to uglify is, you ARE a simpleton.' Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said `What else had you to learn?' `Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, `--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.' `What was THAT like?' said Alice. `Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: `I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.' `Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: `I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, HE was.' `I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: `he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.' `So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. `And how many
| 1 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 28 |
sleeping with Rachel—even after he told her it would never happen again—that he knew he had to come clean. He had never been so scared in his life. Until now. He opens a new window and searches the King County Assessor website for the address. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot home was purchased for twenty-six million dollars four months ago by Pacific Estate Management, LLC. Ethan leaves the assessor website and runs an Internet search for the company. His heart drops in his chest when he reads the headline at the top of the search. BRODY CARR’S MYSTERIOUS NEW COMPANY: PACIFIC ESTATE MANAGEMENT, LLC Sloane’s words on the phone replay in his mind. Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes. Ethan skims the first sentence beneath the headline. Pacific Estate Management oversees many of Brody and Chelsea Carr’s personal matters, including the power couple’s real estate holdings. Their names sound familiar, and he drums his fingers against his desk before typing Brody Carr into his Internet search bar. A headshot of a guy around Ethan’s age tops the search. Beside the photo, in bold letters: Brody Carr, entrepreneur and founder of The One. His net worth is listed as 1.4 billion dollars. Ethan has never used the dating app, which had been around for over a decade, but everyone knew what it was. He recalls Sloane mentioning once that the app’s founder had been her chemistry lab partner in college. Beneath Brody’s headshot are several photos of him and a stunning blonde. Ethan’s eyes travel to his biography on the right side of the screen. Brody Carr married Australian model Chelsea Nesbitt in 2016. He sits back in his chair. He wouldn’t have thought it would matter who his wife was having an affair with. But learning he was a billionaire dating app founder somehow made it sting worse. How could this be happening? Ethan examines the photo of Brody, smiling with his arm around his wife. Behind him, his partner’s phone rings as Ethan runs a new search for Chelsea Carr. A headline from last week appears at the top. EX-MODEL CHELSEA CARR STEPS OUT WITHOUT WEDDING RING AT NY FILM FESTIVAL, SPARKING SEPARATION RUMORS “We’re on our way,” he hears Jonah say. Ethan clicks on the article as Jonah slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey, we’re up. That was McKinnon. Patrol just called in a man found stabbed to death in his apartment in the U district. They already have his neighbor in custody. According to another apartment resident, she came out of the victim’s apartment covered in blood screaming that she killed him.” After standing, Jonah leans forward to see what Ethan is looking at. “Unless you need to stay here and catch up on celebrity gossip.” Ethan closes his laptop and turns to see Jonah grinning at his own joke. Despite the churning in his stomach, he cracks a smile as he pulls on his suit jacket. “That’s all right. I think I’ve had enough for today.” Chapter 10 Her house is depressingly quiet when Sloane steps inside. Exhausted,
| 0 |
54 |
Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt
| 55 |
as the news of their engagement swept through the house. “They’re offering us their congratulations,” she said in Lord Ashley’s ear as he hurtled her backward into the center of the room. Up close, she could see his curls were slick with grease, darker than his usual white blond. The waltz was the fastest of the night, the orchestra red-faced and exhausted. “Get your skirts out of the way,” he huffed, wrenching her waist. He wants to show off to the crowd, she thought. The room was spinning around them, all roaring salmon-painted pillars and the tang of sweat. But Miss de Vries made out two figures moving ponderously in her direction. Shepherd and Lockwood, making a beeline for her. She smiled, radiant, laughing, for the crowd. “May we stop,” she said, catching her breath, “my lord?” His hands came away so fast he nearly dropped her. He turned, arms aloft, hair askew, and the best families in London cheered for him. She tried not to stumble. Shepherd was on her, Lockwood right behind. “Her Royal Highness is here, Madam.” “What? Where?” “Her motor just pulled up at the front door.” Lockwood still looked pale. “Excellent news, Miss de Vries.” “Where’s Lady Montagu?” she asked. Shepherd frowned. “Indisposed, Madam. We took her to the Boiserie to—” “Ah, there she is,” said Miss de Vries. She saw a familiar gleam of pink satin, hoop skirts lurching through the crowd. A powdered wig bobbed furiously in the air. “Come.” They all followed the duchess, who was half running down the grand escalier. * * * Hephzibah thanked God for her hoop skirts. They kept people at arm’s length. Everyone caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, a perfect traffic jam. There was Miss de Vries, descending behind her, butler and lawyer at her side. In the opposite direction, she saw the Princess Victoria’s people, clustered at the front porch, waiting for someone to come and receive them. Oh, Lord, she thought. “Lady Montagu?” Miss de Vries was moving toward her at double speed. Hephzibah turned. I refuse to be rushed, she said to herself, trying to blink her dizziness away. Men stood under the portico. Real policemen, she realized, feeling sick. “Miss de Vries!” she said. “Splendid, you’re here.” Guests on the right, guests on the left. No way out. Could you be arrested for fraud? Naturally. But on the spot, without clear charges? Hephzibah’s mind spun like a loose wheel about to fall off. She wished, in this moment, that she had someone solid beside her, someone to reassure her. Winnie would help her, if she were here. Buck up, Hephzibah, she told herself. Buck up, do. Miss de Vries frowned. “Aren’t you going to meet the princess, Your Grace?” Hephzibah summoned all the severity she could muster. “You are the lady of this house, Miss de Vries,” she said. “Her Royal Highness is waiting for you.” She threw her arm wide, as if to say, Do hurry up. Hephzibah had never been trained to be a lady. She’d never
| 0 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 51 |
draw it out for you.' And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began drawing a map on the floor. Chapter 4 Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr Charrington's shop. Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (75 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness. In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets. The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty. Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, added that there were two entries to the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley. Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was singing in a powerful contralto: It was only an 'opeless fancy. It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred! They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye! The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar
| 1 |
99 |
spare.txt
| 2 |
class="s1">Stress position.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Two minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Ten minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">My shoulders started to seize.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I couldn’t breathe.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">A woman entered. She was wearing a shemagh over her face. She went<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">on and on about something, I didn’t understand. I couldn’t keep up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Then I realized. Mummy. She was talking about my mother.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Your mother was pregnant when she died, eh? With your sibling? A<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Muslim baby!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I fought to turn my head, to look at her. I said nothing but I screamed at<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">her with my eyes. You doing this for my benefit now—or yours? Is this the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">exercise? Or you getting a cheap thrill?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">She stormed out. One of the captors spat in my face.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We heard the sound of gunshots.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">And a helicopter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We were dragged into a different room and someone called out, OK,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">thats it. End exercise!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">There was a debrief, during which one of the instructors offered a half-<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">arsed apology about the stuff to do with my mother.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Hard for us to find something about you that you'd be shocked we knew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I didn’t answer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We felt you needed to be tested.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I didn’t answer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">But that took it a bit too far.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Fair enough.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Later I learned that two other soldiers in the exercise had gone mad.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">209<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">46.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I 9 D BARELY RECOVERED from Bodmin Moor when word came down from<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Granny. She wanted me to go to the Caribbean. A two-week tour to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">commemorate her sixtieth year on the throne, my first official royal tour<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">representing her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It was strange to be called away so suddenly, with a finger snap, from my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Army duties, especially so close to deployment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span
| 0 |
96 |
We-Could-Be-So Good.txt
| 37 |
reluctantly lets go. * * * Nick is constitutionally incapable of sleeping past seven in the morning. He has some kind of godforsaken alarm clock in his brain that shakes him awake at about half past six every goddamn day, including weekends, including holidays, including days he’s profoundly and regrettably hungover. He levers himself out of bed, promptly stubs his toe on his dresser, and, swearing under his breath, gets some aspirin from the medicine cabinet. He swallows it down with a mouthful of water that makes his insides rebel. Andy, of course, isn’t awake yet. If Nick kept quiet, Andy could probably sleep all day. Even when Andy gets out of bed, he’s still mostly asleep. Nick dumps some coffee grounds in the top of the coffee press and then, thinking better of it, doubles the amount and puts it on the stove. Skeptically, he eyes the contents of his refrigerator. The idea of food makes his stomach turn, so he shuts the door. He tries to remember exactly how much he had to drink last night, but it’s a blur after leaving O’Connell’s. Which makes sense, come to think, because there’s no way he would have agreed to go to a gay bar with Andy if he’d been within a stone’s throw of sobriety. He might have thought that the long walk to Emily’s apartment would have burned off some of the alcohol, but evidently not. His head is filled with sawdust and nausea. When the coffee is ready, he dumps some into a cup with a bit of milk and pours it directly down his throat, which—motherfucker. It’s too hot. Too hot, by about ten thousand degrees. He drops his mug into the sink and it lands with a clatter. He fans his mouth, like an utter fool, as if that will even do anything. “Shit fuck damn,” he grumbles. “Wow,” says Andy from behind him. “Drank boiling coffee,” Nick explains, turning around. The sight of Andy, sleep-rumpled, wearing Nick’s pajamas, his hair sticking up on one side, hits Nick like a sucker punch. “I did that once,” Andy says mildly. “Not a great experience.” Nick starts to laugh, because of course Andy’s done that. “Only once?” “The second time was hot cocoa.” “That’s a different thing entirely.” “Exactly.” Andy grins and stretches. Nick’s eyes are drawn to that sliver of pale skin exposed on his stomach. This happens every morning—Andy stretches and Nick gawks. He feels like a pervert, and even more so after last night’s series of disasters. “Are you hungry?” Andy asks, looking in the icebox. “Andy, if you even talk about food, I’m calling the police.” “That bad?” “Worse. I visited Emily and I think she gave me the equivalent of a fifth of gin, dressed up with just enough tonic that I didn’t know how dire things were.” “Emily?” Andy’s back is to him, so Nick can’t read his expression. “I needed someone to screw my head on straight.” Nick decides not to mention that he walked all the way there. “Do you mind
| 0 |
33 |
The Age of Innocence.txt
| 71 |
planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold: "I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm
| 1 |
9 |
Dracula.txt
| 45 |
harshness of death as little rude as might be. "We thought her dying whilst she slept, And sleeping when she died." I stood beside Van Helsing, and said, "Ah well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!" He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity, "Not so, alas! Not so. It is only the beginning!" When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered, "We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see." CHAPTER 13 DR. SEWARD'S DIARY--cont. The funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff was afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death chamber, "She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege to attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!" I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me, "I know, I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more, such as this." As he spoke he took from his pocket book the memorandum which had been in Lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep. "When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers." I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying, "Can I help you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my
| 1 |
87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 45 |
bigger one. “If Bastian knows who I am,” Lore said, “then why not just tell me? Or kill me? Isn’t that what he’d do if he was really a Kirythean informant?” Gabe rubbed at his eye patch. “Bastian gets spied on quite a lot. Just because he knows you’re spying doesn’t mean he knows why.” “His big show of revealing the dead horse makes it seems like he has an idea,” Lore said. “Surely he’s smart enough to make the connection that his father bringing in a necromancer has something to do with the villages. And if it’s Kirythea that’s responsible, it’s not a leap to deduce that said necromancer is likely to expose him.” “Maybe he’s just really excited about his pet dead horse and hasn’t made all the connections yet.” “Or maybe he’s not working for Kirythea, no matter how much August and Anton think he is. They have no real reason to suspect him; at least, not one they’ve told us.” “Anton wouldn’t be so insistent that you investigate Bastian if he didn’t have a good reason.” Gabe propped his elbow on the arm of the couch and his forehead in his hand. “And what other reason would he have? Just because they haven’t shared all the information with us doesn’t mean they don’t have it.” Clearly, she wouldn’t get anywhere with Gabe. The man had been programmed to march to whatever tune Anton played. Her thoughts turned again to Bastian, to what he’d shared while they danced. My uncle has controlled his life for fourteen years. With a sigh, Lore pressed the heels of her palms against her brow, rested her elbows on her knees, and changed the subject back to something that didn’t have the potential to become a fight. “How did he even get the horse? I know the story he told us was bullshit.” “Maybe not,” Gabe said. “Bastian does have friends in the Citadel guard. Some lovers, too. They carted the body away from the Ward to be burned, but someone might’ve told him about it as an idle curiosity. He must’ve been intrigued enough to have them spirit it away, and the other guards just let it happen.” “Truly stupendous minds in that garrison. Just the best of the best.” She dropped her hands, looked at him. “Should we tell them?” Them: August and Anton. She didn’t have to spell it out. Silence strung bowstring-tight between her and Gabe, waiting to see who’d slice it. If she was useless to the Arceneaux brothers as a spy, she’d be kept in a cell until they needed her to raise the dead. And once that was finished, she’d get a one-way ticket to the Burnt Isle mines. “No,” Gabe said softly, as if he could read the thought in her head. “No, we don’t need to tell them. Not right now.” “Thank you,” Lore murmured. He gave one quick, firm nod. A stack of envelopes sat on the table before the couch, gleaming bright in the gloomy glow of the fire. They’d been pushed beneath
| 0 |
31 |
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt
| 18 |
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.' "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see. Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked with his eyes open. "'Never.' "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligibile yourself for one of the vacancies.' "'And what are they worth?' I asked. "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.' "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. "'Tell me all about it,' said I. "'Well ' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.' "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.' "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.' "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had
| 1 |
24 |
Of Human Bondage.txt
| 2 |
his walls and look at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing to do with the artist. it judges objectively, but the objective doesn't concern the artist." Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind on what he wanted to say. "The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his feeling by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line or two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they just do. And I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the Barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees aren't like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a painter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we force our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores us; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it." There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved from a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of strength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask conculed a strange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheer vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he would not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the eighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had no patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms upon which they had been when Philip first knew them. "Lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to England, become a fashionable portrait painter, urn ten thousand a year and be an A. R. A. before he's forty.
| 1 |
44 |
Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt
| 9 |
and put her feet to the floor, and thrust back the leaves from her face. “So you don’t want to marry off decent like, do yuh? You just wants to hug and kiss and feel around with first one man and then another, huh? You wants to make me suck de same Their Eyes Were Watching God 17 sorrow yo’ mama did, eh? Mah ole head ain’t gray enough. Mah back ain’t bowed enough to suit yuh!” The vision of Logan Killicks was desecrating the pear tree, but Janie didn’t know how to tell Nanny that. She merely hunched over and pouted at the floor. “Janie.” “Yes, ma’am.” “You answer me when Ah speak. Don’t you set dere poutin’ wid me after all Ah done went through for you!” She slapped the girl’s face violently, and forced her head back so that their eyes met in struggle. With her hand uplifted for the second blow she saw the huge tear that welled up from Janie’s heart and stood in each eye. She saw the terrible agony and the lips tightened down to hold back the cry and desisted. Instead she brushed back the heavy hair from Janie’s face and stood there suffering and loving and weeping internally for both of them. “Come to yo’ Grandma, honey. Set in her lap lak yo’ use tuh. Yo’ Nanny wouldn’t harm a hair uh yo’ head. She don’t want nobody else to do it neither if she kin help it. Honey, de white man is de ruler of everything as fur as Ah been able tuh find out. Maybe it’s some place way off in de ocean where de black man is in power, but we don’t know nothin’ but what we see. So de white man throw down de load and tell de nig- ger man tuh pick it up. He pick it up because he have to, but he don’t tote it. He hand it to his womenfolks. De nigger woman is de mule uh de world so fur as Ah can see. Ah been prayin’ fuh it tuh be different wid you. Lawd, Lawd, Lawd!” 18 Zora Neale Hurston For a long time she sat rocking with the girl held tightly to her sunken breast. Janie’s long legs dangled over one arm of the chair and the long braids of her hair swung low on the other side. Nanny half sung, half sobbed a running chant- prayer over the head of the weeping girl. “Lawd have mercy! It was a long time on de way but Ah reckon it had to come. Oh Jesus! Do, Jesus! Ah done de best Ah could.” Finally, they both grew calm. “Janie, how long you been ’lowin’ Johnny Taylor to kiss you?” “Only dis one time, Nanny. Ah don’t love him at all. Whut made me do it is—oh, Ah don’t know.” “Thank yuh, Massa Jesus.” “Ah ain’t gointuh do it no mo’, Nanny. Please don’t make me marry Mr. Killicks.” “’Tain’t Logan Killicks Ah wants you to have, baby, it’s protection. Ah ain’t gittin’ ole,
| 1 |
85 |
Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 83 |
philanthropy points. Maybe she’s aiming to be made a baroness in ten years, or something like— “I’m dyslexic,” Katharine says simply. “As a child, that one difference in the way my mind works convinced teachers I was incapable. So they gave up on me, and I gave up on my dreams.” I blink and sit up straighter. Since I’m here, I might as well pay attention. I mean, the woman is providing kids with this opportunity out of the goodness of her heart; of course I’ll hear her out. I’m not a monster. “My journey to the legal field was long and difficult, just because I’m different. But those differences make me damned good at my job—and I have other qualities, too, ones that I believe all trailblazers have in common, that so many examinations just can’t capture.” Katharine wanders back and forth across the stage as she speaks, gesturing at the presentation behind her. The slides keep changing, but I barely notice. “That’s why I started this enrichment program for undergraduates three years ago, and that’s why—this year—I’ve adapted it for pre-university students for the first time ever.” There’s another cheer. She grins and shakes her head at us rowdy but adorable fans. This woman is what Mum would call a “magnet,” like a team captain or a cult leader. I was determined to hate her, since Celine likes her so much, but unfortunately, I’m feeling the pull. “You’re all at a crossroads in your lives,” she tells us. “You know you want to make something of yourselves, to succeed, but so many professions have high barriers to entry—especially in this economy. You might study law or accounting or marketing at university, qualify, and find your only option is to move to London if you want to earn enough to pay off your loans.” I notice she doesn’t mention anything about being a writer. Probably because it doesn’t matter what you study or where you work—you can only write the book by writing the book. Spoiler alert: I still haven’t written the book. “You might even be hesitant to study at all—not everyone wants to start their adult life with mountains of debt,” Katharine says, and I know that’s right. Would you believe when my parents went to uni it was free? Injustice stalks my generation, I swear to God. “Maybe you dream of a certain professional future,” Katharine goes on, “but you’re well aware that you’re rarely the highest flyer in your academic cohort, and thus you might secure a degree by the skin of your teeth and struggle to find employment as a result. The BEP,” she says with relish, “is here to help you with that. This program is sponsored by a diverse range of employers within our region—why should Midlanders have to move south just to succeed?” There is a ripple of agreement across the crowd, which, yeah, okay. She didn’t lie. “Being a BEP graduate means something, both here and across the country,” she says, and the slide changes again. I’m not a numbers person, but
| 0 |
98 |
Yellowface.txt
| 85 |
fuck himself. Online, you can discover that the current literary star of the moment is actually so problematic that all of her works should be canceled, forever. Reputations in publishing are built and destroyed, constantly, online. I imagine a crowd of angry voices and pointed fingers, converging on me to rip pieces of flesh from my body like the naiads did to Orpheus, until all that’s left is the prurient, whispered question, “Did you hear about Juniper Song?” and fragments of rumors growing darker and more distorted; bloody, decomposing shreds of my virtual identity; until there is nothing left but the statement, justified or not, that Juniper Song Is Canceled. Twelve ALL I WANT IS TO HIBERNATE IN MY APARTMENT FOR THE INDEFINITE future, but I have two prior commitments for the month—a library visit with students in DC, and a panel at a Virginia literary festival about writing East Asia–inspired stories. I’ve also been emailing back and forth with some woman from the French Embassy about a visit to the CLC memorial in Noyelles-sur-Mer next month to coincide with the release of the French edition of The Last Front. But she stopped answering my emails around the same time that the smear campaign went viral, which is fine with me; the last thing I want is to sit seven hours on a plane just for obnoxious French people to snub me on the other end. But neither the library nor the literary festival has sent me any updates since the news broke, which I take to mean they still want me to come. To cancel may as well be admitting guilt. The library visit goes okay. The students turn out to be third graders, instead of the high schoolers I’d expected. They won’t be old enough to tackle The Last Front for years, and they certainly have no interest in Chinese laborers in World War I. Thankfully, this means that they’re too young to care about Twitter drama as well—though they’re not especially excited to see me, they don’t greet me with revulsion, either. They sit, fidgeting but silent, in the lobby of the MLK Jr. Memorial Library while I read for twenty minutes from the first chapter, and then they ask some cute, inane questions on what it’s like to be a published author (“Do you get to see the factories where the books are made?” “Do you get paid millions of dollars?”). I tell them some bland truisms about how literacy is important because it opens doors to other worlds, and how maybe they’ll want to become storytellers as well. Then their teacher thanks me, we take a group picture, and we all part ways without fuss. The panel is a disaster. I’ve already pissed everyone off by arriving late. I misread the schedule—my panel is in the Oak Room, not the Cedar Room, which means I have to haul ass all the way across the conference center. The room is packed by the time I arrive. All the other panelists are huddled at the far end of the
| 0 |
51 |
A Spell of Good Things.txt
| 15 |
Michael said. The woman seemed unable to stop speaking even after she crawled away from the door to let them in. “I’m just the house girl. Please, God bless you, good evening, God bless you.” “I said you should keep shut.” “Yes sir, I agree sir, thank you sir.” Holy Michael nodded at Rashidi. “Shut her up.” Rashidi stepped closer to the woman and pointed the gun between her eyes. He did not shoot. He just held the gun in place until she stopped talking. Ẹniọlá noticed the photos as they moved further into the sitting room. He paused to study them, peering at the middle-aged woman who had caught his eye. Yes, it was Yèyé, there was no mistaking it. She was there in almost every one of the framed family photos that adorned the walls. Yèyé surrounded by what he imagined was her family, Yèyé alone, Yèyé and the man who must be her husband. The man Honourable was going to use to teach his rival a lesson. Ẹniọlá felt dizzy. He did not want to be part of this anymore. These were not faceless people he could not care less about, this was Yèyé. She had been kind to him. What sort of person would he be if he followed through with what was required of him tonight? “Ẹniọlá?” Holy Michael had been trying to tell him something. “Sir.” “Did you come here to look at photos? I said let’s go.” He followed Holy Michael up the stairs. The first room they searched was empty. When they opened the second door, Yèyé was coming out of the bathroom, her dress still hiked halfway up her hips. She finished adjusting it before kneeling before them as Holy Michael commanded. “Where is your husband?” “Don’t worry, I will cooperate, don’t worry.” Yèyé kept her head bowed. Holy Michael nodded to Ẹniọlá. Ẹniọlá ran into the bathroom, slashing the air before him with his machete as he went. “It’s empty,” he reported to Holy Michael. “My brothers, we are all children of the same God, so you’re my brothers.” Yèyé’s words came fast and loud. “Take the gold. If you open that drawer, there is a lot of gold there, just take the gold, please.” “I said, where is your husband?” “Italian gold mà ni. It is not—” Holy Michael slapped the next word back into Yèyé’s throat. “Stand up, stand up now, or I will blow your head off.” Ẹniọlá winced, pushing away memories of Yèyé’s kindness. Thinking about that now would only get him into trouble with Holy Michael. Yèyé gripped her knee and shook her head. “You need to help me, my leg, I can’t…not by myself.” Holy Michael nodded in Ẹniọlá’s direction. “Help her.” Ẹniọlá stretched his hands out to Yèyé. Whose fingers trembled? Hers or his? Yèyé kept her head down and did not look up as they pushed her out of the room into the corridor. “Where is he?” Holy Michael twisted the doorknob of the next door they came to; it did not yield. “No
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56 |
Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt
| 98 |
driven to your house to film our first sex tape. Connor: [laughs] I mean about tonight, the finale, and the revelation of our score, you muppet. Fizzy: Oh, it was the best night of my life. The surprises, the celebration with everyone onstage, the after-party. Connor: God, there are going to be some horrendous hangovers tomorrow. Fizzy: Tex was drinking beer out of his hat. Connor: I don’t think Nick ever found his shoes. Fizzy: Yes, well, some poor choices were made, but not by us. Connor: Indeed. Our night is only going to get better. Fizzy: Promise? Connor: Oh, I promise. Fizzy: In that case, I think it’s fitting that our score falls in the category of Titanium Matches. [winks at the camera] Connor: I believe that’s an erection joke and I’m going to move on. Fizzy: You always assume I’m being dirty. Maybe it was just a joke about the strength of our bond. Connor: Was it? Fizzy: No, it was an erection joke. Connor: You are ensuring that this footage never sees the light of day, aren’t you? Fizzy: When were you going to show this anyway? The finale was live! Connor: I presume there will be demand for a follow-up or reunion episode of some sort. Brenna said “trending” and “viral” about seven hundred times tonight. Fizzy: Okay, then just edit my boner joke out with bleeps and eggplant emojis; what’s so hard? Connor: Ah, note to self to add a cymbal crash there. Fizzy: See, I didn’t even mean to make that pun! You’re as bad as I am. Connor: Maybe that’s why this is true love. Fizzy: I think with a score of eighty-eight, there are a lot of reasons why this is true love. Connor: Why don’t you come over here and show me one? [Editor’s note: Minutes three to twenty-seven have been intentionally cut from footage.] Connor: Right. We’ll cut that. Fizzy: You’ve got lipstick on your… just there. Connor: Ah. Cheers. All right. Where were we? Fizzy: True love. Connor: True love. Fizzy: Our happily ever after. Connor: The one thing you promise your readers when they pick up one of your books. You know more about the importance of an HEA than most everyone watching this. Fizzy: You know, it makes me a little sad that all these people watched the show, they wanted us together, and they won’t be able to see it play out. Our future is going to be amazing. [looks at the camera] I am not volunteering for another reality show, Blaine. Connor: Well, you could tell the viewers all about it right now. Fizzy: All about our happily ever after? Connor: Sure. What’s it look like, do you reckon? Fizzy: Oh, wow. Okay, well, we wrap this up and go back to my place, where we don’t leave the bed for a full twenty-four hours. Connor: I like this future already. Fizzy: We spend next week with friends and family. Isaac enjoys his prize money, and I choose you to go with me to Fiji. Connor: Not
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78 |
Pineapple Street.txt
| 78 |
how open you were the other day. I was thinking about it afterward, how awful that must have been for you—the thing about Stiles’s house. That was assault.” “Sure.” “It was assault from all of them, from everyone who saw it.” “By modern standards, sure.” She brought her ice water halfway to her lips but put it down again. “There was such a code of silence around things like that. All those boys. They made an impenetrable wall together, wherever they went.” She shrugged. “Well, the girls, too.” “I was thinking,” I said, as if I’d been driving by this resort and it had just occurred to me. “The night of March third. You were there in the woods.” “You want to ask about that? Yes, I was in the woods. I was not in the pool with Thalia or whatever the fuck you’re thinking.” “It’s only one thing, hang on. You remember walking back with Robbie at the end of the night, along with everyone else.” “Sure.” “Do you remember walking there with him? Like, do you have specific memories of him being there on the walk out?” She squinted at me like I was crazy, then looked up at Bing Russell’s photo. “What I remember,” she said, “is he jumped out from behind a tree and scared the shit out of me.” This was new. “How so?” “Like—we were all up there, drinking, and suddenly he’s jumping out at us, like, Ha ha, I was hiding back here and you didn’t even know, what if I was an axe murderer, blah blah blah.” “So he just appeared?” “That thing—you remember how in middle school, boys were always riding their skateboards straight at you, and at the last minute they’d swerve and laugh at you for being scared? Or they’d cover your eyes from behind and if you didn’t find it funny you were frigid or something? You just have to roll with the abuse, otherwise you’re a crazy bitch.” “So, how long, would you say? Before he popped out?” My heart was an entire percussion section. “Long enough that it was weird and funny. Not five minutes. Like half an hour.” “And you hadn’t seen him up there before then?” “No. That was the joke.” I said, “Okay. Okay.” “Why. What.” “Let me show you something,” I said, and I brought up the photo of Robbie’s sweatshirt back, zoomed in on the streak of mud splatter, explained Alder’s theory and what that would mean for the timing. She said, “I see what you’re seeing, but I think you’re grasping at straws.” “You don’t think this might be interesting to the defense team?” “Jesus.” “I don’t mean—” “Jesus. You’re not, like, recording this, are you?” I wasn’t, this time, but just to prove my point I set my phone on the table, pressed the side button till it powered down. She said, “What I do not want, Bodie, is to be, like, a key witness or something. I wanted nothing to do with this. I would like to forget those entire
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81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 82 |
with him.” “That night?” “Immediately. He wanted to head west. Maybe to California. He said he heard people there were more tolerant. He said there was a chance we could be happy there. But I knew better.” Archie shuffles to a stool. He sits, slumped, as if the sad memories he’s recalling are literally weighing him down. “Running away is never as easy as it seems. I know because I’d already done it, fleeing a family who hated me because I was different, because I wasn’t like most other boys. But I found my way here—and to Virginia.” “Did she know?” I say. Archie responds with a nod. “It’s one of the reasons I loved her so much. She didn’t judge me. Or shame me. Or, thank goodness, try to change who I am. She simply accepted me. And I couldn’t leave her. Not when she was pregnant. Not when she needed me. Because that’s another thing Ricardo told me—that Berniece had spotted her the night before and knew of her condition. That meant everyone would soon know. When that happened, Virginia would need me more than ever.” “So you stayed,” I say, meaning not just that night but all the ones after it. Decades of nights in which he’d sneak into Virginia’s room to check on her and wish her pleasant dreams. “I stayed,” Archie says. “Ricardo left. I never heard from him again.” The sadness of his story leaves me convinced that Hope’s End is cursed in some way. Maybe it was merely bad luck. Or perhaps because of Winston Hope’s hubris in building a mansion at the edge of a cliff despite knowing it was only a matter of time before it crumbled into the ocean. Whatever the cause, no one here got the life they wanted. No one was granted a happy ending. Not Archie. Not Lenora. And certainly not Virginia. Yet despite now knowing all their tragic tales, one question remains unanswered. “Then who was Ricky?” “One of the local boys hired for seasonal help,” Archie says. “A bunch of them came and went all the time. Virginia never told me his last name. Or his first. She just used the nickname, making it impossible to track him down after the murders. I suspect by that point, he didn’t want to be found.” A strange mix of emotions swirls through me. There’s disappointment from the reality that Ricky wasn’t the person I assumed he was. In fact, he wasn’t anyone important at all. Just a boy who took advantage of a girl so desperately lonely she gave away her innocence and, ultimately, her freedom. But Virginia isn’t blameless. I’m angry at her. Not for being naïve. She was just a child when Ricky came along. She didn’t know any better. But what she did to her parents was so unimaginably terrible that I simultaneously hate her, feel sorry for her, and, despite everything I’ve learned tonight, still hold out hope that Archie and Lenora are wrong. I suppose that makes me the naïve one. “The murders still
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87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 28 |
“Of course,” the Night Sister murmured. “A deal is a deal.” “Precisely. I see why the Sisters made you the Night Priestess.” Anton’s eyes shone with unsound light. “I hope you do better by the title than the last one.” Lore’s mother—the Night Priestess—simply inclined her head. Three mothers, two betrayals, all for some greater good that Lore couldn’t bring herself to care about. She only cared about living. The greater good could hang. “Please don’t let him kill me.” Lore knew she sounded pathetic. She was pathetic, limp between two Presque Mort, bleeding out and helpless to stop it. “I haven’t done anything, I didn’t choose it, please…” “Oh, dear heart.” The Night Priestess’s hand came up, then fell, like if they’d been closer she would’ve cradled Lore’s cheek. “It’s the only thing we can do. The world wouldn’t survive you.” “A deal is a deal,” Anton said, turning to face Lore. “Now let’s settle our accounts, and we can all be on our way.” The Night Priestess’s lips flattened in distaste. She waved a hand. “Take what you’re owed, then.” “I’m thankful for your cooperation,” Anton said, though there was a sneer in his voice. “Thankful that you understand there is only room for one god, this time.” “There certainly isn’t room for six again,” the Night Priestess said softly. “Gods are not content to share power.” “That’s the trouble with ascensions,” Anton agreed. “When humans become gods, they bring their natures with them.” The Priest Exalted bared his teeth, a triumphant rictus as he stepped toward Lore. One hand raised. It was the same tugging feeling she’d felt in her dreams, but without the buffer of sleep, it was agonizing. Her heart stilled, just so much meat, and felt like it was being pulled slowly from behind her ribs. Strands of dark Mortem leaked from her chest, seeping out slowly like blood from a million tiny wounds. The mad priest knotted raw death in the air, gnarling the strands together. “Apollius,” he murmured, looking up at the sky as if he could find his god there. A rapturous tear slid down his cheek. “See what I do for You. How I manipulate the power of Your treasonous wife and turn it to Your glory.” He still pulled power from her as he spoke to the empty sky, weaving it between his fingers. It coalesced above their heads, a writhing, intricate knot, pulsing like an organ as it took shape. Tendrils reached from the central mass, curling into the eclipse-shrouded sky, seeping outward as if they were looking for something. Looking for another village. More people to kill, more corpses for Anton’s undead army. Using her to do it; Mortem channeled from her goddess-touched body, fashioned to do things no other channeler could do. “You’ve given us Your sign,” Anton murmured to the sky. “Your promise that a new world awaits, one You will shape for Your faithful. Remember, Bleeding God, how I helped usher it in, here when two opposite powers can be held in concert.” Opposite powers. Even
| 0 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 16 |
he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed. “What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?” “You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as he contemplated what was to come. The darkened countryside loomed around them. A car passed, speeding rapidly in the opposite direction, headlight beams washing through the bug-spattered windshield to cast her face in a weird unworldly light, and in that nanosecond he saw her fear and a flash of something else . . . determination? In the set of her jaw. But that was wrong. She was so meek. Again he felt her tremble, caught just a glimpse of a quivering lower lip. Whatever he’d thought he’d caught sight of was his imagination. This one would be easy, despite the change in venue. He would take her into the swamp, kill her, and dispose of her in the dark water . . . no, wait. The cabin. Where two other bodies were rotting. He’d leave her there along with his trademark hundred-dollar bill because he’d want the cops to know if and when they found her remains, that it was his doing. Yes . . . it would be difficult. He’d have to kill her, then haul her in the canoe through the winding, treacherous waters of the bayou, deep into the thickets of cypress and muddy, mounded alligator nests, but it would be worth it. Turning off the main road, he rained on her what he hoped was a beatific smile, and adjusted his reflective sunglasses even though it was the dead of night. CHAPTER 26 Bentz followed Samantha Wheeler to her house. She’d refused to call her husband, insisting that she would be all right, that she didn’t want to wake him or bother her sons, and Bentz had relented. In his Jeep, he’d kept a close tail on her Prius as they eased through the night-dark streets of the city that still pulsed with life in the French Quarter. She drove through the gates of her home near the lake without incident, but Bentz followed her through. Ty Wheeler greeted his wife at the back door, a black dog at his side. Wheeler’s dark hair was rumpled, his jaw covered in a day’s worth of stubble. He was wearing a faded T-shirt from a Nirvana concert and equally washed-out navy pajama bottoms, but his eyes were sharp and intense as Samantha explained about her
| 0 |
38 |
The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 53 |
easily have distanced his middle-aged pursuer under ordinary circumstances, but the position in which Wicksteed's body was found suggests that he had the ill luck to drive his quarry into a corner between a drift of stinging nettles and the gravel pit. To those who appreciate the extraordinary irascibility of the Invisible Man, the rest of the encounter will be easy to imagine. But this is pure hypothesis. The only undeniable facts--for stories of children are often unreliable--are the discovery of Wicksteed's body, done to death, and of the blood-stained iron rod flung among the nettles. The abandonment of the rod by Griffin, suggests that in the emotional excitement of the affair, the purpose for which he took it--if he had a purpose--was abandoned. He was certainly an intensely egotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first victim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long pent fountain of remorse to flood for a time whatever scheme of action he had contrived. After the murder of Mr. Wicksteed, he would seem to have struck across the country towards the downland. There is a story of a voice heard about sunset by a couple of men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was wailing and laughing, sobbing and groaning, and ever and again it shouted. It must have been queer hearing. It drove up across the middle of a clover field and died away towards the hills. That afternoon the Invisible Man must have learnt something of the rapid use Kemp had made of his confidences. He must have found houses locked and secured; he may have loitered about railway stations and prowled about inns, and no doubt he read the proclamations and realised something of the nature of the campaign against him. And as the evening advanced, the fields became dotted here and there with groups of three or four men, and noisy with the yelping of dogs. These men-hunters had particular instructions as to the way they should support one another in the case of an encounter. He avoided them all. We may understand something of his exasperation, and it could have been none the less because he himself had supplied the information that was being used so remorselessly against him. For that day at least he lost heart; for nearly twenty-four hours, save when he turned on Wicksteed, he was a hunted man. In the night, he must have eaten and slept; for in the morning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry, and malignant, prepared for his last great struggle against the world. Chapter 27 The Siege of Kemp's House Kemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of paper. "You have been amazingly energetic and clever," this letter ran, "though what you stand to gain by it I cannot imagine. You are against me. For a whole day you have chased me; you have tried to rob me of a night's rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in spite
| 1 |
86 |
Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt
| 10 |
We make the smart investments that put us ahead and give us room to play and then we short technologies, pharma, oil based on bold predictions and market trends. And I’m not just talking about the United States. We’re going to monitor markets and how consumers respond in every geographical location on the face of the earth, taking everything down to the fucking weather patterns into account. If your money isn’t tripled in the first quarter, I’ll give you back every cent of your initial investment.” A muscle hopped in Savage’s cheek. August’s pride was evident in every line of his body, but she couldn’t risk looking at him or she’d lose her cool. “I’ll move some numbers around and call you on Monday,” Savage said finally, holding out his hand for another shake from August, then he traded a shake with Natalie one more time and rejoined his friends at the bar. “Holy shit, that was incredible,” August whispered to her out of the side of his mouth. “Be cool. Pretend I go off like that all the time.” “Done. But let’s get out of here, princess,” he exhaled. “These pants are too tight in the ball region.” Natalie shook her head to hide the creeping amusement, breezing past her husband and beginning the journey toward the exit. “Only you would make the romantic gesture of flying across the country and ruin it with ball talk in, like, eight seconds.” August followed so close behind her, she could feel his body heat through the clingy material of her dress. “Eight seconds is a lifetime when a man has no testicular circulation.” “Is this a ploy?” she asked over her shoulder. “When we get to my room, you’re going to tell me you’re medically required to get your pants off as soon as possible?” “Well, not now, since you’ve called me on it. I’ll have to save that idea for next time.” “Next time?” He grunted. They were passing by Natalie’s ex and his fiancée. Both of them sipped their drinks and looked coolly at Natalie and August as they passed. Or maybe they were just wary? If she recalled correctly, she and her partner’s daughter had gotten along great at company functions. The situation itself was simply awkward. Just not for Natalie. For some reason, she felt totally comfortable stopping beside the couple, laying a hand on both of their backs, and saying a heartfelt congratulations. She’d never really loved Morrison, so what was the sense in begrudging the fact that he’d found love elsewhere? Her ex smiled at his intended. She smiled back. Simultaneously, they thanked Natalie. Then she took August’s hand and after a little tugging—August clearly wanted to say something to her ex—they continued toward the elevator that would bring them down to street level. “What were you going to say to him?” she asked as they stepped inside, the gold doors snapping together in front of them. “I don’t know. All I could think of was Julia Roberts’s line in Pretty Woman. You know? ‘Big mistake. Big.
| 0 |
10 |
Dune.txt
| 27 |
he think of attack at a time like this? she asked herself. "An entire planet full of spice," she said. "How can you hit them there?" She heard him stirring, the sound of their pack being dragged across the tent floor. "It was sea power and air power on Caladan," he said. "Here, it's desert power. The Fremen are the key." His voice came from the vicinity of the tent's sphincter. Her Bene Gesserit training sensed in his tone an unresolved bitterness toward her. All his life he has been trained to hate Harkonnens, she thought. Now, he finds he is Harkonnen . . . because of me. How little he knows me! I was my Duke's only woman. I accepted his life and his values even to defying my Bene Gesserit orders. The tent's glowtab came alight under Paul's hand, filled the domed area with green radiance. Paul crouched at the sphincter, his stillsuit hood adjusted for the open desert--forehead capped, mouth filter in place, nose plugs adjusted. Only his dark eyes were visible: a narrow band of face that turned once toward her and away. "Secure yourself for the open," he said, and his voice was blurred behind the filter. Jessica pulled the filter across her mouth, began adjusting her hood as she watched Paul break the tent seal. Sand rasped as he opened the sphincter and a burred fizzle of grains ran into the tent before he could immobilize it with a static compaction tool. A hole grew in the sandwall as the tool realigned the grains. He slipped out and her ears followed his progress to the surface. What will we find out there? she wondered. Harkonnen troops and the Sardaukar, those are dangers we can expect. But what of the dangers we don't know? She thought of the compaction tool and the other strange instruments in the pack. Each of these tools suddenly stood in her mind as a sign of mysterious dangers. She felt then a hot breeze from surface sand touch her cheeks where they were exposed above the filter. "Pass up the pack." It was Paul's voice, low and guarded. She moved to obey, heard the water literjons gurgle as she shoved the pack across the floor. She peered upward, saw Paul framed against stars. "Here," he said and reached down, pulled the pack to the surface. Now she saw only the circle of stars. They were like the luminous tips of weapons aimed down at her. A shower of meteors crossed her patch of night. The meteors seemed to her like a warning, like tiger stripes, like luminous grave slats clabbering her blood. And she felt the chill of the price on their heads. "Hurry up," Paul said. "I want to collapse the tent." A shower of sand from the surface brushed her left hand. How much sand will the hand hold? She asked herself. "Shall I help you?" Paul asked. "No." She swallowed in a dry throat, slipped into the hole, felt static-packed sand rasp under her hands. Paul reached down, took
| 1 |
36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 18 |
which it hung. His mind was haunted with the many and strange tales which he had heard, attributing mysterious if not supernatural endowments to these Maules, as well the grandson here present as his two immediate ancestors. Mr. Pyncheon's long residence abroad, and intercourse with men of wit and fashion, --courtiers, worldings, and free-thinkers,--had done much towards obliterating the grim Puritan superstitions, which no man of New England birth at that early period could entirely escape. But, on the other hand, had not a whole Community believed Maule's grandfather to be a wizard? Had not the crime been proved? Had not the wizard died for it? Had he not bequeathed a legacy of hatred against the Pyncheons to this only grandson, who, as it appeared, was now about to exercise a subtle influence over the daughter of his enemy's house? Might not this influence be the same that was called witchcraft? Turning half around, he caught a glimpse of Maule's figure in the looking-glass. At some paces from Alice, with his arms uplifted in the air, the carpenter made a gesture as if directing downward a slow, ponderous, and invisible weight upon the maiden. "Stay, Maule!" exclaimed Mr. Pyncheon, stepping forward. "I forbid your proceeding further!" "Pray, my dear father, do not interrupt the young man," said Alice, without changing her position. "His efforts, I assure you, will prove very harmless." Again Mr. Pyncheon turned his eyes towards the Claude. It was then his daughter's will, in opposition to his own, that the experiment should be fully tried. Henceforth, therefore, he did but consent, not urge it. And was it not for her sake far more than for his own that he desired its success? That lost parchment once restored, the beautiful Alice Pyncheon, with the rich dowry which he could then bestow, might wed an English duke or a German reigning-prince, instead of some New England clergyman or lawyer! At the thought, the ambitious father almost consented, in his heart, that, if the devil's power were needed to the accomplishment of this great object, Maule might evoke him. Alice's own purity would be her safeguard. With his mind full of imaginary magnificence, Mr. Pyncheon heard a half-uttered exclamation from his daughter. It was very faint and low; so indistinct that there seemed but half a will to shape out the words, and too undefined a purport to be intelligible. Yet it was a call for help!--his conscience never doubted it;--and, little more than a whisper to his ear, it was a dismal shriek, and long reechoed so, in the region round his heart! But this time the father did not turn. After a further interval, Maule spoke. "Behold your daughter." said he. Mr. Pyncheon came hastily forward. The carpenter was standing erect in front of Alice's chair, and pointing his finger towards the maiden with an expression of triumphant power, the limits of which could not be defined, as, indeed, its scope stretched vaguely towards the unseen and the infinite. Alice sat in an attitude of profound repose, with the long
| 1 |
44 |
Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt
| 21 |
come in handy now, but new words would have to be made and said to fit them. “Green Cove Springs,” he told the driver. So they were married there before sundown, just like Joe had said. With new clothes of silk and wool. They sat on the boarding house porch and saw the sun plunge into the same crack in the earth from which the night emerged. 5 On the train the next day, Joe didn’t make many speeches with rhymes to her, but he bought her the best things the butcher had, like apples and a glass lantern full of candies. Mostly he talked about plans for the town when he got there. They were bound to need somebody like him. Janie took a lot of looks at him and she was proud of what she saw. Kind of portly like rich white folks. Strange trains, and people and places didn’t scare him neither. Where they got off the train at Maitland he found a buggy to carry them over to the colored town right away. It was early in the afternoon when they got there, so Joe said they must walk over the place and look around. They locked arms and strolled from end to end of the town. Joe noted the scant dozen of shame-faced houses scattered in the sand and palmetto roots and said, “God, they call this a town? Why, ’tain’t nothing but a raw place in de woods.” “It is a whole heap littler than Ah thought.” Janie admit- ted her disappointment. “Just like Ah thought,” Joe said. “A whole heap uh talk Their Eyes Were Watching God 41 and nobody doin’ nothin’. I god, where’s de Mayor?” he asked somebody. “Ah want tuh speak wid de Mayor.” Two men who were sitting on their shoulderblades under a huge live oak tree almost sat upright at the tone of his voice. They stared at Joe’s face, his clothes and his wife. “Where y’all come from in sich uh big haste?” Lee Coker asked. “Middle Georgy,” Starks answered briskly. “Joe Starks is mah name, from in and through Georgy.” “You and yo’ daughter goin’ tuh join wid us in fellow- ship?” the other reclining figure asked. “Mighty glad tuh have yuh. Hicks is the name. Guv’nor Amos Hicks from Buford, South Carolina. Free, single, disengaged.” “I god, Ah ain’t nowhere near old enough to have no grown daughter. This here is mah wife.” Hicks sank back and lost interest at once. “Where is de Mayor?” Starks persisted. “Ah wants tuh talk wid him.” “Youse uh mite too previous for dat,” Coker told him. “Us ain’t got none yit.” “Ain’t got no Mayor! Well, who tells y’all what to do?” “Nobody. Everybody’s grown. And then agin, Ah reckon us just ain’t thought about it. Ah know Ah ain’t.” “Ah did think about it one day,” Hicks said dreamily, “but then Ah forgot it and ain’t thought about it since then.” “No wonder things ain’t no better,” Joe commented. “Ah’m buyin’ in here, and buyin’ in big. Soon’s we
| 1 |
65 |
Hedge.txt
| 15 |
Ella,” Maud said. “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Louise singsonged and waved her bouquet. “I know that,” Ella said. “It’s just—he kind of freaks me out. The way he looks without looking.” “I see what you mean,” Maud said. “But he’s nice. I promise. He’s just different.” Chris had looked at Ella the same way he looked at Louise, which was the same way that he sometimes looked at Maud or Gabriel or his father. There was nothing sexual to the gaze. But maybe it was enough to be stared at by a man for Ella to feel uncomfortable. As they took the shortcut through the orchard, Maud remembered visiting a public pool with her friend when she was eleven. There was one man on a plastic lounger who, every time they passed, would inspect them from head to toe with a half-smile on his face. She’d felt exposed, embarrassed, felt something was wrong, although she wasn’t sure what. Thirty years later, she could still see it clearly: the Coke balanced on the man’s hirsute belly, his thick purple lips and hungry eyes. At five o’clock, as she skewered chicken and peppers on kebab sticks in the kitchen, she listened tensely while Louise told Peter about how Gabriel had helped her and Ella catch a frog in the pond the previous night. “We let him go,” she said. “Because, you know, freedom and liberty.” Things with Gabriel and Ella had improved since Maud’s conversation with him at lunch. He’d eaten dinner with them several more times over the past week and had taken Maud’s advice, bringing no gifts and no longer trying to joke with Ella. Last night, when Louise asked Gabriel to help them catch the frog, Ella jumped up and said she’d get a jar from the house, and the four of them went to the pond until dark. “Sounds like your charming neighbor has become a regular,” Peter said when Maud took the phone back from Louise. “I hope you’re collecting rent.” She went out to the porch, shutting the door behind her. “He likes the girls,” she said, “and the girls like him.” “Clearly, you like him too.” “We’re friends,” she said. She noticed a wasp nest tucked under an eave, like a gray papier-mâché outcrop of coral. “Anyway, Peter. We’re separated.” “It’s a trial separation.” “It’s a separation.” The phone weighed down her hand. “And my feelings haven’t changed.” “Have you figured out how I’m going to support two households on my salary in the Bay Area?” Peter asked. “I’ll get a full-time job.” “That’s been going well.” It was the first time he’d struck out at her in months, and she almost enjoyed the blow, because it was real. “I’ll stop looking for historical work. I’ll be more open. I’ll do landscaping.” “You’d hate that.” “Then I’ll hate it.” “Is something going on with that guy?” “No.” “Okay. I trust you. And you can trust me.” “Why? What’s changed?” “I don’t want to lose you, Maud.” But I’m already gone, she thought. I
| 0 |
40 |
The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt
| 80 |
definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't really want it, and I do." "If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I will never forgive you!" cried Dorian Gray. "And I don't allow people to call me a silly boy." "You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed." "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don't really mind being called a boy." "I should have minded very much this morning, Lord Henry." "Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." There came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea- tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a [21] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out. The two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers. "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor." "It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "Yes," answered Lord Henry, dreamily, "the costume of our day is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only color- element left in modern life." "You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." "Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "Before either." "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the lad. "Then you shall come; and you will come too, Basil, won't you?" "I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." "Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." "I should like that awfully." Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I will stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. "Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. "Am I really like that?" "Yes; you are just like that." "How wonderful, Basil!" "At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," said Hallward. "That is something." "What a fuss people make about fidelity!" murmured Lord Henry. "And, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. It
| 1 |
85 |
Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 53 |
if you want to earn enough to pay off your loans.” I notice she doesn’t mention anything about being a writer. Probably because it doesn’t matter what you study or where you work—you can only write the book by writing the book. Spoiler alert: I still haven’t written the book. “You might even be hesitant to study at all—not everyone wants to start their adult life with mountains of debt,” Katharine says, and I know that’s right. Would you believe when my parents went to uni it was free? Injustice stalks my generation, I swear to God. “Maybe you dream of a certain professional future,” Katharine goes on, “but you’re well aware that you’re rarely the highest flyer in your academic cohort, and thus you might secure a degree by the skin of your teeth and struggle to find employment as a result. The BEP,” she says with relish, “is here to help you with that. This program is sponsored by a diverse range of employers within our region—why should Midlanders have to move south just to succeed?” There is a ripple of agreement across the crowd, which, yeah, okay. She didn’t lie. “Being a BEP graduate means something, both here and across the country,” she says, and the slide changes again. I’m not a numbers person, but she’s got graphs illustrating the career trajectories of BEP alums that look impressive. “You’ll distinguish yourselves to potential employers just by finishing the program, and you won’t be doing it by swallowing textbooks and regurgitating them in an exam hall. Our unique enrichment program combines outdoor education with the patented BEP Success Assessment Matrix.” The slide switches to an image of a dark, dramatic forest. “Two outdoor expeditions,” she says, “each taking place during a school holiday. The first is a training session, intended to teach you the necessary skills to survive and weed out those who can’t hack it. The second is the real deal, independently executed by yourselves in the Scottish woodlands. Both expeditions are an opportunity to show you’ve got the skills elite employers desire.” The new slide tells us these skills are: Resilience Commitment Creative thinking Relationship building Leadership I smirk and glance over at Celine. Maybe she predicted my reaction, because our eyes meet, and she scowls. “Relationship building?” I whisper. “Shut up,” she mouths. “Tell me the last relationship you built. Quickly.” “I could build one right now, between my foot and your arse.” “Shh,” I tut. “Don’t talk over Katharine. I’m trying to listen.” Very, very quietly, Celine screams. It’s drowned out by Katharine’s microphone boom. “Can you commit to the rules needed to survive out in the wild, and think of creative ways to apply them?” she asks. The next slide shows a woodland with the words SHERWOOD FOREST: THE EDUCATION EXPEDITION written over the top. She keeps going. “And do you have the determination and teamwork skills to combine all you’ve learned and complete a miles-long trek independently, hunting down Golden Compasses along the way? You’ll have the opportunity to prove it here….” Click. A
| 0 |
41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 43 |
"You just try it," urged Martha, handing her the skipping- rope. "You can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you'll mount up. That's what mother said. She says, `Nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. It's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'" It was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in Mistress Mary's arms and legs when she first began to skip. She was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop. "Put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' doors," said Martha. "Mother said I must tell you to keep out o' doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha' wrap up warm." Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm. She opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly. "Martha," she said, "they were your wages. It was your two-pence really. Thank you." She said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her. "Thank you," she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do. Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either. Then she laughed. "Eh! th' art a queer, old-womanish thing," she said. "If tha'd been our 'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have given me a kiss." Mary looked stiffer than ever. "Do you want me to kiss you?" Martha laughed again. "Nay, not me," she answered. "If tha' was different, p'raps tha'd want to thysel'. But tha' isn't. Run off outside an' play with thy rope." Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room. Yorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha was always rather a puzzle to her. At first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not. The skipping-rope was a wonderful thing. She counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born. The sun was shining and a little wind was blowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another. She skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him. She skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression. She had wondered if he would notice her. She wanted him to see her skip. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Upon my word. P'raps tha' art a young 'un, after
| 1 |
55 |
Blowback.txt
| 18 |
guns and defend the weakening of the travel ban. I told her I wasn’t worried at all. “Trust the experts.” That was Elaine’s maxim. She may not have been a terrorism specialist, but in three decades of managing government programs, she had been a fierce defender of the career civil service. She promised to get the president to accept the outcome. Or she’d leave. Her conversation with Donald Trump went as expected. He was seething. At his golf resort in Bedminster, New Jersey, the president railed against Elaine and the other cabinet members who were present. The “weak-ass travel ban,” in his words, was too small and went too easy on his least favorite countries “Somalia? Come on, they have fucking pirates!” he vented. To be sure, there was a piracy threat from armed militants off the coast of Somalia, but Trump seemed to picture swashbuckling Jack Sparrows stumbling across the beaches. And he didn’t want anyone from that country allowed into ours. Elaine held firm. The acting secretary had an ace up her sleeve. She laid it on the table as Trump rattled off nationalities he wanted to block from entering America. If the president rejected the independent assessment of the agencies, she said, our lawyers predicted the courts would strike down whatever arbitrary list he came up with. That got Trump’s attention. He dreaded judges. They could proclaim the final word against him. They could make him into a loser. After a long debate and the president’s realization that he was boxed in, Trump very begrudgingly approved the plan. An equally angry White House punted much of the rollout to DHS, directing me speak to news outlets as a “senior administration official” to describe the changes. I told reporters the measures were certainly “tough” on the listed countries but thankfully more “tailored” than before. What may have started in Trump’s mind as a Muslim ban no longer was one. He’d been outmaneuvered. Containment was working. Elaine went further when speaking to Congress, deliberately contradicting Trump’s vision of a sweeping blockade. “This has nothing to do with race or religion, and our goal is not to block people from visiting the United States,” she declared. “America has a proud history as a beacon of hope to freedom-loving people from around the world who want to visit our country or become a part of our enduring democratic republic.” I heard from an irritated Stephen Miller afterward. He wanted to know who had approved this language. Who had written Elaine’s pro-immigrant remarks? I had. Any sense of victory was fleeting. My anxiety swelled during a bloody October. The first day of the month, a Las Vegas gunman murdered more than sixty festival-goers, indiscriminately firing into a crowd from an upper floor of a hotel on the strip. And on Halloween, an ISIS-inspired terrorist mowed down a dozen civilians with a white pickup truck in New York City. We scrambled to elevate security levels around the country to prevent copycat terrorist attacks. On top of that, I was on hair-trigger alert about another looming
| 0 |
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