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57 |
Cold People.txt
| 47 |
her daughter hadn’t returned home. Sensing his wife’s concerns, Atto stood up from the table where he’d been re-stitching the lining of his jacket and wrapped his arms around her, feeling the tension in her body. ‘She’s fine. She’s always fine.’ Liza turned around and kissed him. ‘Worrying is part of being a parent. I can’t turn it off just because she’s strong.’ ‘I can’t either. But she’s never even grazed her knee.’ ‘Echo can get into dangerous situations ordinary-born people can’t. She’s up a mountain, she’s exploring icebergs. She takes risks because she has no fear of the cold.’ ‘If she wasn’t five times my strength, I’d ground her.’ ‘You’ve always been too soft on her.’ ‘You’ve always been too tough on her. I reckon that means, together, we’re perfect.’ Atto kissed Liza and returned to work on his jacket. He was a believer in the miracle of their love story – a partnership forged out of exceptional circumstances. Under pressure they were a remarkable team. During those early years in Antarctica, they’d been inseparable, struggling against the ravages of the cold while trying to build a society out of the ruins of the old. Their efforts had been at the centre of shaping Hope Town, arguing that there were many necessities to human survival. They’d been ridiculed by the other two settlements, but during the winter their people survived while others succumbed to depression. In Hope Town survival had never been reduced to a calorie count and a question of warmth. With almost no technological infrastructure in Hope Town, there was no way of contacting Echo. There were no personal phones. Communication networks were rudimentary and limited to linking the three Survivor Towns with McMurdo City who would send telegram-style messages, issuing instructions, a collection date for the volunteers or a demand for a crop harvest only grown on the Peninsula – the flowers and lichen on the most northern rock outcrops. There was no longer any orbital satellite network, destroyed during the alien occupation. Officials used wires and radios as they had done in the past. To play together, children would set meeting places – six in the afternoon by the last house on Cannery Row – and gather there in snow boots and seal-pelt coats, waiting for their friends to assemble before setting off on their cross-country skis. Adults would make appointments and worry, with good reason, when the other person didn’t show. A spoken arrangement became a contract; people took them seriously, aware that they couldn’t push it back thirty minutes or simply not show, explaining it away with a text message. Missing an appointment in Hope Town was taboo: the first thought was always that the person might have died. After an hour, normally, search parties were dispatched. Echo was six hours late. * * * Atto asked: ‘Was she alone?’ ‘She was with Tetu.’ ‘He’s in love with her, you know that, right?’ ‘Everyone knows that.’ ‘Everyone except her.’ ‘She knows it. She just doesn’t know what to make of it.’ ‘Did you have that
| 0 |
24 |
Of Human Bondage.txt
| 6 |
in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and nut, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt? Pity, _the_ sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that. Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk about it. CHAPTER XXXVII AT FIRST the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts. Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after
| 1 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 16 |
forward. “Hey, it’s Ethan from homicide.” “Oh! Hey, Ethan, I heard you were back. And evidently working the same hours! Good for you, man. What can I do for you?” Macedo’s warm tone gives no indication that he’s holding a grudge or something, like the people in his own office. “I was wondering if you could give me some information on a death that occurred about a month ago.” “Sure.” “Great. The name of the deceased is Samuel David Lucas, and he died on October 27th.” Ethan hears Macedo’s fingertips tap against his keyboard. “Yep. Got the report right here. There’s not much to it. Oh, yeah. I remember this one. I was the one who picked up his body from Bayside. His cause of death was sepsis. IV drug user.” Ethan goes still. “Bayside?” “Yeah. He’d been in the ICU for a couple of days before we got the call. He was brought to the ER after passing out at a bus stop.” Ethan brings his hand to his temple. If he was brought to the ER two days before he died, it was likely during Sloane’s shift. “There was no next of kin so we—” “Thanks, Macedo. I gotta run, but I really appreciate your help.” Ethan slams his laptop closed and stands from his chair while slipping his phone into his pocket. “See ya tomorrow, Marks,” one of his coworkers says as he marches out of the homicide unit. “Good night,” Ethan calls over his shoulder. He throws the door open to the seventh-floor parking area adjacent to the homicide unit, seething with rage as he rushes to his car. Sloane lied about everything. Carr hadn’t brought a gun to their home that night. Sloane was so desperate to get rid of Brody Carr that she stole a gun off her patient in the ER. She planned the whole damn thing. Chapter 51 Perched on one of her barstools, Sloane smiles at Ethan when he walks into the kitchen. “I have something to tell you. Two things, actually.” He presses his trembling hands against the kitchen island countertop, trying to control the anger seething through his body. He’s never been this enraged in his life. “Like that you lied about Carr bringing a gun to our house? That you actually stole it from a gang member who came into the ER?” Her face falters, but only for a moment. “How do you know that?” Ethan recognizes he’s more livid now that she’s not even bothering to deny it. “Did you lure him over here that night? You must have.” She stares back at him. “Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Why wasn’t there a record of that on his phone?” “I told him to get a second unregistered phone after you were assigned to Chelsea’s case. And I got one too.” Ethan backs away from the counter and paces back and forth, tempted to throw one of Sloane’s stupid barstools through the window. “Only so I could make sure he wasn’t going to falsely incriminate me. For a while,
| 0 |
99 |
spare.txt
| 96 |
visited and cheered as he climbed a wall with his new<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">prosthetic leg. Six years after that flight, as promised, he was running a<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">264<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">marathon. Not the London marathon, which would’ve been miraculous on<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">its own. He was running his own marathon, along a route he’d designed<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">himself, in the outline of a poppy laid over the city of London.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">A staggering thirty-one miles, he’d done the full circuit to raise money<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and awareness—and heart rates.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I’m in shock, he said on finding me there.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">You’re in shock? I said. That makes two of us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Seeing him out there, still being a soldier, despite no longer being a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">soldier—that was the answer to the riddle with which I’d been struggling so<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">long.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Question: How do you stop being a soldier, when a soldier is all you’ve<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">ever been or wanted to be?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Answer: You don’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Even when you stop being a soldier, you don’t have to stop being a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">soldier. Ever.<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">78.<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">A N AFGHANISTAN WAR SERVICE at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and then a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">reception at the Guildhall hosted by the City of London Corporation,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and then the launch of Walking With The Wounded’s Walk Of Britain, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">then a visit to England’s rugby team, and then watching them practice for a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">match against France, and then following them to Twickenham and cheering<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">them on, and then a memorial for the Olympian Richard Meade, the most<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">successful equestrian in British history, and then a trip with Pa to Turkey to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">attend ceremonies marking the hundredth anniversary of Gallipoli, and then<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">a meeting with descendants of the men who fought in that epic battle, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">then back to London to hand out medals to runners at the London Marathon.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">That was the start of my 2015.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Just the highlights.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The papers were awash with stories about Willy being lazy, and the press<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">had taken to calling him
| 0 |
87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 44 |
she made her way to the old storefront where they were supposed to leave the contraband. Maybe he’d already gone through the checkpoint, maybe he was waiting for her there… Lore rounded the last corner before the old storefront came into view. Scarlet jackets, polished guns. A cart carrying mostly empty boxes. JeanPaul’s red hair. He looked up to see her, a stocky middle-aged white man who’d been running for Val since before Lore came along, and though his expression was carefully neutral, fear sheened his eyes and made them nearly animal. Too late, too late, too late. For a moment, Lore couldn’t do anything but stand there. As one of the guards turned toward her, she ducked into an alley, pressing her back against the grimed brick, breathing hard enough to sting her throat. “Shit,” she spat, quick and hoarse. “Shit.” Holding her breath, Lore peered out of the alleyway. It looked like JeanPaul had made it through the checkpoint without being searched, but then the bloodcoats had realized their error and caught him right when he reached the storefront. Even if she’d gotten here on time, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Jean-Paul, to his credit, managed to keep that calm expression even as the bloodcoats poked through the boxes. The big man had his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet, a simple trader just waiting for the search to be over. He kept his head tipped down under the brim of his hat to hide his terrified eyes. She should abandon him. She knew that. It was one of Val’s earliest lessons. If a job went south, it was every man for himself. But she couldn’t make herself run. Jean-Paul had a husband and a young son, and if he was caught, he’d be sent to the Burnt Isles. Lore couldn’t just leave someone to a fate like that. “Shit.” Lore cursed one final time, landing hard on the t, then ducked out of the alley and into the crowd. The bloodcoats didn’t pay her any attention as she sidled up, as inconspicuous as she could manage. One of them, a burly man with a curling mustache beneath his small, pale nose, held up a dummy box full of nearly sprouting potatoes and cocked an eyebrow. “If you were making my deliveries, old man,” he sneered, “I’d be very concerned you were skimming them.” The boxes with the contraband were always on the top. The bloodcoats never expected it, always checked the boxes on the bottom first, assuming the poison would be as hidden as possible. That way, if you were found in the middle of a job, chances were the lode had already been moved to the drop point. “Alaric needed boxes,” Jean-Paul said, deadpan. Alaric was the name they always used if stopped and asked whose business they were about. “Wanted to store something. The potatoes were just to hold them down on the cart.” All the boxes were off the cart now. Curly Mustache’s cohorts started poking through the new
| 0 |
16 |
Great Expectations.txt
| 66 |
for some reason or other. He presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his pipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew that they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing tone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for more, if I could have heard more: so, I drew away from the window, and sat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the loneliest I had ever known. Looking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe's pipe floating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe - not obtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared together. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy bed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more. Chapter 19 Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life, and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay heaviest on my mind, was, the consideration that six days intervened between me and the day of departure; for, I could not divest myself of a misgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and that, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or clean gone. Joe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our approaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After breakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best parlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With all the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe, and thought, perhaps the clergyman wouldn't have read that about the rich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all. After our early dinner I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off the marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I felt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion for the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after Sunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the low green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them one of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner of roast-beef and plumpudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of condescension, upon everybody in the village. If I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my companionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among those graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place recalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and badge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he had doubtless been
| 1 |
19 |
Hound of the Baskervilles.txt
| 9 |
guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half- sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is the use of troubling Mr. Holmes with trifles of this kind?" "Well, he asked me for anything outside the ordinary routine." "Exactly," said Holmes, "however foolish the incident may seem. You have lost one of your boots, you say?" "Well, mislaid it, anyhow. I put them both outside my door last night, and there was only one in the morning. I could get no sense out of the chap who cleans them. The worst of it is that I only bought the pair last night in the Strand, and I have never had them on." "If you have never worn them, why did you put them out to be cleaned?" "They were tan boots
| 1 |
71 |
Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt
| 61 |
detectors useless. Liv’s body had been shipped off so that a proper autopsy could be conducted, but no one was expecting to find anything but the obvious. Even when we sat in silence, those few minutes that punctuated the day were easier than the hours that stretched on alone. I found myself listening to Aftershocks, scrubbing past the descriptions of the crimes—which were mercifully brief—and listening to Ethan unfold the stories of what came after. It was his sincerity that sold it, I thought. During the interviews I could imagine those sincere eyes of his, inviting everyone from grieving mothers to remorseful killers to bare their souls for him. He was good at his job. It was almost disappointing. By the end of the week I was forced to admit that Ethan had been right. The task was too immense for me to figure out on my own with only the Doe Network profiles to go on. But Liv had known. Liv had found her. I knew what I had to do, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I got myself cleaned up most of the way to respectable, even remembering to dab concealer over the dark circles under my eyes. My hair was getting shaggy at the back, but I finger-combed it into something resembling order and headed outside, my gait stiff. As I unlocked the car I glanced across the street and paused, faint unease scratching at the back of my mind. There was a black Toyota Camry parked across the street. It had been there yesterday, too. And the day before. It was just a car. Nothing weird. I started up my engine. In the rearview mirror, I watched as a man crossed the parking lot from the small park near the Corner Store, where there were a few benches and picnic tables. All of which had a clear view of the motel. I couldn’t make out much in the mirror. He was white, midthirties, with medium-brown hair cut a bit long and mirrored sunglasses. I’d seen him before, hadn’t I? The last few days, at the diner and the gas station. He’d been hanging around. The image of the boy in the striped shirt popped into my mind again. AJ Stahl. As I pulled out, he started up his car. I watched in the mirror as he turned out of the parking lot—following right behind me. My heart hammered. I reached for my phone, but stopped. Who would I call? What would I say that wouldn’t sound crazy? Then, a minute out from the Barnes house, the Camry slowed and turned, pulling off to a trailhead. I let out a breath, sinking back against the seat. You’re being paranoid, I scolded myself. I kept my eyes on the rearview, but the Camry never reappeared. The gate to the Barnes house was open. When I pulled up in front of the house, there was a casserole sitting on the front porch, covered in foil. It didn’t seem right to step over it, so I picked it up and
| 0 |
32 |
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt
| 86 |
fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer. She gave Tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "indifference" was broken up. The boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him. Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; --------------------------------------------------------- -129- but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it. One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open --------------------------------------------------------- -130- window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?" "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time." "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom apprehensive. "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do." "You do?" "Yes'm." The old lady was bending down, Tom watching,
| 1 |
64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 35 |
of us and everyone in line to hear, says, “Do you have a lost and found? Someone seems to have dropped this on the ride.” “Are we about to get kicked out of Lobster Fest?” I ask Wyn. His head falls back with another wave of laughter. “It was bound to happen eventually.” “End of an era,” I say. “Nah.” His eyes slice sideways. “Another beginning.” • • • WE’RE STILL GIGGLY when we spill out of the Rover in front of the cottage, Sabrina leaning heavily on me, Kimmy leaning even more heavily on Wyn behind us. We’re almost to the front steps when our fearless (braless) designated driver takes off toward the side of the house. “Where are you going?” Parth throws his arms out. “You have the keys!” Sabrina and I exchange a look, then take off after her, around the dark side of the house. Cleo throws the gate to the patio open, kicking her shoes off as she runs through, unbuttoning her pants. Sabrina thumps my arm to get me to run faster, and we round the bend in time to see Cleo, now pantsless, leap into the pool. The others come around the bend, and Sabrina spins toward Parth, uses her full weight to shove him in. Without hesitation, Kimmy cannonballs in after him, one shoe still on. Sabrina whirls on me. I shriek and swat her hands away. “We’re too old!” I cry. “Don’t make me do this!” I get hold of her wrists. Her yelp turns into laughter as we struggle at the water’s edge. I’m swept off my feet from behind. An arm tight around my rib cage, a clovey smell, as I’m pitched off-balance. We fall together, tangled, breathless. The water folds around us, and I open my eyes beneath the surface, turning in his arms. Everything is glitter, shimmering bits of silver blue at first, and then there he is, paled by the pool’s strange light. His hair waves out, dancing around his face, and bubbles slip from his nose and the corners of his mouth. He catches my hands and draws me closer. I don’t even think about holding myself back. I’d like to blame the weed, but I can’t. It’s him and me. My thighs skate over his, nesting loose against his hips. He brings my hands to the back of his neck, and we sink like that, descending from the glowing legs treading water. He pulls me flush to him, his heart pumping against my collarbone. And then we’ve reached the bottom of the pool. We can’t go any deeper. He pushes off against the tile, sending us back to the surface. Cold air, laughter, screeching from the edge of the pool, where Kimmy and Cleo have now teamed up to get Sabrina into the water. And I don’t feel young. I feel alive. Jolted awake. My skin, muscles, organs, bones, all somehow more concrete here. Wyn’s face and eyelashes glisten, his shirt plastered to him. His fingers are gentle on my jaw, his thumb tracing over my
| 0 |
14 |
Five On A Treasure Island.txt
| 8 |
thought that George was getting nicer and nicer! "Well, now we'll get down to business," said Julian, and he pulled out his map. "We must study this really carefully, and find out exactly under what spot the entrances to the dungeons are. Now- come around and let's do our best to find out! It's up to us to use our brains- and beat that man who's bought the island!" They all bent over the traced map. It was quite dry now, and the children looked at it earnestly. It was plain that in the old days the castle had been a very fine place. "Now look," said Julian, putting his finger on the plan of the dungeons. "These seem to run all along under the castle- and here- and here- are the marks that seem to be meant to represent steps or stairs." "Yes," said George. "I should think they are. Well, if so, there appear to be two ways of getting down into the dungeons. One lot of steps seems to begin somewhere near this little room- and the other seems to start under the tower there. And what do you suppose this thing is here, Julian?" She put her finger on a round hole that was shown not only in the plan of the dungeons, but also in the plan of the ground floor of the castle. "I can't imagine what that is," said Julian, puzzled. "Oh yes, I know what it might be! You said there was an old well somewhere, do you remember? Well, that may be it, I should think. It would have to be very deep to get fresh water right under the sea- so it probably goes down through the dungeons too. Isn't this thrilling?" Everyone thought it was. They felt happy and excited. There was something to discover- something they could and must discover within the next day or two. They looked at one another. "Well," said Dick, "what are we going to start on? Shall we try to find the entrance to the dungeons- the one that seems to start round about this little room? For all we know there may be a big stone we can lift that opens above the dungeon steps!" This was a thrilling thought, and the children jumped up at once. Julian folded up the precious map and put it into his pocket. He looked round. The stone floor of the little room was overgrown with creeping weeds. They must be cleared away before it was possible to see if there were any stones that looked as if they might be moved. "We'd better set to work," said Julian, and he picked up a spade. "Let's clear away these weeds with our spades- scrape them off, look, like this- and then examine every single stone!" They all picked up spades and soon the little stone room was full of a scraping sound as the four of them chiselled away at the close-growing weeds with their spades. It wasn't very difficult to get the stones clear of them, and
| 1 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 66 |
a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have broken his digester. As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering round the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me. I'll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At first he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my referring to his last .. <p 51 > night's hospitalities, he made out to ask me whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I thought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented. We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it regularly passing between us. If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan's breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country's phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply. After supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to
| 1 |
9 |
Dracula.txt
| 94 |
spoken, I watched the Professor's face, and saw it turn ashen gray. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be. He actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining room and closed the door. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way. Finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. "God! God! God!" he said. "What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, send down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and soul, and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or she die, then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!" Suddenly he jumped to his feet. "Come," he said."come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not. We must fight him all the same." He went to the hall door for his bag, and together we went up to Lucy's room. Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity. "As I expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognized the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a warning hand. "No!" he said. "Today you must operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already." As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeve. Again the operation. Again the narcotic. Again some return of color to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested. Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove anything from Lucy's room without consulting him. That the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing
| 1 |
74 |
Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt
| 11 |
I can’t be apart from you again. Whatever that looks like. Whatever it takes. I’m all in.’ ” My face is blazing, and Mary Stuart is frozen on the ledge of the firepit, like if she just doesn’t move maybe none of this will be real. “Lanier, I—” She wads the paper up and throws it in the fire, which sort of riles me. That’s my note. “One thing, Daphne. I have only ever asked you for one thing.” This is so categorically untrue that I want to laugh in her face. She asks me for things all the time. And I do them willingly with a smile on my face because that’s what friends do. “Why is it that you can’t just stay away from my brother?” I start to chime in, but Mary Stuart comes to my defense. “Because she loves him, Lanier. Because he loves her. Because they broke up and neither of them has been happy since.” “You knew?” she asks Mary Stuart. “I didn’t know they were together, but good Lord, Lanier, everyone knows they’re in love. And when things were rocky with Daphne, I kind of got where you were coming from. But we’re older now. We’re all in a different place. You can’t really play the card that Daphne will drag Huff down with her. She hasn’t so much as looked at a drink in years. We practically had to shove a Tylenol in her after Henry was born and she was hurting all over, for heaven’s sake. She will never go there again because of him. And because of us. And because she has yoga and journaling and therapy and whatever the hell else she does constantly, every day, to keep herself on track. She was twenty-three. You’ve punished her enough.” I’m floored by Mary Stuart standing up for me this way. And I’m also grateful. Because yes, yes to all those things. I try to be compassionate. “Lanier, I understand your concern, but—” “No! You do not understand my concern because you don’t have a brother.” That is technically true. But it burns through me, breaks my heart. “What is so wrong with me, Lanier? What is so bad about your best friend, the person who knows all your secrets, who you always run to first? What is so wrong with me that I’m not good enough for Huff?” Lanier looks as if she’s going to burst open. “We’re back here again, the two of you keeping secrets from me. Do you know how it feels for the two people you love the most to just leave you totally out in the cold?” I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. “No, that’s great, Daphne, let’s just go right back there. Call me in six months when he’s dying to get married and you’re on the verge of falling apart. Can’t wait to clean that up. Again.” I am expecting her to be upset, so I’m trying to maintain my composure despite my heart beating out of my chest.
| 0 |
93 |
The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt
| 72 |
called out cheerily. ‘Anyone fancy a bacon roll?’ Everyone stared for a moment, then Josie called, ‘Fergal – have you seen Nadine?’ ‘Ah, yes…’ He waved his fork. ‘Come aboard.’ Penny squeezed her husband’s hand: George looked as if he would cry. Devlin was on his feet. ‘Are you looking for the pig? We’ve got her here. She came down an hour ago.’ Finn licked his lips. ‘Come and join us. There’s nothing like bacon, the way my da cooks it, with plenty of fat and a bit of ketchup.’ ‘Nadine!’ George groaned, putting his hand to his face. Penny wrapped an arm around him to comfort him. ‘Fergal…’ Josie put her hands on her hips. ‘Where is Nadine exactly?’ ‘Follow me…’ Fergal winked. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, though…’ ‘Oh, George,’ Penny moaned. Fergal led Josie down the steps as George and Penny followed, their faces nervous, searching for a glimpse of the pig, or what was left of her. Below, the accommodation was divided into sections, two bedrooms, three beds, a galley kitchen, a table, chairs. Fergal pointed to the smaller bedroom, where a double bed was pushed against a wall, wooden panels below, yellow paintwork above. On the bed was a grey duvet and lying on the duvet, snorting softly through a pink snout, was Nadine, her eyes closed, pointed ears and pale lashes, trotters sticking out and a smile curving her face. ‘She’s asleep.’ George gasped and ran to the pig, stroking the rough hair of the skin. ‘Nadine – oh, Nadine, you’re all right.’ ‘She’s better than all right.’ Fergal laughed. ‘She came down here, ate half a box of cornflakes and got herself onto my bed and now she’s away with the fairies. I didn’t have the heart to wake her.’ ‘I thought she was…’ George faltered, rolling his eyes upwards to indicate heaven or the upper deck, sniffing the cooking food dramatically through flared nostrils. ‘We thought you were frying her in the pan…’ Penny explained, tucking an arm through George’s protectively. ‘Ah, we wouldn’t do that to Nadine,’ Fergal said cheerfully. ‘She’s part of the village community now.’ Finn appeared with cans of beer which he’d found in a kitchen cupboard, handing them round with a grin. ‘Get your mouths around a lager each. And then come upstairs – Devlin’s shovelling bacon into butties for you all.’ ‘If you wouldn’t mind…’ George said quietly. ‘I’ll just have a beer – unless you have anything vegetarian I can put in a bread roll.’ 34 Florence shifted uncomfortably in bed. Her back ached badly and she twisted from one side to the other, but she couldn’t relax. It was past midnight – she could hear Dangerous Dave snoring in the next room like a busy buzz saw. She clambered out slowly, easing herself upright; she’d go down to the kitchen for another cup of water. She padded onto the landing, then a pain made her double over and grasp the vertical rails of the staircase. She stayed where she was, recovering for a few minutes, then
| 0 |
53 |
After Death.txt
| 70 |
hands until they are red, selects an album of nerve-soothing easy-listening piano for the through-house music system, takes a tablet of Prozac, brews a pot of tea, and opens a tin of butter cookies that have been finished with a cinnamon glaze and sprinkled with sea salt. Before indulging in this predawn repast, he descends to the windowless room in the finished basement, where he opens a secret panel with a touch latch and then opens the heavily insulated steel door that is thus revealed. In the love nest, he strips the sheets off the bed and loads them in the washing machine that he uses only for this task. He’s finicky about consigning his own garments to the same machine that he uses to launder the bedclothes in which have lain the women he keeps here. Upstairs once more, seated at the kitchen table with tea and cookies, he laments the passing of Lenore, whom he had kept in the basement for seven delightful months. She was especially lovely and, once properly trained, precisely as submissive as he requires. All things must come to an end, however, for he is a man who needs a certain degree of variety. Royce is thirty, heir to a trust fund that spares him from the need to work. However, with financial independence comes the worry that those who seem to like you actually have contempt for you and are nice to you only because you have money. Dating is a dangerous enterprise for a young man of his position. Fortunately, he has the skills and courage to resolve the problem with such as Lenore. He adopted this style of courtship when he was twenty-one, and in the past nine years has had the pleasure of twelve beauties. He terminates these relationships by strangulation, which is less messy than most alternatives but also invigorating for reasons that he finds difficult to explain. He dislikes messiness, and when he’s not in his current girlfriend’s room, engaged in six- or eight-hour sessions of amorous pursuits, he spends a lot of time cleaning the house. Fortunately, he enjoys housekeeping, which eliminates the need to have a domestic employee. His residence is spotless. Royce believes in doing things the right way, with diligence and care. In the case of his previous eleven girlfriends, after breaking up with them, he removed them from his life with such forethought and care that only one was ever found. To this day, he can’t imagine how Jennifer—the second Jennifer, not the first—floated into Dana Point Harbor on a Sunday morning, after he had, on Friday, packed her in a metal steamer trunk and buried her at sea, ten miles south of there and nine miles from land. The trunk was bound in chains to which were attached six twenty-pound barbells; a hydraulic hand truck with a five-hundred-pound capacity was needed to get that package onto his boat and later raise it over the gunwale to slide it into the sea. If Royce believed in ghosts, he might wonder if the spirit of Harry
| 0 |
38 |
The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 61 |
as much as possible. "Wait till the summer," said Mrs. Hall, sagely, "when the artisks are beginning to come. Then we'll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but bills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you like to say." The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard. He rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out muffled up enormously, whether the weather were cold or not, and he chose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and banks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the penthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the darkness upon one or two home-going labourers; and Teddy Henfrey, tumbling out of the Scarlet Coat one night at half-past nine, was scared shamefully by the stranger's skull-like head (he was walking hat in hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened door. Such children as saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogies, and it seemed doubtful whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse--but there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side. It was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance and bearing should form a frequent topic in such a village as Iping. Opinion was greatly divided about his occupation. Mrs. Hall was sensitive on the point. When questioned, she explained very carefully that he was an "experimental investigator," going gingerly over the syllables as one who dreads pitfalls. When asked what an experimental investigator was, she would say with a touch of superiority that most educated people knew that, and would then explain that he "discovered things." Her visitor had had an accident, she said, which temporarily discoloured his face and hands; and being of a sensitive disposition, he was averse to any public notice of the fact. Out of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that he was a criminal trying to escape from justice by wrapping himself up so as to conceal himself altogether from the eye of the police. This idea sprang from the brain of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No crime of any magnitude dating from the middle or end of February was known to have
| 1 |
42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 44 |
would have perished, had not his sons in that moment come up with force to his aid; and the Balrogs left him, and departed to Angband. Then his sons raised up their father and bore him back towards Mithrim. But as they drew near to Eithel Sirion and were upon the upward path to the pass over the mountains, Fanor bade them halt; for his wounds were mortal, and he knew that his hour was come. And looking out from the slopes of Ered Wethrin with his last sight he beheld far off the peaks of Thangorodrim, mightiest of the towers of Middle-earth, and knew with the foreknowledge of death that no power of the Noldor would ever overthrow them; but he cursed the name of Morgoth thrice, and laid it upon his sons to hold to their oath, and to avenge their father. Then he died; but he had neither burial nor tomb, for so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke; and his likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos. Thus ended the mightiest of the Noldor, of whose deeds came both their greatest renown and their most grievous woe. Now in Mithrim there dwelt Grey-elves, folk of Beleriand that had wandered north over the mountains, and the Noldor met them with gladness, as kinsfolk long sundered; but speech at first was not easy between them, for in their long severance the tongues of the Calaquendi in Valinor and of the Moriquendi in Beleriand had drawn far apart. From the Elves of Mithrim the Noldor learned of the power of Elu Thingol, King in Doriath, and the girdle of enchantment that fenced his realm; and tidings of these great deeds in the north came south to Menegroth, and to the havens of Brithombar and Eglarest. Then all the Elves of Beleriand were filled with wonder and with hope at the coming of their mighty kindred, who thus returned unlocked-for from the West in the very hour of their need, believing indeed at first that they came as emissaries of the Valar to deliver them. But even in the hour of the death of Fanor an embassy came to his sons from Morgoth, acknowledging defeat, and offering terms, even to the surrender of a Silmaril. Then Maedhros the tall, the eldest son, persuaded his brothers to feign to treat with Morgoth, and to meet his emissaries at the place appointed; but the Noldor had as little thought of faith as had he. Wherefore each embassy came with greater force than was agreed; but Morgoth sent the more, and there were Balrogs. Maedhros was ambushed, and all his company were slain; but he himself was taken alive by the command of Morgoth, and brought to Angband. Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and sent word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their
| 1 |
5 |
Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 54 |
them in spring. Oh, Marilla, can't you just imagine you see them? It actually takes away my breath. I named it Violet Vale. Diana says she never saw the beat of me for hitting on fancy names for places. It's nice to be clever at something, isn't it? But Diana named the Birch Path. She wanted to, so I let her; but I'm sure I could have found something more poetical than plain Birch Path. Anybody can think of a name like that. But the Birch Path is one of the prettiest places in the world, Marilla." It was. Other people besides Anne thought so when they stumbled on it. It was a little narrow, twisting path, winding down over a long hill straight through Mr. Bell's woods, where the light came down sifted through so many emerald screens that it was as flawless as the heart of a diamond. It was fringed in all its length with slim young birches, white stemmed and lissom boughed; ferns and starflowers and wild lilies-of-the-valley and scarlet tufts of pigeonberries grew thickly along it; and always there was a delightful spiciness in the air and music of bird calls and the murmur and laugh of wood winds in the trees overhead. Now and then you might see a rabbit skipping across the road if you were quiet-which, with Anne and Diana, happened about once in a blue moon. Down in the valley the path came out to the main road and then it was just up the spruce hill to the school. The Avonlea school was a whitewashed building, low in the eaves and wide in the windows, furnished inside with comfortable substantial old-fashioned desks that opened and shut, and were carved all over their lids with the initials and hieroglyphics of three generations of school children. The schoolhouse was set back from the road and behind it was a dusky fir wood and a brook where all the children put their bottles of milk in the morning to keep cool and sweet until dinner hour. Marilla had seen Anne start off to school on the first day of September with many secret misgivings. Anne was such an odd girl. How would she get on with the other children? And how on earth would she ever manage to hold her tongue during school hours? Things went better than Marilla feared, however. Anne came home that evening in high spirits. "I think I'm going to like school here," she announced. "I don't think much of the master, through. He's all the time curling his mustache and making eyes at Prissy Andrews. Prissy is grown up, you know. She's sixteen and she's studying for the entrance examination into Queen's Academy at Charlottetown next year. Tillie Boulter says the master is DEAD GONE on her. She's got a beautiful complexion and curly brown hair and she does it up so elegantly. She sits in the long seat at the back and he sits there, too, most of the time-to explain her lessons, he says. But Ruby Gillis says
| 1 |
70 |
Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt
| 84 |
looks at me. “Felix?” “He was supposed to run the office.” My mind runs in circles. “He missed his shift. I thought he quit.” Bezi puts her hand on my shoulder, and I press the button to look at the next picture even though I’m scared to death of what I might see. The photo’s a blur. The hooded figures are hazy, and Felix is lying on his back on the platform in the exact same spot where we’d found the bloody spot someone had tried to wash away. There’s nothing after that. I turn the camera off and set it back down. I have to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself as a terrible thought claws its way to the front of my mind. “Heather and Jordan were no-shows too.” Bezi blinks once, twice, and then three times before she makes the connection. “We need to keep moving,” I say, pushing all those other thoughts aside. “Let’s find Porter and Paige and get out of here.” Bezi nods, and we leave the kitchen, continuing down the hall. I find a narrow doorway near the rear of the lodge that is fitted with a series of dead bolts, but each of them is in the open position. I exchange glances with Bezi, then put my palm against the door, grasping the handle with my other hand. I ease it open, hoping it doesn’t protest too loudly. As I slowly pull it open, a faint orange light permeates the dark somewhere below. A narrow flight of stairs leads down into a hallway. I take the steps one at a time, easing myself onto each one, then pausing as Bezi follows behind me. When we emerge into the hallway below, there is only one door at the very end, and it is sitting open. A chorus of voices filters out, and the sound echoes down the hall. I can’t make out what is being said but it sounds rhythmic, almost like a song. I grip my hands together to steady the trembling. From where I’m standing, I can just make out the subtle movement of shadows against the rear wall of the room at the end of the hall. I duck down, pressing my back to the wall. “There are people in there,” I whisper as Bezi ducks down beside me. “What are they doing?” she whispers back. I slowly stand and, keeping my back to the wall, make my way to the open door. Peering around the corner, I expect to find myself looking into another room, but instead there is a large rough-cut void, a cavernous opening that looks like it was carved out of the bedrock. It’s sunken even lower than the hall we’re standing in. A sloping ramp leads down to the floor of the cave-like room lit by a series of torches. There’s a large structure in the center of the earthen floor. It looks like a wide wooden plank sticking straight out of the ground. Four figures in hooded black robes stand staring up at
| 0 |
87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 50 |
And an Arceneaux Consecration is a special occasion; I shouldn’t expect it to be the same as others I’ve seen.” It sounded like Gabriel had gotten very good at rationalizing whatever Anton did. The man could probably strip naked and waltz around the South Sanctuary, and Gabriel would think it had some higher spiritual purpose. Lore pulled off the cork of the wine bottle with her teeth. It smelled vinegary, and her nose wrinkled when she poured it. “It’s shit,” she warned, handing a glass to Gabriel, “but so is this day.” She half expected him to refuse—she wasn’t clear on how the Presque Mort felt about alcohol—and for a moment, it looked like he would, eyeing the glass balefully. “If you don’t help me drink this, I’ll just throw back the whole bottle,” Lore said. “I promise you don’t want that. I sing when I’m drunk, and I’m a very bad singer.” Gabriel studied the glass a moment longer before plucking it from her fingers. “Fine.” He tossed back a swallow, pulling a face. “Apollius’s wounds, that’s awful.” “But it is better than thinking about the situation in which we find ourselves.” Lore sat back on the carpet with her own glass, crossing her legs beneath her borrowed skirt. “I still don’t know how I’m supposed to get close to Bastian. Or why we had to attend his extremely… eccentric… Consecration.” “It won’t be hard,” Gabriel said darkly, taking another sip of wine. He avoided the subject of the Consecration entirely. “Like August said, Bastian likes pretty people. Just let him come to you.” “That could’ve been a compliment, if you didn’t say pretty with the same tone that most people say pus.” Lore tossed back the rest of her vinegary wine and poured more. “But this is the most words you’ve said to me since yesterday, so I suppose I should be grateful.” Gabriel said nothing, staring down into the crimson depths of his glass. “Being here is… difficult,” he said finally. They sat in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Lore murmured. He looked at her, then, brows lowered. “Sorry for what?” “That you have to stay here. With me.” He snorted. “You’re not the worst company in the Citadel.” “You really need to work on your compliments.” Gabriel lifted his wine her direction, a mock toast. She raised her glass in kind, and they both drank. It was strangely easy, being with the Mort. He wasn’t one to talk, but his silence was soothing, like sitting with an old friend, someone you’d known for ages. Lore frowned into her wine. She’d barely known Gabriel for two whole days; their relationship began with a fight in an alley. And he was obviously deeply loyal to Anton, while Lore didn’t really trust the Priest Exalted or his brother. Getting too comfortable with the one-eyed Mort was surely not a good idea—and she knew better, besides. What was it about him that made her want to toss out years of experience teaching her trust was a commodity to be hoarded? It
| 0 |
85 |
Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 13 |
“Look at me, I’m Celine. I want to be friends with Brad, but I would rather choke to death on a crab stick—” Her braids whip my shoulder as she spins around to face me. “Why would I be eating a crab stick? I hate crab sticks!” “I know,” I explain patiently, “that’s the point. Now shut up and let me finish.” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m Celine and I would rather choke to death on a crab stick than admit I like Brad because I think I can replace all emotional conversations with power moves and epic stink eye.” “Oh my God.” Her voice lowers to a hiss, like air rushing out of a hot-air balloon. “Fine! Okay! You’re not so bad and I…I might understand why you did what you did when we were kids, and I…forgive you. Okay? So will you shut up?” Did I just annoy Celine into saying we’re cool? I think I might have. Funny how it’s not as satisfying as I imagined. “Maybe.” I shrug. “Maybe?” “Hey. You’re not the only one who can hedge.” “Ugh. Can we just…talk for five minutes without you making me think about myself?” she asks, which is a sentence I never thought I’d hear come out of her mouth. She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not like you. I really don’t have the whole emotional intelligence thing down.” I blink, and the tension in me pops like a cork. My smile is slow but this time I’m satisfied because she’s talking to me. Actually talking, like we know each other again. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted that until it happened. We walk down the path side by side. “You know,” I say casually, “I have a theory that everyone needs therapy. Like going to the dentist.” “Yeah? Tell that to the NHS.” She snorts. My parents paid for my therapist Dr. Okoro privately because, between Dad’s job and Mum’s dental practice, we’re not exactly struggling. I scratch the back of my head. Celine’s grin is razor sharp. “Nothing to say, rich boy?” “I could say that we’re not rich,” I mutter, “but I’m sure you’d have a field day with that.” She laughs. My heart thuds. “Thanks, by the way,” she murmurs after a moment. “For. You know. Saying that. In there.” I have been on such a roller coaster since I left the Beech Hut, I’d almost forgotten Max Donovan even existed. Now it comes thundering back, and I wince. “Does he talk to you like that all the time?” “Why?” she asks. “What are you going to do, fight him?” Would it be bad to say yes? I think it would be bad. Violence is not the answer. Although, history suggests it is occasionally the answer— She laughs. “What is going on with your face right now? I’m joking.” I roll my eyes. “You’re the bane of my existence. Did you know that?” She grins. “I hoped.” I really can’t stand this girl. I wonder how long I get to walk with her.
| 0 |
99 |
spare.txt
| 9 |
</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">time they set it upon her head.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It looked heavy. It also looked magical. The more we stared, the brighter<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">it got—was that possible? And the glow was seemingly internal. The jewels<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">did their part, but the crown seemed to possess some inner energy source,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">something beyond the sum of its parts, its jeweled band, its golden fleurs-<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">de-lis, its crisscrossing arches and gleaming cross. And of course its ermine<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">base. You couldn’t help but feel that a ghost, encountered late at night inside<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the Tower, might have a similar glow. I moved my eyes slowly,<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">261<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">appreciatively, from the bottom to the top. The crown was a wonder, a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">transcendent and evocative piece of art, not unlike the poppies, but all I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">could think in that moment was how tragic that it should remain locked up<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">in this Tower.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Yet another prisoner.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Seems a waste, I said to Willy and Kate, to which, I recall, they said<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">nothing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Maybe they were looking at that band of ermine, remembering my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">wedding remarks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Maybe not.<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">76.<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">A WEEKS LATER, after more than a year of talking and planning,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">thinking and worrying, seven thousand fans packed into the Queen<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Elizabeth Olympic Park for the opening ceremony. The Invictus Games<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">were born.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It had been decided that the International Warrior Games was a tongue<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">twister, a mouthful. A clever Royal Marine had then come up with this far<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">better alternative.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">As soon as he suggested it we all said: Of course! After the William<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Ernest Henley poem!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Every Brit knew that poem. Many had the first line by heart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Out of the night that covers me...<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">And what schoolboy or schoolgirl didn’t encounter at least once those<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">sonorous final lines?<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 am the master of my fate,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Iam the captain of my soul.<span
| 0 |
3 |
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt
| 68 |
it 'uz dis way. Ole missus -- dat's Miss Watson -- she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you. "I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now. "I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp- meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got
| 1 |
25 |
Oliver Twist.txt
| 57 |
hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question. 'Not long gone seven,' said the girl. 'How do you feel to-night, Bill?' 'As weak as water,' replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and limbs. 'Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed anyhow.' Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardnewss, and struck her. 'Whining are you?' said Sikes. 'Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?' 'I hear you,' replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a laugh. 'What fancy have you got in your head now?' 'Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?' growled Sikes, marking the tear which trembled in her eye. 'All the better for you, you have.' 'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,' said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder. 'No!' cried Mr. Sikes. 'Why not?' 'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice: 'such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't.' 'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girls's whining again!' 'It's nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. 'Don't you seem to mind me. It'll soon be over.' 'What'll be over?' demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. 'What foolery are you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with your woman's nonsense.' At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do,
| 1 |
80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 79 |
experience with actors, I have a feeling telling one that he’s not very good in bed might spark a reaction I’m not entirely ready for. At the very least, it’s enough to get me booted from this assignment. Blacklisted from publishing. The server returns with a new wrap, extra tzatziki. Finn barely glances at it, instead flicking his eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one’s paying attention to us. Then he asks in this low, uncertain voice, “So was it . . . not good for you?” A dozen lies wait on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pick a single one. My silence gives me away. “Holy shit.” He leans back in the booth, running a hand down his face, along the reddish stubble that’s just started to reappear. “It was that bad?” “No, no, no,” I rush to say. The restaurant isn’t busy, and yet I’m suddenly certain everyone in here knows what we’re talking about. A neon sign declaring This Mere Mortal slept With a Beloved Actor and Had the Gall to Insinuate He Was Anything Less Than Godlike. “But you sounded like . . .” Finn trails off, the pieces seeming to come together. My forced gasps. My faked orgasm. The escape. I stare down at my nails, picking at the burnt-orange polish I applied the night before I left solely so I’d have something to keep the anxiety at bay. This is how I die, I think: confessing to Finnegan Walsh over falafel that he did not rock my world. “I guess we could call it acting.” He has the nerve to look genuinely astonished. “I don’t know if that’s ever happened to me before.” “Right. Because most women dissolve into ecstasy the instant you touch them?” A twitch of his mouth. “I’m sure sometimes it can take up to three whole instants.” Despite the joke, I can see him deflating right in front of me, his cheeks turning crimson, his posture sagging. This is not the Finnegan Walsh from the panel—I’m not sure who this version is. “I’m so sorry, Chandler. I could have done something different. You could have told me.” As though it’s that simple. “I tried.” Finn’s blush deepens. “Look—it’s not a big deal,” I say, desperate to salvage this. “People have bad sex all the time. It was a weird onetime thing, and it stays completely between us.” Now that we’re discussing it, I’m not sure I see a way out. But plenty went wrong that night unrelated to Finn’s lackluster bedroom skills. So I decide to focus on that. “Maybe we were doomed the moment I smacked my leg on that luggage rack.” By some miracle, he plays along. “Almost certainly by the moment I couldn’t get your bra off.” A self-deprecating laugh, one that makes me realize it’s okay to join in. For both of us to laugh about it. “Okay. Wow. I guess I was off my game or something. Because now I’m replaying everything and . . . it was kind of a disaster,
| 0 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 42 |
the crafty upraising of his head, a movement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had made one final effort to push the boat out of the bite. But only slipping further into the whale's mouth, and tilting over sideways as it slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him out of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the sea. Ripplingly withdrawing from his prey, Moby Dick now lay at a little distance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the billows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body; so that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose --some twenty or more feet out of the water --the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves, dazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray still higher into the air. So, in a gale, the but half-baffled Channel billows only recoil from the base of the Eddystone, triumphantly to overleap its summit with their scud. But soon resuming his horizontal attitude, Moby Dick swam swiftly round and round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful wake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly assault. The sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the blood of grapes and mulberries cast before Antiochus's elephants in the book of Maccabees. Meanwhile Ahab half smothered in the foam of the whale's insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim, --though he could still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that; helpless Ahab's head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least chance shock might burst. From the boat's fragmentary .. <p 543 > stern, Fedallah incuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other drifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to look to themselves. For so revolvingly appalling was the White Whale's aspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made, that he seemed horizontally swooping upon them. And though the other boats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into the eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant destruction of the jeopardized castaways, Ahab and all; nor in that case could they themselves hope to escape. With straining eyes, then, they remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had now become the old man's head. Meantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship's mast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene; and was now so nigh, that Ahab in the water hailed her; -- Sail on the --but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from Moby Dick, and whelmed him for the time. But struggling out of it again, and chancing to rise on a towering crest, he shouted, -- Sail on the whale! --Drive him off! The Pequod's prows were
| 1 |
78 |
Pineapple Street.txt
| 39 |
at any moment to hike the mountains. She said, “We were always so worried about her, especially at the end there. There are those students you just worry about. And look at her, turning out so successful, so put-together.” I was glad to be on Brigitte’s eye level rather than hers. The dog licked my face, and I marveled at the little pocket her wrinkles made between her eyes. You could stash a spare piece of kibble in there. We walked toward campus, the two of them discussing the lawsuit in the paper, the details of which I couldn’t grasp. Petra said to me, “Granby is always being sued. So is every other school in the country.” “For what?” “Oh God,” Madame Mancio said, “anything. Mostly it’s families threatening to sue. Suspensions, grades, negligence, the kid didn’t get into the right college, a coach didn’t put the kid on varsity. I wish I were kidding. All those lawyers the school pays? They’re busy.” I said, “I didn’t know.” Beneath the bridge, the Tigerwhip was surely frozen solid under its blanket of snow. I could see boot prints heading down the ravine slope and across the flat surface that was, now, only a suggestion of water. (We’d sat on those slopes during junior year bio, Ms. Ramos making us each sketch ten plants. I wore a sweater long enough to hide my backside, and it got ruined in the dirt.) Fifteen miles away, where the creek emptied into the Connecticut River, the ice would be looser, chunkier, yielding to slush and running water. “Has the campus changed much?” Petra asked me. Madame Mancio, whom I ought to be thinking of as Priscilla if I were to have any chance of a normal conversation with her, said, “Not as much as Bodie! I remember when I saw your picture on that cover. I thought, my God, she’s gone and done something! I don’t remember everyone that well, but I had you all four years, didn’t I?” I nodded, although it wasn’t true; I’d had Mr. Granson freshman year. Then she said, with sudden urgency: “Who’s watching your kids while you’re away?” As if I might have overlooked this detail. “Their father.” “Oh, good. They must miss you so much!” Brigitte panted casually, and I got the impression this was a dog who never retracted her tongue. When Lance and I toured for Starlet Fever, people would often ask me where my children were, how they felt about my absence, how my husband felt about it—but they never asked Lance, who had three kids. We stepped onto Lower Campus, onto the quad path, its snow packed down to gray ice. Priscilla said, “Now, who are you still in touch with?” “More faculty than students. Mostly through Facebook.” “Oh, Facebook, pffft.” Priscilla dismissed it with the hand that wasn’t holding the leash. “I believe in phone calls and letters. I’m out there every reunion weekend. You know who I still exchange Christmas cards with, is Denny Bloch and his wife. Weren’t you an orchestra kid?” She
| 0 |
36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 3 |
unusual at that day) being covered with a carpet, so skilfully and richly wrought that it seemed to glow as with living flowers. In one corner stood a marble woman, to whom her own beauty was the sole and sufficient garment. Some pictures--that looked old, and had a mellow tinge diffused through all their artful splendor--hung on the walls. Near the fireplace was a large and very beautiful cabinet of ebony, inlaid with ivory; a piece of antique furniture, which Mr. Pyncheon had bought in Venice, and which he used as the treasure-place for medals, ancient coins, and whatever small and valuable curiosities he had picked up on his travels. Through all this variety of decoration, however, the room showed its original characteristics; its low stud, its cross-beam, its chimney-piece, with the old-fashioned Dutch tiles; so that it was the emblem of a mind industriously stored with foreign ideas, and elaborated into artificial refinement, but neither larger, nor, in its proper self, more elegant than before. There were two objects that appeared rather out of place in this very handsomely furnished room. One was a large map, or surveyor's plan, of a tract of land, which looked as if it had been drawn a good many years ago, and was now dingy with smoke, and soiled, here and there, with the touch of fingers. The other was a portrait of a stern old man, in a Puritan garb, painted roughly, but with a bold effect, and a remarkably strong expression of character. At a small table, before a fire of English sea-coal, sat Mr. Pyncheon, sipping coffee, which had grown to be a very favorite beverage with him in France. He was a middle-aged and really handsome man, with a wig flowing down upon his shoulders; his coat was of blue velvet, with lace on the borders and at the button-holes; and the firelight glistened on the spacious breadth of his waistcoat, which was flowered all over with gold. On the entrance of Scipio, ushering in the carpenter, Mr. Pyncheon turned partly round, but resumed his former position, and proceeded deliberately to finish his cup of coffee, without immediate notice of the guest whom he had summoned to his presence. It was not that he intended any rudeness or improper neglect,--which, indeed, he would have blushed to be guilty of,--but it never occurred to him that a person in Maule's station had a claim on his courtesy, or would trouble himself about it one way or the other. The carpenter, however, stepped at once to the hearth, and turned himself about, so as to look Mr. Pyncheon in the face. "You sent for me," said he. "Be pleased to explain your business, that I may go back to my own affairs." "Ah! excuse me," said Mr. Pyncheon quietly. "I did not mean to tax your time without a recompense. Your name, I think, is Maule, --Thomas or Matthew Maule,--a son or grandson of the builder of this house?" "Matthew Maule," replied the carpenter,--"son of him who built the house,--grandson of the rightful
| 1 |
46 |
To Kill a Mockingbird.txt
| 7 |
you hear why?" asked Reverend Sykes. "Helen's got three little'uns and she can't go out to work-" "Why can't she take 'em with her, Reverend?" I asked. It was customary for field Negroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while their parents worked- usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Those unable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers' backs, or resided in extra cotton bags. Reverend Sykes hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen's finding it hard to get work these days... when it's picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas'll take her." "Why not, Reverend?" Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia's hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said, "We thank you for lettin' us come." Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward. "Cal, I know Tom Robinson's in jail an' he's done somethin' awful, but why won't folks hire Helen?" I asked. Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. "It's because of what folks say Tom's done," she said. "Folks aren't anxious to- to have anything to do with any of his family." "Just what did he do, Cal?" Calpurnia sighed. "Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin' his girl an' had him arrested an' put in jail-" "Mr. Ewell?" My memory stirred. "Does he have anything to do with those Ewells that come every first day of school an' then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolute trash- I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. He said-" "Yeah, those are the ones." "Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they'd be glad to hire Helen... what's rape, Cal?" "It's somethin' you'll have to ask Mr. Finch about," she said. "He can explain it better than I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin' this morning, he's not usually so tedious." "He's just like our preacher," said Jem, "but why do you all sing hymns that way?" "Linin'?" she asked. "Is that what it is?" "Yeah, it's called linin'. They've done it that way as long as I can remember." Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get some hymn-books. Calpurnia laughed. "Wouldn't do any good," she said. "They can't read." "Can't read?" I asked. "All those folks?" "That's right," Calpurnia nodded. "Can't but about four folks in First Purchase read... I'm one of 'em." "Where'd you go to school, Cal?" asked Jem. "Nowhere. Let's see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson's aunt, old Miss Buford-" "Are you that old?" "I'm older than Mr. Finch, even." Calpurnia grinned. "Not sure how much, though. We started rememberin' one time, trying to figure out how old I was- I can remember back just a few years more'n he can, so I'm not much older, when you take off the fact that men
| 1 |
92 |
The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt
| 55 |
steeds, prowled the Ivory Palace’s grounds in the night. A century before the Battle of Zinish, the Ruby Hounds began to sicken, dying despite the Sultana’s best efforts. Magic had already disappeared in Omal, and with Lukub’s failing quickly, the Ruby Hounds rotted like fruit planted in tainted soil. Orban followed thirty years later. “They are. To resurrect one is unheard of. The Urabi will be weakened after exerting such a large amount of magic.” Arin’s gaze, though shrouded with discomfort, was still keen on our surroundings. “They must truly wish to impress you.” I knotted the sleeve strips together. “This is going to hurt,” I warned him, and placed the end of a strip between my teeth. The muscles in Arin’s stomach tensed, but he didn’t make a sound as I wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly around his torso. I had to press my knee into his hip to reach around his back. My knuckles grazed everywhere I wrapped the bandages. His chest, his waist, the small of his back. The effect on my magic was significantly duller than when he grasped my hand. I made the mistake of glancing up and found my face inches from Arin’s. Curiosity hooded the gaze fixed on mine, entirely too attentive for someone in his condition. “Stop looking at me,” I demanded. “I am not going to make a mistake.” A soft laugh escaped Arin. The sound reverberated beneath the palm I’d placed on his chest. It was the first time I’d heard him really laugh. Baira’s blessed hair, how much blood had he lost? “Are you aware you have five freckles under your jaw?” He offered this information to me with complete seriousness, as though it had escaped from a vault of secrets. I resisted the impulse to touch my jaw. “They are called hasanas in Jasad, not freckles.” I cursed the heat in my ears that meant they were turning the same shade as the dead Hound and quickly refocused on my task. “You dangle yourself over a rocky riverbed, beat down my guards, wedge your arm into a Hound’s mouth. Yet you blush at a bare chest.” Naturally, this encouraged the redness in my ears to spread to my cheeks. I tied the next strip with more force than intended, pulling a pained grunt from the Heir. “I am not blushing. I’m afraid you have become delirious.” Arin tipped his head back against the tree. “Maybe.” My jest about dragging Arin to the tunnels might be closer to reality than I had imagined. I had forced him to fight past my magic. How much blood had he shed struggling against the barrier? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should not have trapped you. It’s just—you would have interfered and lost a limb unnecessarily. I knew it was here for me.” “Don’t do it again.” The fleeting humor vanished from his tone. He was completely somber. “If you had been wrong, I wouldn’t have been released until you were dead and your magic’s hold broken.” “You would have had time to run if
| 0 |
72 |
Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt
| 5 |
my hands at him. Joe nodded, like Cool. “First I’m going to just kind of map you with my hands. And then once I’ve got a really 3-D mental picture, I’ll start sketching.” Joe nodded again, like Let’s go. But I was still hesitating. “I’m going to frame the portrait kind of from the waistband up. So I’m really going to have to touch you everywhere.” “Got it,” Joe said. “And I want you to know,” I went on, “what I’m about to do to you, I’ve also done to myself.” That came out unexpectedly suggestive. I was trying so hard to pretend like this was just another day at the office. Like I did this kind of thing all the time—no big deal. But my hands were weirdly cold. And I was strangely aware of my blood traveling through my body. And then, as I reached out to touch him, just before I made contact, my hand faltered. It just … stopped. Like there was an invisible force field. But that’s when Joe’s hand came up, and he cupped it behind mine, and he pulled my palm to his chest. I felt the impact before I realized what he was doing: the stonelike hardness of his collarbone beneath my fingertips, the spongy firmness of his pecs beneath, the warmth of his skin. I could feel that he was looking at me. I could feel him encouraging me. And something else, too. Something that felt like longing. Was it his or mine? For a second, the air in my lungs felt tight. “Don’t be shy,” Joe said. “I’m fine. Just do what you need to do.” “I’m not being shy,” I said. But neither of us believed me. Anyway, that broke the ice. After that, I closed my eyes and worked my hand around his shoulders and neck and chest before making my way up past the Adam’s apple and over the ridge of the jaw to his face. Was it working? I wasn’t sure. But I’d decided I didn’t have to decide. I was just going to do it. I wasn’t going to overthink it or evaluate it or judge it. I was just going to capture the moment. For better and for worse. This was by far the most self-conscious I’d ever been around a model. Pull it together, I told myself. Doctors touch people all the time. But I was no doctor. Also, I’m assuming, doctors didn’t usually spend a ton of time with patients outside the office. Or have recent memories of altruistically kissing them in front of their ex-wives. Or have crushes on them they were in denial about. The truth is, it was intense. For one thing, we were so close to each other. You’re never just inches away from people for long stretches of time like that. I was close enough to hear him breathing, and even to feel those breaths as they brushed over my arm. I could smell his aftershave, which was scented like cedar and juniper, I decided. For another thing, I
| 0 |
65 |
Hedge.txt
| 87 |
used to marvel at their partnership—but they hadn’t had children. And Peter was nothing like Leonard. When she arrived at the house, he came down the steps as she came up. “Hoping I’ll make it,” he said and yanked open his car door. Inside, Ella sat in bed with a popsicle. Maud put her hand on her forehead, which didn’t feel too hot. “My throat’s on fire and Dad’s pissed,” Ella said. Ignoring the comment, Maud plumped the pillows. “I thought I was going to sit in the nurse’s office all day,” Ella said. “It was only an hour,” Maud said. “It turned out okay, didn’t it?” Going back down the hall, she was annoyed with Peter, with both of them, really, for acting as if she’d done something wrong by being caught up in her work, as Peter always was. She measured out a capful of cold medicine and brought Ella a glass of orange juice. When Ella’s fever rose again, she took her to the doctor’s office for a strep test. The test positive, she ran to the pharmacy for antibiotics after dropping Louise at soccer practice. Standing in line for the bottle of pink medicine, she thought about Juana Briones losing three of her children in the same month, one after the other, from illnesses that Ella and Louise were vaccinated against. She let her ruminations about open marriage go. Gratitude, she thought, handing over the prescription slip, as if the word itself were a dose of medicine. Ella stayed in bed during dinner. Two bites into her meat loaf, Louise asked if she could play sick with her sister, so the two of them cuddled up to watch a movie on Maud’s laptop. Tie still on, flipped over his shoulder, Peter barely spoke as they ate, though he kept clinking his fork on the plate. “What?” Maud said as they cleared the table. “What what?” “Why are you mad?” “You know that I have a standing meeting on Wednesdays.” “Yes, I know. And I have a standing job. For my benefactor.” “You said you’d be done by noon.” “It took longer.” Why hadn’t she said that she’d stayed an extra hour eating lunch with Alice? Then again, why did she have to account for her time? Peter was scrubbing his plate as if trying to remove a layer of porcelain. “You know Ella’s not out of the woods,” he said. “She has strep. Strep has nothing to do with the other issue. What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking about anything,” he said. “Good night.” She was too disconcerted to work, so she went to bed with a novel and turned off her light when she heard Peter coming down the hall from his study. Eyes closed, she listened to him brush his teeth in the bathroom. She thought about Alice’s house and library, those bastions of light made out of dim, discarded buildings. Her cloud of a cover on the bed. Her ceramic mugs. Her diet, determined by her own desires and principles. Her lover and
| 0 |
53 |
After Death.txt
| 8 |
Kravitz, Benedetto, and Spackman. Ordinarily, Woodbine schedules appointments only between ten o’clock in the morning and four in the afternoon. On this occasion, however, he isn’t meeting with ordinary clients, and even the great man will bestir himself before dawn when the matter requiring his attention is sufficiently rewarding. Like the public spaces in this building, Woodbine’s office is an exacting and fastidious marriage of high drama and good taste. The desk is an uncharacteristically large work by Ruhlmann, circa 1932. The lamp upon it is not from Office Depot, but shines forth from the long-ago studios of Louis Comfort Tiffany; the dragonfly motif is a rare specimen executed largely in gold glass with vivid blue insects and no doubt appeals to Woodbine because it suggests mystery and power, the two cloaks in which he’s wrapped himself throughout his career. Although the attorney owns a fifteen-thousand-square-foot residence on two acres, a half-hour’s drive from his office, he maintains an apartment here on the fifth floor. In addition to a living room, dining room, chef’s kitchen, bedroom, bath, and gym, there is a concealed panic room that can withstand any assault that might be made against it. His third wife, forty-year-old Vanessa, twenty-two years his junior, lives with him in the mansion, but she has no access to his apartment, which she assumes—or pretends to assume—is of modest size and used solely when he’s so overwhelmed by the demands of the law that he can’t spare the time even for a short commute. This allows Woodbine to have a parallel life of quiet but intense debauchery at odds with his public image. The apartment entrance is concealed in the office paneling, behind a large and excruciatingly pretentious cubist painting that might be by Picasso or Braque—or by a barber who cut their hair. The lock responds to a signal when an electronic key is held to a blue triangle that symbolizes something in the painting; a code reader behind the canvas confirms the signal and releases the lock. Michael neither has a key nor needs one to finesse the code reader. The door opens, and he enters a small foyer, proceeding from there into the living room. The apartment security system tracks all occupants by their heat signatures and pinpoints them on a floor plan displayed on a large screen in the panic room. In a crisis, sheltering behind steel plate and concrete, Woodbine would be aware of where each invader could be found, and he would be able to coordinate with a police SWAT team, by phone, to facilitate their efforts to locate the culprits and secure the premises. Michael is now represented by a blinking red dot on that panic-room display, where at the moment there is no one to see it. Three other signifiers are also blinking. Although Michael would prefer to be an ordinary man, he is unique by any standard, and no return to a normal life is possible for him. He proceeds. The three men are gathered at the kitchen island on which packets of hundred-dollar bills
| 0 |
98 |
Yellowface.txt
| 79 |
me, flipping through some old works for inspiration. Heard you’re a fan ☺ My dinner crawls up my throat. I run for the bathroom. It’s nearly half an hour of panicked breathing and mental exercises before I’m near calm enough to approach my phone again. I run some searches on Twitter: “Athena Liu Instagram,” “Athena Instagram,” “Athena Insta,” “Ghost Athena,” and all the other possible queries I can think of. No one’s talking about this yet. The post didn’t have any hashtags or tag any other accounts. What’s more, the account, which once had nearly a million followers, now has zero. The person behind this has either blocked or soft-blocked all of Athena’s followers. The only person seeing this post is me. Whoever this is, they’re not trying to go viral—they just want to get my attention. How is this even possible? Don’t social media companies shut down accounts upon the owner’s death? This is so fucking stupid, but I Google “Athena Liu alive” to make sure she hasn’t, like, resurrected thanks to some medical miracle without my knowing. But that search returns nothing useful; the most “relevant” result is an article about how a recent English department event at Yale was dedicated to keeping Athena’s memory alive. Athena is dead, gone, turned to ash. The only person who’s convinced she’s still around is me. I ought to block the account and forget about this. It’s likely just some troll, posting grotesque things to fuck with me. That’s what Brett and Daniella would say. That’s what Rory would say, if I tried to explain why I’m so upset. A troll is the obvious and rational explanation, and I repeat this over and over in my mind as I inhale and exhale into my fist, since the most annoying symptom of anxiety is refusing to believe the obvious and rational explanation. Don’t give it power, I urge myself. Just let it alone. But I can’t. It’s like a splinter digging into my palm; even if it’s tiny, I still can’t rest easy, knowing that it’s under my skin. I don’t sleep a wink that night. I lie with my phone screen inches from my face, staring with aching eyes at Athena’s forceful, mischievous smile. A memory rises unbidden to my mind’s eye, a memory that I’d hoped I’d drowned out or forgotten: Athena in her black boots and green shawl, sitting in the front row of the audience at Politics and Prose, beaming expectantly at me with bright, painted lips. Athena: inexplicably, impossibly alive. It’s late on a Friday night, so I can’t get Brett or my publicity team on the line for another two days. But what good could they do? It’s hardly a problem from a publicity perspective. Aside from me, who cares about this post? And it’s not like I could explain why the account bothers me so much. Yes, see, the thing is that I did steal The Last Front, and I’m riddled with guilt, so you understand why these posts give me such bad anxiety I want to
| 0 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 83 |
while her mother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. At first, as already told, she had flirted fancifully with her own image in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom forth, and--as it declined to venture--seeking a passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky. Soon finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere for better pastime. She made little boats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snailshells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant in New England; but the larger part of them foundered near the shore. She seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made prize of several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm sun. Then she took up the white foam that streaked the line of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps to catch the great snowflakes ere they fell. Perceiving a flock of beach-birds that fed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting them. One little gray bird, with a white breast, Pearl was almost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a broken wing. But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her sport, because it grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as Pearl herself. Her final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and make herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little mermaid. She inherited her mother's gift for devising drapery and costume. As the last touch to her mermaid's garb, Pearl took some eel-grass and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration with which she was so familiar on her mother's. A letter--the letter A--but freshly green instead of scarlet. The Thesaurus beckoning: (adj) irresistible. grieved: (adj) sore, sad, sorry, streaked: (adj) veined, striped, streaky, declined: (adj) less. sorrowful, upset, woeful, pained, brindled, lined, mottled, virgated, drapery: (n) drape, clothing, dress, affected, brokenhearted. patterned; (v) areolar, cancellated, blind, raiment, costume, toilette, imitated: (adj) mimical. grated. furnishings, trim, guise, toilet. mermaid: (n) siren, Oberon, Mab, unattainable: (adj) impossible, fancifully: (adv) fantasticly, hamadryad, sprite, nymph, nixie, inaccessible, impracticable, fantastically, chimerically, unreally, fairy, imaginary being, imaginary impractical, unapproachable, imaginarily, freakishly, bizarrely, creature, kelpie. unobtainable, out of print, not visionarily, ideally, notionally, pelting: (n) successiveness, possible, unassailable, unavailable, fancily. chronological sequence, unbeatable. ANTONYMS: (adj) freighted: (adj) fraught, filled, chronological succession, hail, rain. vulnerable, accessible, possible, charged; (prep) burdened. scampering: (n) running. attainable, feasible. 170 The Scarlet Letter child bent her chin upon her breast, and contemplated this device with strange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she had been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.% "I wonder if mother will ask me what it
| 1 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 59 |
still fly, if they choose. They have simply chosen to conserve their strength.’ ‘Why did their strength wane?’ ‘If a godsinger does not know the answer to that question, surely no one living does.’ An old boardwalk led into the lake, to the small island at its heart. ‘The gods are benign,’ Emperor Jorodu said as they crossed, ‘but they are not of our world. They prefer not to involve themselves in the politics and conflicts of humankind. Even if they were awake, they could not help us counter a threat like the Kuposa. That is why I needed you.’ ‘Why have you brought me to this lake?’ ‘I brought the elder of your two brothers first. In the Empire of the Twelve Lakes, the Imperial Dragon chose a worthy heir from the House of Lakseng, when she was still awake. Here, the firstborn usually succeeds their parent, but I think the Lacustrine had it right. After all, we are made of water, and there is no better judge of water than a god.’ Dumai stopped when she saw what waited on the island. A large bell, cast in bronze. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘it’s forbidden.’ ‘Not for us. In fact, there is a way for us to wake them all, if Seiiki ever had great need. You lived beneath it your whole life.’ ‘The Queen Bell.’ ‘Yes. If the Queen Bell rings, there are people across Seiiki who will strike all the others.’ Her father laid a hand on the bronze. ‘It has been centuries since a dragon was born in Seiiki. The last one to hatch – Furtia Stormcaller – chose to withdraw into this lake.’ ‘Did you wake this dragon when you brought the Crown Prince here?’ ‘Yes. I wanted to see what she made of him.’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘That his light was faded. I assume that she could sense the sickness that would kill him. Now I would like to see what Furtia Stormcaller makes of the child I found on the mountain.’ He nodded to Epabo, who struck the bell. Its call was clean and richly deep; the night seemed to resound with it. The lake bubbled. Dumai watched, certain she was in a dream. First came the pale shine of the crest, spreading through the water; next, the giant horns, the wild eyes and the snout. A shimmering river of black scales followed, and then the mane, like thundercloud. Dumai slid to her knees. She heard her own blood in her ears, her shuddering breaths that verged on laughter. Her father came to kneel at her side. ‘Son of the Rainbow,’ Furtia Stormcaller said, cold and sonorous. ‘How long has it been?’ Dumai tried to catch her breath, tears soaking her face. The dragon sounded like the bell. ‘Eighteen seasons, great Furtia.’ Emperor Jorodu signed with both hands as he spoke, for dragons heard on land as humans did in water. ‘I trust your sleep has been peaceful.’ ‘Do you wake me now to hold the fire at bay?’ Emperor Jorodu faltered. ‘I see no
| 0 |
4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 86 |
that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life. The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense. The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but `It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.' `She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: `fetch her here.' And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall
| 1 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 9 |
His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (22 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. 'THERE, comrades! THAT'S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I'm thirty-nine and I've had four children. Now look.' She bent over again. 'You see MY knees aren't bent. You can all do it if you want to,' she added as she straightened herself up. 'Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don't all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That's better, comrade, that's MUCH better,' she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston's arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon--not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words--which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling With a faint feeling of satisfaction
| 1 |
76 |
Love Theoretically.txt
| 14 |
I want to air-fry myself out of this plane of existence the second it’s out of my mouth, but Jack’s not listening. His eyes move rapidly all over my body, like I haven’t been almost naked in front of him for the past ten minutes. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs. “You said you don’t care. That you barely notice. That there are lots of beautiful women.” “I don’t know.” He’s usually so confident, but right now he sounds as disoriented as I feel. “With you, I notice.” He nips wet kisses down my jaw. “You think you can come again?” Impossible to tell. I haven’t come with another person before, and an improvement rate of 200 percent seems steep, but maybe? I’d rather be present for this, though. Study him. Know what Jack looks like when he’s not fully in control. “I think I don’t want to.” He nods, and what happens next is not really for me. He steps between my thighs and angles the underside of his cock so that it hits my clit. It has us both gasping, but it’s about what he wants. As is the way he slots the head against my opening, and the long moment he leaves it there, grunting, a turning point in the multiverse, where two futures exist: one in which he pushes in and fucks me, the other in which he follows those inflexible rules of his. Unfortunately, Jack Smith-Turner is a stickler. It occurs to me that I could be doing this for him. I could be more than just a warm body and slender arms looped around his neck. “Should I—” “Not tonight.” His movements are picking up, knuckles brushing rhythmically against my slit. “I just want to look at you. Know you’re here.” He uses my slick to make himself wet, hard, fast pulls, and after just a handful of seconds I see the tension in his arms, the muted tremors in his fingers, how close he already is. “Shit, Elsie.” His voice is urgent. A little desperate. His forehead presses against mine. “There were days, these last few months, when you were all I could think about. Even if I didn’t really want to.” Then a choked “Fuck” that feels like a rush of breath against my lips, and I know he’s there. I think he’ll finish with a growl, make a mess out of me, maybe admire his handiwork, but that’s not what happens at all. Instead he pulls back so that his eyes can hold my own till the very last moment, glassy and nearly all black. His free hand searches blindly, frantically. It grabs mine when he finds it, twining our fingers together in a tight grip, and that’s when I know. When I realize deep in my belly that for Jack this is not about friction or about fucking. It’s not even about coming, or about anything else I might have stupidly suspected. This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far
| 0 |
75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 1 |
Then she asks, “Shall we continue?” I take a breath. “Rice-and-salt days are the most important years in a woman’s life. They are when I will be busy with wife and mother duties—” “As I am now.” Respectful Lady gracefully tips her head, setting the gold and jade ornaments that hang from her bun to tinkle softly. How pale she is, how elegant. “Each day should begin early. I rise before dawn, cleanse my face, rinse my mouth with fragrant tea, attend to my feet, and fix my hair and makeup. Then I go to the kitchen to make sure the servants have lit the fire and begun the morning meal.” She releases my hand and sighs, as though exhausted by the effort of getting so many words to leave her mouth. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Memorizing these responsibilities is central to your education, but you can also learn by observing as I supervise the chores that must be done each day: bringing in fuel and water, sending a big-footed servant girl to the market, making sure clothes—including those of Miss Zhao—are washed, and so many other things that are essential to managing a household. Now, what else?” She’s been teaching me like this for four years already, and I know the answer she likes me to give. “Learning to embroider, play the zither, and memorize sayings from Analects for Women—” “And other texts too, so that by the time you go to your husband’s home, you will have an understanding of all you must do and all you must avoid.” She shifts on her stool. “Eventually, you will reach the time of sitting quietly. Do you know what this means?” Maybe it’s because I’m feeling physical pain, but the thought of the sadness and loneliness of sitting quietly causes tears to well in my eyes. “This will come when I can no longer bring children into the world—” “And extends into widowhood. You will be the one who has not died, waiting for death to reunite you with your husband. This is—” A maid arrives with a tray of snacks, so my mother and I can continue our studies through lunch without a break. Two hours later, Respectful Lady asks me to repeat the rules we’ve covered. “When walking, don’t turn my head,” I recite without protest. “When talking, don’t open my mouth wide. When standing, don’t rustle my skirts. When happy, don’t rejoice with loud laughter. When angry, never raise my voice. I will bury all desire to venture beyond the inner chambers. Those rooms are for women alone.” “Very good,” Respectful Lady praises me. “Always remember your place in the world. If you follow these rules, you will establish yourself as a true and proper human being.” She closes her eyes. She’s hurting too. Only she’s too much of a lady to speak of it. A squeal from my little brother interrupts our shared moment. Yifeng runs across the courtyard. His mother, Miss Zhao—free of her performing duties—glides behind him. Her feet are also bound, and
| 0 |
84 |
Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 75 |
into your head and then worrying about regrets in the morning. By the way…I feel bad about yelling at you. I know you’re not my maid, or my chauffeur. I was angry. And dumb. Very dumb. Sorry.” “Good night, Tristán,” she said, and he felt her fingertips against his forehead for a second, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Yolanda said we had a codependent relationship. I think she got that from one of those self-help books she loves to read. But I like to think we have a partnership. “I feel so alone sometimes, you have no idea. And the loneliness seems to seep into my bones and I get scared because I feel numb. Not depressed or upset: I’m a blank tape. Like someone dragged a magnet against the tape inside my brain and erased all the information. There’s nothing left to feel. I felt it all and I’ll never feel anything new again and I’ll always be alone. “But when we are together, it’s like when you explained about control tracks. Every videotape has this track that allows it to calibrate properly and ensures it plays back at the right speed. Only sometimes you need to adjust the dial to align it. That’s you and me. You’re this dial, that when it’s turned properly it makes the picture clearer, better. Everything is suddenly in perfect unison and I’m not empty. Do you understand?” There was silence. She had left. Not that he had expected her to stay, or his speech to be anything but a monologue meant for himself. “Momo,” he muttered. When he woke up it was still dark. He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the bathroom. He stubbed his toe against a table in the hallway before stumbling forward and into the bathroom, where he slapped his palm against the wall until he landed on the light switch. The bathroom lights turned on, making him blink in discomfort. The tap was dripping again. He’d have to call the plumber. He peed, then sleepily thrust his hands under the faucet and closed it with a sigh. He left the lights on and the bathroom door open to help guide himself to his bed and avoid crashing into another piece of furniture. As he walked back toward his room, he saw a figure standing in the hallway. The apartment was in semi-darkness, and he was still half asleep, but even in that twilight space he could tell it was a woman. He couldn’t see her clearly, though, because of the angle at which she was standing; her back was to him, and her clothes were dark. She looked like a black smudge against gray paper. “Momo. You stayed?” He took a couple of steps toward her. The woman’s shoulders were slouched, and she was pressing her hands against her face, as if sobbing or hiding from him. The woman shivered. There was something about her posture that didn’t correspond to Montserrat. There was something wrong, very wrong, about her. In the bathroom, the
| 0 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 14 |
graven; (prep) ANTONYMS: (adj) undistinguished, Endecott, Endecott insculptured; (v) fixed, imprinted obscure, low, unremarkable, endowed: (adj) gifted, clever, cute, engrossed: (adj) rapt, engaged, intent, 280 The Scarlet Letter occupied, preoccupied, busy, request, conjure, crave, bid. letters, edification, reading, fascinated, obsessed, thoughtful, ANTONYMS: (v) demand, reject learnedness, culture, lore, hooked; (adj, v) immersed. entreaty: (n) plea, prayer, request, eruditeness; (n, v) knowledge; (adj, ANTONYMS: (adj) disinterested, petition, adjuration, supplication, n) wisdom. ANTONYM: (n) bored, distracted, indifferent, suit, demand, desire, invocation; (v) simplicity unconcerned, uninterested, solicitation escaping: (n) evasion, getaway, inattentive, carefree enumerated: (adj) detailed break, breakout, running away, enigma: (adj, n) mystery, riddle; (n) envelop: (v) fold, enfold, encase, running off, run-around; (adj) puzzle, secret, perplexity, poser, enclose, wrap, encircle, conceal, fugitive question, problem, closed book, nut embrace, beset, hide; (n) envelope. escort: (n, v) chaperon, attend, to crack, logogriph. ANTONYMS: ANTONYMS: (v) reveal, release, convoy, guard, guide, conduct, date; (n) clearness, explanation open, unwrap, expose (v) accompany, see; (n) suite, enjoin: (v) command, dictate, direct, enveloped: (adj) convoluted, attendant. ANTONYMS: (v) instruct, tell, charge, require, forbid, enclosed, cover, bounded, abandon, desert, leave, follow disallow, impose, order. Byzantine, clothed, involved, misty, escutcheon: (n) buckler, shield, ANTONYMS: (v) acquiesce, yield, swallowed, vestured, emotionally esquire, protection, plate, arms, a submit, permit, request, let, comply, involved shield, cover plate, escocheon, finger agree, allow, obey enveloping: (n) envelopment, plate enjoined: (adj) lawful enclosure, boxing, enclosing, esoteric: (adj) cryptic, esoterics, enlarged: (adj) inflated, magnified, encasement; (prep) about; (adj) abstruse, arcane, secret, mysterious, extended, expanded, puffy, comprehensive, roundabout, obscure, inner, dark, confidential, increased, augmented, amplified, circuitous. ANTONYM: (adj) mystic. ANTONYMS: (adj) distended, wide, swollen. contained understandable, simple, public, ANTONYM: (adj) atrophied epoch: (n) era, date, period, day, plain, obvious, mainstream, enlivened: (adj) bouncy, active, season, time, term, cycle, crisis, date familiar, known, accessible spirited, alive, bouncing of reference, times especial: (adj) extraordinary, special, enlivening: (adj) cheerful, bracing, erase: (v) delete, efface, blot out, specific, chief, individual, distinct, genial, refreshing, invigorating, obliterate, wipe out, expunge, distinctive, characteristic, thrilling, revitalizing, reviving, annihilate, eradicate, clear, rub out, appropriate, peculiar, express. stimulating, pleasant, vitalizing eliminate. ANTONYMS: (v) restore, ANTONYMS: (adj) general, normal, enmity: (n, v) animosity; (n) record, add, acknowledge common, unexceptional, usual antagonism, animus, hostility, erect: (adj) upright, vertical, esteem: (n) deference, admiration; (n, aggression, rancor, ill will, straightforward; (v) build, raise, v) respect, value, consideration, antipathy, hatred, war, dislike. rear, construct, assemble, lift, put account; (v) appreciate, deem, adore, ANTONYMS: (n) friendship, up, put together. ANTONYMS: (v) admire, count. ANTONYMS: (v) friendliness, affinity, love, kindness, dismantle, wreck, topple, level, scorn, hate, disdain, insult, despise, affection, adoration, amity, demolish, destroy; (adj) prostrate, abominate, abhor, dislike, reject; (n) cooperation, goodwill drooping, prone, flaccid, flat disesteem, disapproval enshrined: (adj) hallowed erie: (n) Lake Erie esteemed: (adj) dear, reputable, ensue: (v) come, arise, happen, result, errand: (n) chore, mission, job, task, respected, honorable, noble, succeed, occur, transpire, turn out, assignment, embassy, duty, charge, honored, prestigious, important, befall, come after, stem. messenger, communication, work distinguished, August, respect. ANTONYMS: (v) forerun, preface, erratic: (adj) capricious, irregular, ANTONYM: (adj) disreputable antecede, dwindle, recede eccentric, freakish, broken, estimation: (n)
| 1 |
80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 0 |
add me to your patient portal, just so I can check the results as soon as they come in?” My dad coughs and my mom presses her lips together, staring pointedly at the ceiling. Oh. Maybe I’ve crossed some sort of boundary I wasn’t aware of? They’re pretty decent with technology, given their age, but surely it wouldn’t hurt for me to get more involved. Especially now that I’m back. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about this,” my dad says. “Your mom and I . . . well, we know we’re no spring chickens.” My mom gives her hair a toss. “Speak for yourself,” she says. “What we want to say is that we don’t need you to bend over backward to help us. We got by just fine the past couple months when you were out of town.” I swallow hard. I wasn’t prepared to hear that—that they hadn’t needed me. “I was worried, though.” “We know you worry because you care,” my dad says. “But it’s just too much. We know you asked Noemie to check in on us a few times, and at a certain point, it felt a little like having a babysitter.” I wince. That wasn’t what I’d wanted at all. “I’m so sorry. I guess I didn’t exactly know what to do.” “I know there will come a time when we want your help,” my dad says. “When we need it. It might be tomorrow, but it also might be years from now.” My mom pats my knee. “We’re just not quite ready to let you parent us yet.” As we finish breakfast, something hits me with a striking clarity. I wonder if I haven’t only been using ghostwriting as a crutch, like Finn said. How many jobs did I never apply for because they’d have meant leaving Seattle? How many opportunities did I miss out on because I was so intent on holding myself back? I’ve been so worried about people not needing me anymore that I tethered myself to them so tightly, I could hardly untie the knots. I thought this place and these people were my whole world, and while I don’t love them any less than I did before I took this assignment, the truth is that my world is larger than that. Again and again, I fell for new cities and new experiences—and most of all, the version of myself who could step outside her comfort zone. Because the Chandler from back in September wouldn’t be able to read a text from Wyatt, after weeks and weeks of silence, inviting me to a holiday party he’s throwing later this month, and simply type, Sorry, can’t make it! before deleting the entire thread. * * * I’m avoiding the book. It’s due in three days, and I’m avoiding it. I’ve finished watching The Nocturnals because that was easier than opening up the memoir, than confronting the end of this job and the start of something I haven’t put a name to yet. I even went to a reverse running class
| 0 |
56 |
Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt
| 91 |
slap the table. “Why do you always intentionally miss my point!” “The point is that this is going to end in disaster.” “I really don’t think so. This is purely sexual. It’s not like he and I are going to fall in love. I am a loud, romance-writing, adventure-seeking, opinionated woman. And he is a tall, sporty white man named Connor Prince III. I think we can all agree it’s just a matter of time before I do something too shocking, or he’ll do something to annoy and/or bore me.” My phone buzzes on the table between us. Connor’s face lights up the screen and Jess sees it before I can flip it over and pretend it’s my brother calling. “You even put his picture in his contact info?” Her disgust is totally feigned. Under that baggy sweatshirt and sensible shoes, Jess is a giant drama queen. She is living for this excitement. With a bright smile, I answer. “Hey, boss!” “Hey, you. You have a few minutes for a postmortem?” “That depends. Am I the dead body?” Across from me, Jess gives me a disapproving frown. I tap my forehead to remind her that face will give her wrinkles. I’m such a good friend and she never thanks me for these things. Connor’s laugh is a low vibrating tickle to my lady parts. “It’s just a saying, Fizzy.” I hit Mute and whisper to Jess: “His voice is so deep. Did I always know his voice was this deep?” Returning to the call, I say, “I know, I’m only joking. Yes, I am free to examine a proverbial dead body.” He laughs again. “Cool. You home? I can come to you.” “I can be home in ten.” With a quiet “Great,” he hangs up. And shit. If we eliminate the possibility that I am excited to see Connor, there is no remaining explanation for the way I bolt up to gather my things. Jess follows me to the door. “What are you doing?” “He’s meeting me at my house to do a debrief.” I tuck my phone into my purse. “Is that a good idea?” “Is it a good idea to discuss the work we are doing together?” I pretend to ponder it. “I think so.” “Discussing it at your house,” she says. I open the door, stepping into my shoes. “Guess we’ll find out.” When her frown intensifies, I add, “Fine. I promise we’ll stay out of the bedroom.” “As if you need a bedroom,” she says. I pause with my hand on the knob. “That is a great point. Okay, gotta go!” “Wrist diameter!” she calls to me as I jog down the stairs. “I don’t need to walk tomorrow!” “How’s the writing going, Felicity?” “This is research!” I call back. I can practically hear her aggrieved groan as she waves from the front door. twenty-seven FIZZY Connor beats me to my place and is waiting on the porch, one broad shoulder leaning against the column at the top of the steps. He’s changed from the nice dress pants
| 0 |
82 |
Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt
| 31 |
in my car. I pat at my hair, try to flatten it, but there’s no use. Giving up, I slip back to the waiting area. By the time the ponytail mechanic returns, I am weaker, sicker, colder. My throat feels like it’s closing, and my sinuses are throbbing. “Your window’s fixed,” he says, dropping my keys on the countertop. “Great.” As I walk toward him, the floor tilts under my feet. Luckily, I reach the counter before I stumble. “You okay?” But he doesn’t care about me. A woman collapsing in his lobby will be bad for business. “Yeah. Fine.” He punches the buttons on an outdated cash register and gives me my total. I reach into the pocket of my cardigan for my pay packet and withdraw the cash. I count it out with shaky hands. The man recounts it quickly, then scoops it into the till. I put the few remaining bills back in my pocket, thank him, and leave. My car is secure now. I can park anywhere and be safe. In this largely industrial area, I’ll be able to find a side street where I can rest, undisturbed. I should find some soup and then go to sleep. I have to work tomorrow. I can’t afford to miss a shift. Turning the key, I pull out of the parking lot but pause as I get to the street. I think about that hand punching through the window, clutching my wrist, stealing my purse. I look at the scratches on my arm, still puffy and red. And then I think about Hazel. I head toward the northbound interstate. 9 THEY SAY A RESTAURANT IS like a baby. It demands your constant attention, occupies your mind when you’re away from it, and even in the worst moments, when you want to cry with exhaustion and frustration, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. That’s how I felt about the Aviary. It was more than a business. It was my passion, my true love, my social life, my family. Old friendships faded away, suffering from neglect and scheduling difficulties. As the boss, I should have kept myself aloof, removed from the rest of my team but at the end of each night, we’d eat dinner, drink tequila, and play cards. Like a party. Like a family. Often, I wouldn’t get home until 3:00, even 4:00 a.m. Sometimes I wouldn’t go home alone. It wasn’t a healthy existence, but god… it was so much fun. These were the people I worried about when I vanished, when I locked the door and walked away. I put together food kits for the staff, divvying up the rice and flour and beans, the cheese and butter and chocolate. In the office, I left an expensive bottle of red for my manager. My sous chef received his favorite tequila. Each item was tagged with a note: With gratitude, Lee And then I vanished, before Damon could break my hand. The Aviary was my identity as much as my business. I was the restaurant, and it was
| 0 |
76 |
Love Theoretically.txt
| 29 |
world.” “Are you?” His eyes slide to mine. “Must be nice.” He’s still half smiling, like this is making his Saturday night. “Well, you know, it’s hard work. Lots of cheese sharing. And I did just take her to watch 2001, which she loved.” “Oh my God!” The Most Beautiful Woman in the World is delighted. “We were in there, too.” “Stunning, right?” “A masterpiece. Despite Jack’s commentary on the predictability of the ‘evil space Siri’s’ arc.” He lifts one eyebrow. “I got bored.” “You always get bored at the movies.” She presses her shoulder against his. “I have to confiscate his phone and poke him awake.” “Because you always take me to see boring movies.” She pinches his arm through the coat. “If it were up to you, we’d only watch Jackass.” “It was once.” “Once too many.” He shrugs, unbothered. I cannot stop looking at the two of them framed by the snowflakes. The easy banter. Jack’s obvious affection. The woman’s fingers, still around his sleeve. Something slimy and cold presses behind my sternum. “So,” Cece butts in, “how do you guys know Elsie?” “I don’t, actually,” the woman says with a curious look at Jack. “How do you know Elsie, Jack?” His eyes are fixed on me again. “She dated my brother. Among . . . other things.” The atmosphere changes instantly. The air was already icy, dense with the promise of snowstorms, but the temperature drops colder as people parse the meaning of Jack’s words. First there’s Cece, who knows that I don’t date, not for real, and is putting together where she last heard the name Jack. She scowls and takes a protective step closer, ready to defend me against my most recent archenemy, kitten-hissing-at-a-bison style. And then there’s the woman. Her expression morphs, too, into something knowing and intrigued. “You’re Greg’s girlfriend. That Elsie.” She looks between me and Jack once, twice, and then holds her hand out to me. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m George.” My brain halts. “Well, Georgina. Sepulveda. But please, call me George.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, as though I’m a dear friend of Jack’s whom she’s been dying to meet. “Georgina Sepulveda,” I mouth, barely audible. The name unlocks a drawer in my brain, full of scientific papers, TED Talks, conference addresses. Georgina Sepulveda, young physics hotshot. I’m a fan of her work. She doesn’t look familiar—she is. “Yup, that’s me.” Her hand is still outstretched. I should take it. “I work with Jack.” “George,” Jack warns. “Okay, technically not yet. But I’ll start at MIT next year. What? Come on, Jack. I got the formal offer, sent back the signed contract this morning. I can tell people.” She gives me a conspiratorial look. My stomach churns. “You’re a librarian, right? I love libraries.” Next to me, Cece sucks in a breath. Meanwhile, I nod. It must be an automatic reaction, because all my neural cells are busy, sluggishly processing what I just heard. Georgina. George. MIT. Formal offer. No. No,
| 0 |
55 |
Blowback.txt
| 25 |
skipped. Subpoenas will be flouted. Spending reviews will be disregarded. And the situation could get much worse. What happens if the president decides not to answer legislative inquiries about a looming economic depression or a national security crisis? Can Congress function if it’s in the dark? Can it force an unwilling president to comply? What happens if an unstable president decides to ignore the law altogether? Political “instruction” will be used to keep GOP lawmakers under the president’s sway. Congress and the president have a relationship of “opposite and rival” political branches, in James Madison’s words. Every president tries to keep their party members in line in the legislature—to “instruct” them on how to vote and what policy positions to take. But during the Trump years, “instruction” looked more like “threatening.” “I don’t use the word ‘frightening’ very often, but it really did frighten me,” recalled Scott Rigell, a former Republican congressman from Virginia. Rigell said his House colleagues were consumed with Trumpism, whether they were true believers or just afraid to go against the movement. When he decided not to endorse the New York businessman’s candidacy in 2016, Rigell was ostracized. Republican Party officials in Virginia prepared to kick him out of the GOP, and House colleagues stopped associating with him. “I’ve never seen that cult worship in America,” he told me. Former Republican congressman Denver Riggleman had the same experience. As noted earlier, he was sidelined in the House GOP for taking a rare vote against the administration. “I remember someone came up to me and said, ‘You’ve pissed off the big man. You’ve really gotta back off,’ ” he recalled. “My reaction was, ‘Fuck off. I [used to] kill terrorists. Get out of my face.’ ” Although many Republicans in the House shared his views of the MAGA movement, they held their tongues. “Half of them agreed with me,” he said, “but there was no way they were going to go against the polls and fundraising.” The Next Trump won’t have to worry about internal dissenters. Moderate Republicans have been abandoning the party in droves since the MAGA wing took control. I remember when Paul Ryan was Speaker of the House, he spent hours every week trying to convince rational Republicans not to retire, bringing them into his office to persuade them to stay for “just one more term.” The blood loss was severe. Of the 293 Republicans who were serving in the Senate or House when Donald Trump was inaugurated, close to half were gone four years later. Some lost their races. But most of the turnover was from members of Congress who voluntarily retired, especially moderates fed up with the GOP’s direction. Data from FiveThirtyEight shows their replacements tended to be further to the right politically. Charlie Dent was one of them. The Pennsylvania representative had served a dozen years in Congress and was ranked by the National Journal as one of the chamber’s most moderate Republicans. By 2018, he didn’t see a role for centrist conservatives like him in Trump’s Washington. He quit the House in
| 0 |
83 |
Romantic-Comedy.txt
| 34 |
you’d hate it. Yes, you. Not me. You. Because you’re a private person and I know you’ve walked red carpets a few times, but I don’t think you’re used to being ambushed in normal life like I am.” In front of us, the ocean appeared again, turquoise beneath a cornflower sky, and the beauty of the view was an unpleasant contrast to the disagreeable energy inside the car. At least sixty seconds had passed when, taking pains to keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than resentful, I said, “There’s nothing you promised me. I’m complicit in how undefined whatever we’re doing is. I admit that. And I believe you genuinely like me, or at least you genuinely like me enough to be your secret pandemic hookup. But I don’t think I have a low enough opinion of myself to be your secret pandemic hookup.” “Wow,” he said. “I don’t even know where to start. The fact that you could think any of that is so off base that it makes me wonder if we’ve been having completely different experiences the whole time you’ve been here. I thought we were having a great time.” “Secret pandemic hookups and having a great time aren’t mutually exclusive.” While looking straight ahead, he pulled the car over to a parking lane abutting a dusty upward slope dotted with sage scrub. He moved the gear shift into park before facing me, his expression bewildered and displeased. “Do you remember when I told you I was attracted to you from the moment you started talking at the pitch meeting in Nigel’s office?” “Yes.” “Part of the reason was that you seemed so confident, like one of the most confident women I’d ever met. One of the most confident people. You had very clear ideas for your sketches, and it was obvious that you knew you could will them into being. And you talked in this way where it seemed like you were planning to be polite and professional with me, but you assumed I wasn’t very bright, and you were prepared to overcome my lack of intelligence. I’ve worked with tons of creative people, tons of talented people, but there was something so refreshing about you, something so cool, where you just really knew who you were and how to get shit done. I had this overwhelming feeling of I want to know her. I want to be around her. Then in your office, you were incredibly kind and supportive. You’ve probably told me seven times, starting that night, what an asshole you are, but you almost never are. Or when you are, it seems like some kind of bluster. It doesn’t seem like who you really are.” I was fascinated, silenced, and unsure where this was going. On the other side of the windshield, a big white bird I couldn’t identify swooped down and then up again. Noah exhaled deeply. “You and I hung out in person that week at TNO and it was fun and great. Even after things went off the rails at the bar, I
| 0 |
65 |
Hedge.txt
| 93 |
him?” Gabriel said. He was buttering his bread, not looking up at her. He feels vulnerable with me too, Maud thought. “Worse than that,” she said. “I don’t care. It’s as if when I had Ella, I grew a new heart, which got bigger with Louise. But the heart that loved Peter shrank to a pit.” “I thought mine was a pit too,” Gabriel said. His eyes lifted from the bread plate and met hers squarely. “I think about you a lot,” he said. “I think about you too,” Maud said. The waiter set down their entrées, a welcome distraction from the heat consuming her face. Gabriel’s mountain of french fries rose above a massive island of steak, and she regretted her Niçoise salad. Her appetite had returned. Gabriel always made her feel better. Simply being with him made her feel better. He cut off a piece of steak and chewed it reflectively. “Ella doesn’t like me, does she? I can tell.” “I wouldn’t say that,” Maud said. “She’s not in a receptive phase.” She hesitated. “But maybe no more presents.” “She’s not into bubbles.” “It was such a nice thing to do,” she said. “But she needs space from everyone right now. Especially me. Try to relax. Let her come to you. Be yourself but keep your distance.” “Be myself? A single man who has no idea how to talk to children?” “You were a teenager once.” “I was cutting school and smoking weed at her age.” “Okay, don’t remember that.” She laughed. “I need to chill out too. Let’s do dinner together every few nights. Let things evolve naturally.” “Like they have with us,” Gabriel said. “Sort of. Yes.” “But you and I don’t play games,” he said, pointing his knife at her. “And here you’re telling me to play hard to get.” Maud stole a french fry from his plate. “As Ella is quick to point out,” she said, “parents are major hypocrites.” 5 With the laying of this last path, the garden was done. Maud dropped her shovel and walked backward to see. Since planting the final bed of lupine and roses, she and Chris had been emptying wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of gravel and raking it into a smooth, glistering maze that slipped past one bed to another: irises to coneflowers, primroses to violets. Sweet potato vines spilled from the cast-iron urns under a conflagration of begonias. With its swirls and splashes of color, the garden was more like a brilliant, bold archipelago than the carpet Downing had described. “What do you think?” she asked Chris. Side by side, they’d backtracked halfway to the mansion. “It’s the prettiest thing I ever seen.” He’d taken off his baseball cap, and his forehead sparkled with sweat. Both of them were drenched, the backs of their T-shirts sticking in the high heat. Bare-handed, not stopping for water, they’d shoveled gravel and raked without pause for the past three hours. “We did it,” Maud said. “Now we get to watch it grow.” “And water it and weed it.” “Yes, that too.” Gabriel
| 0 |
77 |
Maame.txt
| 35 |
the Government, but no one ever believes me. From a young age we’re told office jobs are the goal. Then you sit at a desk hunched over 9–5, 5 days a week for most of your younger years until it’s too late to do anything else but get a “helpful” chair. LG: Why would the government want a nation suffering from back pain? CC: So we don’t take over. I call James that evening, but typically he doesn’t answer and instead calls back hours later. I have to turn the light on as he switches on the video camera. I can see he’s in his car. “Hey, Mads!” He’s got plaits in his hair now and they’re long enough to lie down instead of stick up. When he smiles, his gold tooth glints. Growing up, James and I were always told that we had great smiles—smiles that show perfect teeth and soften our faces. It’s one of the few things we both inherited from Dad. “Dad asleep?” James asks. “Yes, which is why I called,” I tell him. “I could use some help with that. My back hurts from lifting Dad from his seat and into bed. Can you do one of my nights each week maybe?” James scratches what I know to be a phantom itch on the back of his head. “Ah, I can’t really come all the way from Putney just to put Dad to bed, Mads,” he says. “And you know my work schedule is unreliable. It’s not fair to promise you a day and then not come because I gotta be somewhere else last minute.” James’s friend hit the rap-and-grime music scene hard and made it big (I’m talking MOBO and BRIT Awards), so he’s part of that team—chauffeur at times, social media manager, tour companion. Mum jokes he’s a glorified hype man, only there to boost an ego. I think he’s hoping to one day join the music scene himself. “Right.” “Anything else I can help with, though?” he asks. “The council tax bill has come in.” He sighs and scratches the beard growing on his neck. “Sorry, Mads. I’mma bit short on extra money, but remind me next month, yeah?” “Sure … but you’ve been saying that for a couple of months now.” “I know, I know,” he replies, looking away. “Things are just a little tight at the moment. You know I just got back from Japan.” Do you hear yourself? That’s what I want to ask, but instead I mouth: Must be nice. Then say, “Shouldn’t the flight have been paid for since it’s your job?” “Yeah, it was, but I spent too much. I wish I was good with money like you.” “I don’t really have much choice.” I keep my tone light, but I’m not happy. Not so much at the empty money promises, but because I’m reminded he can get away with it. If he says he has no money, short of stealing from his wallet, I have to accept that. He knows I’ll pay the council tax because I’m
| 0 |
18 |
Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt
| 65 |
the crater. Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark. Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him. ================================================================= Chapter 22 He was standing with his back to Arthur watching the very last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long grey robe. When he turned his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn't turn yet, not even to react to Arthur's yelp of surprise. Eventually the last rays of the sun had vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind - a small hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it. The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed. "You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet," he said. "Who ... who are you?" stammered Arthur. The man looked away. Again a kind of sadness seemed to cross his face. "My name is not important," he said. He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn't have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward. "I ... er ... you startled me ..." he said, lamely. The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows. "Hmmmm?" he said. "I said you startled me." "Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you." Arthur frowned at him. "But you shot at us! There were missiles ..." he said. The man chuckled slightly. "An automatic system," he said and gave a small sigh. "Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional pot shot to relieve the monotony." He looked gravely at Arthur and said, "I'm a great fan of science you know." "Oh ... er, really?" said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man's curious, kindly manner disconcerting. "Oh, yes," said the old man, and simply stopped talking again. "Ah," said Arthur, "er ..." He had an odd felling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman's husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again. "You seem ill at ease," said the old man with polite concern. "Er, no ... well, yes. Actually you see, we weren't really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something ..." "Dead?" said the old man. "Good gracious no, we have but slept." "Slept?" said Arthur incredulously. "Yes, through the economic recession you see," said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he
| 1 |
1 |
A Game of Thrones.txt
| 14 |
and backed water. The galley slowed. Another shout. The oars slid back inside the hull. As they thumped against the dock, Tyroshi seamen leapt down to tie up. Moreo came bustling up, all smiles. "King's Landing, my lady, as you did command, and never has a ship made a swifter or surer passage. Will you be needing assistance to carry your things to the castle?" "We shall not be going to the castle. Perhaps you can suggest an inn, someplace clean and comfortable and not too far from the river." The Tyroshi fingered his forked green beard. "Just so. I know of several establishments that might suit your needs. Yet first, if I may be so bold, there is the matter of the second half of the payment we agreed upon. And of course the extra silver you were so kind as to promise. Sixty stags, I believe it was." "For the oarmen," Catelyn reminded him. "Oh, of a certainty," said Moreo. "Though perhaps I should hold it for them until we return to Tyrosh. For the sake of their wives and children. If you give them the silver here, my lady, they will dice it away or spend it all for a night's pleasure." "There are worse things to spend money on," Ser Rodrik put in. "Winter is coming." "A man must make his own choices," Catelyn said. "They earned the silver. How they spend it is no concern of mine." "As you say, my lady," Moreo replied, bowing and smiling. Just to be sure, Catelyn paid the oarmen herself, a stag to each man, and a copper to the two men who carried their chests halfway up Visenya's hill to the inn that Moreo had suggested. It was a rambling old place on Eel Alley. The woman who owned it was a sour crone with a wandering eye who looked them over suspiciously and bit the coin that Catelyn offered her to make sure it was real. Her rooms were large and airy, though, and Moreo swore that her fish stew was the most savory in all the Seven Kingdoms. Best of all, she had no interest in their names. "I think it best if you stay away from the common room," Ser Rodrik said, after they had settled in. "Even in a place like this, one never knows who may be watching." He wore ringmail, dagger, and longsword under a dark cloak with a hood he could pull up over his head. "I will be back before nightfall, with Ser Aron," he promised. "Rest now, my lady." Catelyn was tired. The voyage had been long and fatiguing, and she was no longer as young as she had been. Her windows opened on the alley and rooftops, with a view of the Blackwater beyond. She watched Ser Rodrik set off, striding briskly through the busy streets until he was 152 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN lost in the crowds, then decided to take his advice. The bedding was stuffed with straw instead of feathers, but she had no trouble falling asleep. She
| 1 |
53 |
After Death.txt
| 6 |
an old dog, he shakes himself to cast off the stupefaction that has overcome him. He raises his eyes from the money and regards his homeys. Gathered before him, they are familiar yet mysterious in some way he can’t explain. “Hakeem, Carlisle, go round the far end, block that big open door. You’re in position, signal with a flashlight. Jason, Kuba, and me—we come in from this end, clear the place. Nina shows with her trey eight, don’t take no shit. Try just to cap the bitch’s knees. Leave the face shot for me. I done earned it.” WHIRLED IN A VORTEX Michael is guided by the stylized compass glowing in the upper right-hand corner of his field of vision, in a manner similar to the way that battle data is projected onto the windshield of a fighter jet. He hurries through phalanxes of death-smitten trees that stand like faceless totems of some race long extinct. The ground is muddy here where grass has failed, sucking at his shoes as if the earth itself is sentient and malevolent and wishes to pull him deep underground and entomb him among the rotting roots that once conveyed sustenance to the countless limbs of the orchard. As he passes between two haggard trees and into yet another harvesting alley, he nearly collides with a fast-moving figure so poorly revealed in the rain-slashed gloom that it might be either a man or a woman, perhaps a boy, although too tall to be John or Nina. The individual startles, nearly falls on the slippery mat of dead grass, regains balance, and issues a name and query in a voice male and unfamiliar—“Orlando?” Whoever this might be, he’s no innocent happening through the apple grove on this night of all nights. He’s one of Aleem’s crew, an experienced murderer. Even as the stranger speaks, Michael reverses his grip on the AR-15 and closes the last step between them and chops the butt of the rifle at the other’s head. The contact is solid, and the man collapses. Michael drops to his knees on the stranger’s chest, hears a subtle crack and a plosive exhalation, but still the man has the power to buck and twist, to reach out with both hands, trying to find his attacker’s face. Turning his head to the side to protect his eyes, Michael holds the rifle by barrel and stock, employing it as a crushing tool, pressing down with all his weight and strength on the throat. He is gripped by an awful, primitive desperation that is born not from fear for his life but from an intrinsic regret that he has been reduced to this brutality, yet he does not relent, must not relent. None but a gargling sound escapes the stranger, and as his strength wanes, his hands flutter down onto the rifle and find Michael’s hands. He does not claw for relief, but presses Michael’s hands as if this encounter has resulted in an unanticipated bonding, his touch soft and supplicant, expressing a plea for mercy, though he himself has
| 0 |
76 |
Love Theoretically.txt
| 76 |
“She’s behind the Sepulveda model. A brilliant particle physicist. And she was a Burke fellow years ago.” I look down at my knees. Then back up to Dr. L.’s deep scowl. “I’m sorry, Dr. Laurendeau. I know this is disappointing, but —” “I wonder if Smith-Turner influenced the search, after all.” My hand grips the armrest of the green chair. “He . . . I doubt it.” “We cannot put it past him, can we?” I clear my throat. “I’m convinced that he did not—” “Elise, you want Smith-Turner to get his comeuppance just as much as I do, don’t you?” My stomach sinks and I lower my eyes, mortified. Dr. L. spent the last six years counseling me, and here I am. A screwup. Cavorting with the asshole who nearly ruined his career. Not being the Elsie he wants. I need to go back to it. To Elise—hardworking, undeterred, laser focused. “This is a huge setback, but I’m . . . regrouping,” I say, trying to sound optimistic. “In terms of finding a job for next year, I—” “But you have a job. Several, in fact.” “Yes. Absolutely.” I take a deep breath. “But these adjunct gigs are time consuming and leave me little time for research. And I really want to finish developing my—” “There is always time for research. One must want to find it.” I close my eyes, because this one hurts like hell. The Elsie he wants almost slips away, but I hold strong. “You’re right.” “Could you not simply teach fewer classes?” I breathe slowly. In and out. “Financially, that’s not a possibility.” “I see. Well, sometimes money must take second place.” I grip the armrest, feeling a gust of frustration that he’d think me greedy for wanting to buy insulin and live in a place without mutant moths. It’s immediately swallowed by guilt. This is Dr. L. I wouldn’t even know the Nielsen-Ninomiya theorem if it weren’t for him. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to mention the idea that’s been swelling in my head since my morning at Jack’s. While there is no dimension in which me working for him would be feasible or appropriate, maybe there is some promise in what he said. “Someone recommended that I consider a postdoctoral fellowship or another research-only position.” Dr. L. looks at me, alarmed for a split second, and then sighs. “We have been over this, Elise.” “Right. But we talked about theorists. Maybe some experimentalists might be interested in—” “Unfortunately, no. I asked widely, and I am very sorry, but no suitable physicist was interested in hiring you as a researcher,” he says, and my stomach sinks even more. I lower my eyes to my jeans. God, I’m an idiot. A total fucking idiot. “Elise,” he continues, tone softer, “I know how you feel.” He circles his desk, coming to stand in front of me. “Remember when you started your doctorate? How helpless you felt? How I guided you through developing your algorithms, publishing your manuscripts, making a name for yourself within the physics
| 0 |
1 |
A Game of Thrones.txt
| 87 |
him. By then his stallion was back on its feet as well. Gregor Clegane killed the horse with a single blow of such ferocity that it half severed the animal's neck. Cheers turned to shrieks in a heartbeat. The stallion went to its knees, screaming as it died. By then 278 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Gregor was striding down the lists toward Ser Loras Tyrell, his bloody sword clutched in his fist. "Stop him!" Ned shouted, but his words were lost in the roar. Everyone else was yelling as well, and Sansa was crying. It all happened so fast. The Knight of Flowers was shouting for his own sword as Ser Gregor knocked his squire aside and made a grab for the reins of his horse. The mare scented blood and reared. Loras Tyrell kept his seat, but barely. Ser Gregor swung his sword, a savage twohanded blow that took the boy in the chest and knocked him from the saddle. The courser dashed away in panic as Ser Loras lay stunned in the dirt. But as Gregor lifted his sword for the killing blow, a rasping voice warned, "Leave him be, " and a steel-clad hand wrenched him away from the boy. The Mountain pivoted in wordless fury, swinging his longsword in a killing arc with all his massive strength behind it, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed an eternity the two brothers stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. Thrice Ned saw Ser Gregor aim savage blows at the hound's-head helmet, yet not once did Sandor send a cut at his brother's unprotected face. It was the king's voice that put an end to it . . . the king's voice and twenty swords. Jon Arryn had told them that a commander needs a good battlefield voice, and Robert had proved the truth of that on the Trident. He used that voice now. "STOP THIS MADNESS, " he boomed, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" The Hound went to one knee. Ser Gregor's blow cut air, and at last he came to his senses. He dropped his sword and glared at Robert, surrounded by his Kingsguard and a dozen other knights and guardsmen. Wordlessly, he turned and strode off, shoving past Barristan Selmy. "Let him go," Robert said, and as quickly as that, it was over. "Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked Ned. "No," he told her. "There will be one final joust, between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers." But Sansa had the right of it after all. A few moments later Ser Loras Tyrell walked back onto the field in a simple linen doublet and said to Sandor Clegane, "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser." "I am no ser," the Hound replied, but he took the victory, and the champion's purse, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, the love of the commons. They cheered him as he left the lists to return to his pavilion.
| 1 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 23 |
Bentz had profited from and sensationalized the bizarre crimes. But there were others as well. She leaned back in her chair and perused the other books she’d written where the convicted murderer in the story was now out, a free man. The God Complex and Murder was the story of Hamilton Cooke, a brilliant surgeon with a genius IQ, who had been convicted of homicide in the brutal murder of his wife, but the evidence had been thin and circumstantial and with an appeal and new attorney, his conviction had been overturned. Dr. Cooke was working on getting his license to practice medicine reinstated. He was handsome, arrogant, and cold, and Kristi, to this day, believed he’d murdered his wife for a hefty life insurance payout. Over a million dollars. But he’d proclaimed his innocence, of course, and threatened to sue Rick Bentz and the New Orleans Police Department for false arrest, and Kristi Bentz for profiting from his tragedy and the “incredible miscarriage of justice!” Kristi didn’t buy it. Hamilton Cooke was shrewd and never let his public outrage die. When his story faded from the news, it was he who always pumped it up again, giving interviews on television or for the newspapers, keeping up several social media platforms, polishing his infamy into a burnished stardom of sorts. Her gaze moved to the next book about another local murderer, but before she could think about Mandel Jarvis, a pro football player who’d been charged and convicted of killing his model wife, her cell phone jangled and she saw Zera Stern, her agent’s name, flash onto the screen. Zera was young and ambitious and had only been with Kristi a short while. And she always talked a mile a minute. Before Kristi could even say hello, she heard, “Is it true? Is the Rosary Killer really alive? Oh, my God, Kristi, is that the person who attacked you? Who killed Jay?” Zera was incredulous. “I thought—I thought he was dead. Father John, I mean. Killed in the swamp or something. Wasn’t that right? Didn’t your father shoot him? Or alligators eat him or something?” “Yes, but—” “No ‘buts.’ Now we have a sequel. I mean, I hate to be that person, the agent that sees dollar signs in every tragedy, but this . . . Oh, my God, no one can tell this story like you. I know you must be feeling raw. Good Lord, you haven’t even recovered fully from the attack yourself, but a tragedy like this is a horrible, horrible turn of events. I know your life is turned inside out and I cannot imagine the grief you’re going through. Unthinkable. Just unthinkable. But, you do see my point, right? That you can make lemonade out of lemons, so to speak, spin this thing on its ear, and find a hint of a blessing in this terrible turn of events.” “Oh—I don’t know. And no one’s certain that whoever killed Jay is the Rosary Killer. It’s still all under investigation.” “But he’s back, right? There have been other
| 0 |
48 |
Wuthering Heights.txt
| 0 |
half forgetting her former insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper's account. "Missis walked in," she said, "as chill as an icicle, and as high as a princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the armchair. No, she turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose too and bade her come to the settle, and sit close by the fire; he was sure she was starved. " 'I've been starved a month and more,' she an- swered, resting on the word as scornful as she could. "And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and discovered a number of books in the dresser. She was instantly upon her feet again, stretching to reach them; but they were too high up. Her cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage to help her. She held her frock, and he filled it with the first that came to hand. "That was a great advance for the lad. She didn't thank him, still he felt gratifled that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they con- tained. Nor was he daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his finger. He contented him- self with going a bit farther back, and looking at her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seek- ing for something to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centreed in the study of her thick, silky curls. Her face he couldn't see, and she couldn't see him. And, perhaps not quite awake to what he did, but attracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring to touching. He put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if it were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started round in such a taking. " 'Get away this moment! How dare you touch me! Why are you stopping there?' she cried in a tone of dis- gust. 'I can't endure you! I'll go upstairs again if you come near me.' "Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do. He sat down in the settle very quiet, and she con- tinued turning over her volumes another half-hour. Finally Earnshaw crossed over and whispered to me,--- " 'Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I'm stalled of doing naught; and I do like---I could like to hear her. Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask of yourseln.' " 'Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma'am,' I said immediately. 'He'd take it very kind---he'd be much obliged.' "She frowned, and looking up, answered,--- " 'Mr. Hareton and the whole set of you will be good enough to understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the
| 1 |
7 |
Casino Royale.txt
| 72 |
explained to his companion, 'but it is probably the finest champagne in the world.' He grinned suddenly at the touch of pretension in his remark. 'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink. It comes partly from being a bachelor, but mostly from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details. It's very pernickety and old-maidish really, but then when I'm working I generally have to eat my meals alone and it makes them more interesting when one takes trouble.' Vesper smiled at him. 'I like it,' she said. 'I like doing everything fully, getting the most out of everything one does. I think that's the way to live. But it sounds rather schoolgirlish when one says it,' she added apologetically. The little carafe of vodka had arrived in its bowl of crushed ice and Bond filled their glasses. 'Well, I agree with you anyway,' he said, 'and now, here's luck for tonight, Vesper.' 'Yes,' said the girl quietly, as she held up her small glass and looked at him with a curious directness straight in the eyes. 'I hope all will go well tonight.' She seemed to Bond to give a quick involuntary shrug of the shoulders as she spoke, but then she leant impulsively towards him. 'I have some news for you from Mathis. He was longing to tell you himself. It's about the bomb. It's a fantastic story.' CHAPTER 9 - THE GAME IS BACCARAT Bond looked round, but there was no possibility of being overheard, and the caviar would be waiting for the hot toast from the kitchens. 'Tell me.' His eyes glittered with interest. 'They got the third Bulgar, on the road to Paris. He was in a Citron and he had picked up two English hikers as protective colouring. At the road-block his French was so bad that they asked for his papers and he brought out a gun and shot one of the motor-cycle patrol. But the other man got him, I don't know how, and managed to stop him committing suicide. Then they took him down to Rouen and extracted the story - in the usual French fashion, I suppose. 'Apparently they were part of a pool held in France for this sort of job - saboteurs, thugs, and so on - and Mathis's friends are already trying to round up the rest. They were to get two million francs for killing you and the agent who briefed them told them there was absolutely no chance of being caught if they followed his instructions exactly.' She took a sip of vodka. 'But this is the interesting part.' 'The agent gave them the two camera-cases you saw. He said the bright colours would make it easier for them. He told them that the blue case contained a very powerful smoke-bomb. The red case was the explosive. As one of them threw the red case, the other was to press a switch on the blue case and they would escape under cover of the smoke.
| 1 |
73 |
Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt
| 66 |
of the Plaza, nor of her and Ava’s apartment. She threw back her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Time for some more sleuthing. Trolleys grunted past her as she took to the roofs, crossing the Silts at a swift pace. Every few minutes she double-checked the direction of Rosa’s thread in the Quilt. Her steps slowed when she neared the giant apartment complex where Rosa and her extended family rented flats. How many times had she walked this same path, to drop Rosa off after school, or pick her up for a night of dancing? She had met Rosa at school, a few blocks away. How exactly, neither of them remembered, though they often tried to coax it out of their brains. “First day, seated next to each other?” Io would guess. “Too corny.” Rosa would shake her head. “Jumping rope during recess?” “Too banal. What about the girls’ bathroom, hiding from the prefect?” “Bah. Too on the nose.” However it had happened, the point was that within a few weeks, they were two inseparable eight-year-old scoundrels devising insidious pranks on the teachers they didn’t like. Throughout the years, they shared everything: homework, clothes, fears, secrets, and dreams. They loved playing make-believe as the Order of the Furies, which later turned into a plan to work together as an undefeatable duo of detective and prosecutor that would bring criminal other-born to their knees. And on weekends, we’ll dance, Rosa would say. Io was there at Rosa’s mom’s funeral, three years ago now. Rosa was there during that horrible week two years ago that culminated in Thais leaving—more than there, Rosa was involved in a way that made Io skittish to think about. Then, about a year ago, at seventeen, they graduated. What used to be part-time jobs had to become full-time. Their paths began to diverge, but the girls refused to lose touch: they flirted with boys together, went out dancing together, tried to learn how to cook together. The last time they had seen each other was with Ava at the dancing club Cellar, to celebrate the job Rosa had just gotten writing for the women’s magazine Miss-Matched. But that must have been at least six months ago, maybe more? They had made plans a couple of times since then, but at the last moment, Io would just . . . succumb to the urge to cancel. And now Rosa was a leech, and Io was working for the mob queen of the Silts. So much for dreams of justice. Gods, it sounded like a cautionary tale. Her feet found their own way to the door of the apartment Rosa shared with her two cousins. The thread that bound them went straight through the door, where Io could see her friend moving through the small living room. Four other bundles of threads sat in various corners of the room. Her family? New friends? Io could turn back and forget their meeting on that scaffolding tonight ever happened. That was the safest way to ensure Bianca, and all that mess
| 0 |
66 |
Hell Bent.txt
| 85 |
reminded of places and people they loved, human pleasures. It took a vengeful and dedicated spirit to haunt someone, and neither of his parents had that kind of drive. And they would have wanted to be far from Golgarot. The dead feared demons because they promised pain when the pain should be over. They’d been very frightened of Darlington indeed. Alex drew her coat more tightly closed. “The old man is here.” “My grandfather?” “I can hear him. I can hear all of them now.” Darlington tried not to show his surprise, his curiosity, his envy. How could this scrap of a girl have so much power? How could she see into the hidden world that had evaded him for so long? And after a year in hell, why did he still give a damn? “They never shut up,” she added. She’s trusting me, he told himself. Alex was handing him knowledge that he knew, with complete certainty, Lethe didn’t have. Another offering. He found he was as greedy for her trust as her power. He pushed those thoughts away. “What is he saying?” Now Alex’s eyes shifted uneasily to the toes of her boots. “He says to be free. That you’ve given up enough blood to this place. It’s yours to take or leave. It always should have been.” Darlington snorted. “You’re lying. What did he really say?” Alex shrugged and met his eyes. “That Black Elm needs you more than ever, that this is your home by right of blood and treasure, and a lot of rambling about the Arlington legacy.” “That sounds much more like him.” He paused, studying her. “You know what happened here, don’t you? What I did? Why I survived the hellbeast?” Alex didn’t look away. “I know.” “I always wondered if I’d done the right thing.” “If it makes you feel any better, I’d smother him right now if I could.” Darlington was startled by his own abrupt laugh. Maybe Alex could have stopped him from being eaten that night in Rosenfeld Hall. Maybe she’d wanted his discovery of her crimes to die with him in that basement. He supposed she had betrayed him. But in the end it had taken this monstrous girl to drag him back from the underworld. There was nothing he could say that would shock her, and that was powerful comfort. “I’ll be back,” he said, in the hopes that his grandfather would understand what he was about to do. “Better to flee from death than feel its grip,” he quoted, letting the death words cast the old man out, a peace offering to Alex of his own. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know what to do about…” He couldn’t quite manage to say their bodies. He bobbed his chin toward the basement instead. “We have bigger problems,” Alex said, rising from the counter. “Come on, I called a car.” “Why don’t we take the Mercedes?” She winced. “Stern, what happened to my car?” “Long story.” She locked the kitchen door behind them, and they started down the gravel drive.
| 0 |
42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 20 |
form of Elw. 58,103, 125, 288 Eluchl 'Heir of Elu (Thingol)', name of Dior, son of Beren and Lthien. See Dior. Elurd Elder son of Dior; perished in the attack on Doriath by the sons of Fanor. The name means the same as Eluchl. 290, 292 Elurn Younger son of Dior; perished with his brother Elurd. The name means 'Remembrance of Elu (Thingol)'. 290,292 Elvenhome See Eldamar. Elves See especially 37-9, 48-51, 53, 99, 121, 326-7; and see also Children of Ilvatar, Eldar; Dark Elves. Elves of the Light: see Calaquendi. Elw Surnamed Singollo 'Greymantle'; leader with his brother Olw of the hosts of the Teleri on the westward journey from Cuivinen, until he was lost in Nan Elmoth; afterwards Lord of the Sindar, ruling in Doriath with Melian; received the Silmaril from Beren; slain in Menegroth by the Dwarves. Called (Elu) Thingol in Sindarin. See Dark Elves, Thingol. 53-8, 60-1, 103, 289 Elwing Daughter of Dior, who escaping from Doriath with the Silmaril wedded Erendil at the Mouths of Sirion and went with him to Valinor; mother of Elrond and Elros. The name means 'Star-spray'; see Lanlhir Lamath. 122, 178, 291-3, 302, 304-10, 315 Emeldir Called the Man-hearted; wife of Barahir and mother of Beren; led the women and children of the House of Bor from Dorthonion after the Dagor Bragollach. (She was herself also a descendant of Bor the Old, and her father's name was Beren; this is not stated in the text.) 187, 194 Emyn Beraid The Tower Hills' in the west of Eriador; see Elostirion. 360-2 Enchanted Isles The islands set by the Valar in the Great Sea eastwards of Tol Eressa at the time of the Hiding of Valinor. 118, 306 Encircling Mountains See Echoriath. Encircling Sea See Ekkaia. Endor 'Middle Land', Middle-earth. 101 Engwar 'The Sickly', one of the Elvish names for Men, 119 El Called the Dark Elf; the great smith who dwelt in Nan Elmoth, and took Aredhel Turgon's sister to wife; friend of the Dwarves; maker of the sword Anglachel (Gurthang); father of Maeglin; put to death in Gondolin. 104,158-65, 247 Enw One of the mightiest of the Maiar; called the Herald of Manw; leader of the host of the Valar in the attack on Morgoth at the end of the First Age. 24, 309-14, 321, 353 Ephel Brandir 'The encircling fence of Brandir', dwellings of the Men of Brethil upon Amon Obel; also called the Ephel. 266, 270-2 Ephel Dath 'Fence of Shadow', the mountain-range between Gondor and Mordor; also called the Mountains of Shadow. 361-2, 368 Erchamion 'One-handed', the name of Beren after his escape from Angband. 222, 225, 242, 292 Erech A hill in the west of Gondor, where was the Stone of Isildur (see The Return of the King V 2). 361 Ered Engrin 'The Iron Mountains' in the far north. 128, 135-6, 139, 181, 193 Ered Gorgoroth 'The Mountains of Terror', northward of Nan Dungortheb; also called the Gorgoroth. 90, 109, 144, 157, 176, 198, 214, 246 Ered Lindon 'The Mountains of Linden', another name for Ered Luin,
| 1 |
7 |
Casino Royale.txt
| 93 |
Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. A double O number in our Service means you've had to kill a chap in cold blood in the course of some job. 'Now,' he looked up again at Mathis, 'that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains, but when the hero Le Chiffre starts to kill the villain Bond and the villain Bond knows he isn't a villain at all, you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. 'Of course,' he added, as Mathis started to expostulate, 'patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and fight that. History is moving pretty quickly these days and the heroes and villains keep on changing parts.' Mathis stared at him aghast. Then he tapped his head and put a calming hand on Bond's arm. 'You mean to say that this precious Le Chiffre who did his best to turn you into a eunuch doesn't qualify as a villain?' he asked. 'Anyone would think from the rot you talk that he had been battering your head instead of your . . .' He gestured down the bed. 'You wait till M tells you to get after another Le Chiffre. I bet you'll go after him all right. And what about SMERSH? I can tell you I don't like the idea of these chaps running around France killing anyone they feel has been a traitor to their precious political system. You're a bloody anarchist.' He threw his arms in the air and let them fall helplessly to his sides. Bond laughed. 'All right,' he said. 'Take our friend Le Chiffre. It's simple enough to say he was an evil man, at least it's simple enough for me because he did evil things to me. If he was here now, I wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but out of personal revenge and not, I'm afraid, for some high moral reason or for the sake of my country.' He looked up at Mathis to see how bored he was getting with these introspective refinements of what, to Mathis, was a simple question of duty. Mathis smiled back at him. 'Continue, my dear friend. It is interesting for me to see this new Bond. Englishmen are so odd. They are like a nest of Chinese boxes. It takes a very long time to get to the centre of them. When one gets there the result is unrewarding, but the process is instructive and entertaining. Continue. Develop your arguments. There may be something I can use to my own chief the next time I want to get out of an unpleasant job.' He grinned maliciously. Bond ignored him. 'Now in order to tell the difference between good and evil, we have manufactured
| 1 |
44 |
Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt
| 69 |
outside of the two jooks, everything on that job went on around those two. Sometimes Janie would think of the old days in the big white house and the store and laugh to herself. What if 158 Zora Neale Hurston Eatonville could see her now in her blue denim overalls and heavy shoes? The crowd of people around her and a dice game on her floor! She was sorry for her friends back there and scornful of the others. The men held big arguments here like they used to do on the store porch. Only here, she could lis- ten and laugh and even talk some herself if she wanted to. She got so she could tell big stories herself from listening to the rest. Because she loved to hear it, and the men loved to hear themselves, they would “woof” and “boogerboo” around the games to the limit. No matter how rough it was, people sel- dom got mad, because everything was done for a laugh. Everybody loved to hear Ed Dockery, Bootyny, and Sop-de- Bottom in a skin game. Ed Dockery was dealing one night and he looked over at Sop-de-Bottom’s card and he could tell Sop thought he was going to win. He hollered, “Ah’ll break up dat settin’ uh eggs.” Sop looked and said, “Root de peg.” Bootyny asked, “What are you goin’ tuh do? Do do!” Everybody was watching that next card fall. Ed got ready to turn. “Ah’m gointuh sweep out hell and burn up de broom.” He slammed down another dollar. “Don’t oversport yourself, Ed,” Bootyny challenged. “You gittin’ too yaller.” Ed caught hold of the cor- ner of the card. Sop dropped a dollar. “Ah’m gointuh shoot in de hearse, don’t keer how sad de funeral be.” Ed said, “You see how this man is teasin’ hell?” Tea Cake nudged Sop not to bet. “You gointuh git caught in uh bullet storm if you don’t watch out.” Sop said, “Aw ’tain’t nothin’ tuh dat bear but his curly hair. Ah can look through muddy water and see dry land.” Ed turned off the card and hollered, “Zachariah, Ah says come down out dat sycamore tree. You can’t do no business.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 159 Nobody fell on that card. Everybody was scared of the next one. Ed looked around and saw Gabe standing behind his chair and hollered, “Move, from over me, Gabe! You too black. You draw heat! Sop, you wanta pick up dat bet whilst you got uh chance?” “Naw, man, Ah wish Ah had uh thousand-leg tuh put on it.” “So yuh won’t lissen, huh? Dumb niggers and free schools. Ah’m gointuh take and teach yuh. Ah’ll main-line but Ah won’t side-track.” Ed flipped the next card and Sop fell and lost. Everybody hollered and laughed. Ed laughed and said, “Git off de muck! You ain’t nothin’. Dat’s all! Hot boilin’ water won’t help yuh none.” Ed kept on laughing because he had been so scared before. “Sop, Bootyny, all y’all dat lemme win yo’ money: Ah’m sending it
| 1 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 84 |
had brought upon “Yes,” said one, “that’s Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a himself. score below, with a clove hitch to it; so he done ever.” “A Bible with a bit cut out!” returned Silver derisively. “Mighty pretty,” said George. “But how are we to get “Not it. It don’t bind no more’n a ballad-book.” away with it, and us no ship.” “Don’t it, though?” cried Dick with a sort of joy. “Well, I Silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a reckon that’s worth having too.” hand against the wall: “Now I give you warning, George,” he “Here, Jim—here’s a cur’osity for you,” said Silver, and he cried. “One more word of your sauce, and I’ll call you down tossed me the paper. and fight you. How? Why, how do I know? You had ought It was around about the size of a crown piece. One side to tell me that—you and the rest, that lost me my schooner, was blank, for it had been the last leaf; the other contained a with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can’t; you verse or two of Revelation—these words among the rest, which hain’t got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can struck sharply home upon my mind: “Without are dogs and speak, and shall, George Merry, you may lay to that.” murderers.” The printed side had been blackened with wood “That’s fair enow,” said the old man Morgan. ash, which already began to come off and soil my fingers; on “Fair! I reckon so,” said the sea-cook. “You lost the ship; the blank side had been written with the same material the I found the treasure. Who’s the better man at that? And one word “Depposed.” I have that curiosity beside me at this Contents now I resign, by thunder! Elect whom you please to be your moment, but not a trace of writing now remains beyond a cap’n now; I’m done with it.” single scratch, such as a man might make with his thumb- Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 246 247 nail. That was the end of the night’s business. Soon after, with a drink all round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver’s vengeance was to put George Merry up for sentinel and threaten him with death if he should prove unfaithful. It was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter enough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own most perilous position, and above all, in the remarkable game that I saw Silver now engaged upon—keeping the mutineers together with one hand and grasping with the other after every means, possible and im- Chapter 30. possible, to make his peace and save his miserable life. He On Parole. himself slept peacefully and snored aloud, yet my heart was sore for him, wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that I WAS wakened—indeed, we were all wakened, for I could environed and the shameful gibbet that
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60 |
Divine Rivals.txt
| 56 |
this conflict, but I wouldn’t put it past the enemy to kill you both on sight.” Iris nodded. Roman murmured his agreement. She followed Lieutenant Lark’s Sycamore Platoon down into the trenches, Roman close behind her. So close, she could hear his breath, and the way it skipped, as if he were nervous and struggling to conceal it. A few times, he inadvertently stepped on her heel, jarring her. “Sorry,” he whispered with a fleeting touch to her back. It’s all right, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t really know what she had expected, but the trenches were well constructed, with wood planks laid on the ground to ward off mud. They were wide enough for two people to walk shoulder to shoulder comfortably. Sticks were woven along the walls, which curved like the path of a snake. Winding left and then right, and then splitting into two pathways before splitting yet again. She passed artillery stations, where huge cannons sat on the grass like sleeping beasts. A few low points had sandbags piled up, to provide additional coverage, and the deeper she went into the channels, the more she began to see the bunkers Lark had mentioned. Stone shelters were hollowed out of the earth, with dark, open doorways. There was nothing inviting about them, almost as if they were frozen maws, waiting to swallow soldiers, and Iris hoped she didn’t have to shelter in one. Cool air touched her face. It smelled of dank soil with a touch of rot from the decaying wood. A few times, Iris caught the stench of refuse and piss, all threaded with cigarette smoke. She imagined she saw the scurrying of a rat or two, but perhaps the shadows were teasing her. Her shoulders sagged in relief when the Sycamore Platoon came to a halt for the night, in a stretch of trench that was relatively dry and clean. Iris let her bag slip from her shoulders, choosing a spot beneath a small, hanging lantern. Roman mirrored her, sitting across the path from her, his long legs crossed. Lark came by to check on them just as the stars began to dust the sky overhead. He smiled with a cigarette clamped in his teeth, settling down not too far from them, just within Iris’s sight. The silence felt thick and strange. She was almost afraid to breathe too deeply, welcoming that heavy, chilled air into her lungs. The same air that the enemy was drawing and exhaling, mere kilometers away. It was a silence to drown in. She untethered her bag and found her flannel blanket, draping it across her knees as the night deepened. Next, she procured her notepad and a pen, and she began to write down highlights of the day while they were still fresh in her mind. The darkness continued to unspool. Iris reached for an orange in her bag, setting her notepad aside to eat. She hadn’t glanced up at Roman one time, but she knew he was also writing. She could
| 0 |
72 |
Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt
| 47 |
capable hands and go home. I also wanted to take that lab coat with me, but I left it—walking home instead in my baby-doll pj’s and bunny slippers, feeling extra naked and alone, and fully expecting to run into some humiliating stranger. A former boss. A premed professor. My dad. But the person I ran into was Mr. Kim. I knew him, of course, because he always wore dress shoes, suit pants, a button-down Oxford shirt, and suspenders. He’d been dressing like that Sue’s entire life. No matter what he was doing. And I was so glad it was him, of all people. He’d seen Sue and me—lots of times—in much crazier getups than bunny slippers. This evening, he was tinkering with the mechanics of the elevator doors, but when he saw me, he abandoned that project. “Come see me,” he said, gesturing me toward him. “What about the elevator?” I asked. But he waved me off. “We’ve got stairs.” He led me around to a quiet corner, and then he cut right to the chase. “I hear that you’re not just using the rooftop as a studio—you’re living there.” Mr. Kim smiled a lot. Maybe he wasn’t always smiling—but he was often smiling. But I couldn’t sense him smiling now. My heart dropped. Was I getting kicked out? Was I really—right here, in my pj’s and bunny slippers, with Peanut in the ICU, at the brokest and sickest and most disoriented I’d ever been in my life—getting kicked out of my apartment by the closest thing to a father figure I had? His voice was pretty serious. “That won’t work,” he said, shaking his head with a vibe like he was truly sorry. I nodded. Of course. I never should have snuck around behind the Kims’ back to begin with. “It’s not an apartment,” he said next. “Renting it as a studio is one thing. But it’s not fit to live in. I really”—and here he shook his head—“can’t rent that place as living quarters.” I nodded harder. “I get it. You’re right. I’m so sorry.” Oh god, I was so screwed. But then Mr. Kim let out a chuckle that he couldn’t suppress any longer. “So I guess,” he said, clapping his hand on my shoulder, “you’ll just have to stay there for free.” Nine SUE WAS SUPPOSED to come over the next day for week two of our doomed portrait sessions. But I called her when I got back from the clinic and postponed. “I’m not in a good place,” I told her after giving the lowdown on Peanut. “But painting makes you feel better.” “Not anymore.” “I refuse to believe that.” “I painted a hundred faces the other night, and it was pure torture.” Sue took that in. “Okay. If that’s how it is right now.” “That’s how it is right now.” “Take some you time, then. Binge-watch something.” “I can’t watch TV anymore,” I said. Sue was aghast. “Why not?” “Because of the face blindness.” “I keep forgetting about that.” “I can’t tell the characters apart.” “Wow,”
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7 |
Casino Royale.txt
| 50 |
down the coasts He felt under the dashboard and from a concealed holster took out a long-barrelled Colt Army Special .45, and laid it on the seat beside him. With this, if he was lucky with the surface of the road, he could hope to get their tyres or their petrol tank at anything up to a hundred yards. Then he switched on the big lights again and screamed off in pursuit. He felt calm and at ease. The problem of Vesper's life was a problem no longer. His face in the blue light from the dashboard was grim but serene. * Ahead in the Citron there were three men and the girl. Le Chiffre was driving, his big fluid body hunched forward, his hands light and delicate on the wheel. Beside him sat the squat man who had carried the stick in the Casino. In his left hand he grasped a thick lever which protruded beside him almost level with the floor. It might have been a lever to adjust the driving seat. In the back seat was the tall thin gunman. He lay back relaxed, gazing at the ceiling, apparently uninterested in the wild speed of the car. His right hand lay caressingly on Vesper's left thigh which stretched out naked beside him. Apart from her legs, which were naked to the hips, Vesper was only a parcel. Her long black velvet skirt had been lifted over her arms and head and tied above her head with a piece of rope. Where her face was, a small gap had been torn in the velvet so that she could breathe. She was not bound in any other way and she lay quiet, her body moving sluggishly with the swaying of the car. Le Chiffre was concentrating half on the road ahead and half on the onrushing glare of Bond's headlights in the driving-mirror. He seemed undisturbed when not more than a mile separated the hare from the hounds and he even brought the car down from eighty to sixty miles an hour. Now, as he swept round a bend he slowed down still further. A few hundred yards ahead a Michelin post showed where a small parochial road crossed with the highway. 'Attention,' he said sharply to the man beside him. The man's hand tightened on the lever. A hundred yards from the cross-roads he slowed to thirty. In the mirror Bond's great headlights were lighting up the bend. Le Chiffre seemed to make up his mind. 'Allez.' The man beside him pulled the lever sharply upwards. The boot at the back of the car yawned open like a whale's mouth. There was a tinkling clatter on the road and then a rhythmic jangling as if the car was towing lengths of chain behind it. 'Coupez.' The man depressed the lever sharply and the jangling stopped with a final clatter. Le Chiffre glanced again in the mirror. Bond's car was just entering the bend. Le Chiffre made a racing change and threw the Citron left-handed down the narrow side-road, at the
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25 |
Oliver Twist.txt
| 83 |
it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar. 'The tide,' cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, 'the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself. The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top. All the window in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream. He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet. The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud. The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him. On pressed the people from the front--on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the
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34 |
The Call of the Wild.txt
| 11 |
world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep. It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days' or a week's rest at least. But in two days' time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals. Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side. But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of the sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The driver examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became interested in his case. They talked it over at meal-time, and over their last pipes before going to bed, and one night they held a consultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed and prodded till he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones, could not make it out. By the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling repeatedly in the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took him out of the team, making the next dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled. His intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the sled. Sick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling while the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his
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The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt
| 8 |
a sapless old tree as this.' 'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves! How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.' 'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.' 'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion--' 'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A- PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.' Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place. Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared
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38 |
The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 68 |
in the paper," said the mariner. "Hoax all the same," said Marvel. "I know the chap that started the lie. There ain't no Invisible Man whatsoever--Blimey." "But how 'bout this paper? D'you mean to say--?" "Not a word of it," said Marvel, stoutly. The mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about. "Wait a bit," said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly. "D'you mean to say--?" "I do," said Mr. Marvel. "Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then? What d'yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for? Eigh?" Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands. "I been talking here this ten minutes," he said; "and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn't have the elementary manners--" "Don't you come bandying words with me," said Mr. Marvel. "Bandying words! I'm a jolly good mind--" "Come up," said a voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and started marching off in a curious spasmodic manner. "You'd better move on," said the mariner. "Who's moving on?" said Mr. Marvel. He was receding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered monologue, protests and recriminations. "Silly devil!" said the mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo, watching the receding figure. "I'll show you, you silly ass,--hoaxing me! It's here--on the paper!" Mr. Marvel retorted incoherently and, receding, was hidden by a bend in the road, but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the way, until the approach of a butcher's cart dislodged him. Then he turned himself towards Port Stowe. "Full of extra- ordinary asses," he said softly to himself. "Just to take me down a bit--that was his silly game--It's on the paper!" And there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear, that had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a "fist full of money" (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by the wall at the corner of St. Michael's Lane. A brother mariner had seen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched at the money forthwith and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to his feet the butterfly money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood to believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit too stiff. Afterwards, however, he began to think things over. The story of the flying money was true. And all about that neighbourhood, even from the august London and Country Banking Company, from the tills of shops and inns--doors standing that sunny weather entirely open--money had been quietly and dexterously making off that day in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady places, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had, though no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in the pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete
| 1 |
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Hound of the Baskervilles.txt
| 17 |
her own home. "They had gone a mile or two when they passed one of the night shepherds upon the moorlands, and they cried to him to know if he had seen the hunt. And the man, as the story goes, was so crazed with fear that he could scarce speak, but at last he said that he had indeed seen the unhappy maiden, with the hounds upon her track. 'But I have seen more than that,' said he, 'for Hugo Baskerville passed me upon his black mare, and there ran mute behind him such a hound of hell as God forbid should ever be at my heels.' So the drunken squires cursed the shepherd and rode onward. But soon their skins turned cold, for there came a galloping across the moor, and the black mare, dabbled with white froth, went past with trailing bridle and empty saddle. Then the revellers rode close together, for a great fear was on them, but they still followed over the moor, though each, had he been alone, would have been right glad to have turned his horse's head. Riding slowly in this fashion they came at last upon the hounds. These, though known for their valour and their breed, were whim- pering in a cluster at the head of a deep dip or goyal, as we call it, upon the moor, some slinking away and some, with starting hackles and staring eyes, gazing down the narrow valley before them. "The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerviile lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare- devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days. "Such is the tale, my sons, of the coming of the hound which is said to have plagued the family
| 1 |
69 |
In the Lives of Puppets.txt
| 11 |
promptly. “Three blocks. Shall I lead?” Hap nodded. “You f-first. Then Rambo. Victor. I’ll b-bring up the r-rear.” “Second in command!” Rambo said as he spun in circles. “I knew it. Don’t worry, men and Nurse Ratched. I won’t let you down!” “Ready?” Hap asked Vic. Vic took a deep breath and nodded. Hap pushed the door all the way open. Nurse Ratched rolled through, followed by Rambo. Vic stood on the threshold, unable to make his feet move. Hap pressed a hand against the small of his back. “Be brave.” “Be brave,” Vic whispered, and for the first time, stepped out into the City of Electric Dreams … … directly into sensory overload. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, head jerking from side to side, up and down. They were on a road of sorts, one lane traveling in either direction, bisected by a glowing white line. Across the street stood grungy buildings of cracked concrete and crumbling brick, sand and dirt coating the sides. The smell was extraordinary, a mixture of gasoline and exhaust and something fetid, heavy and thick. He choked on it, trying to breathe through his mouth. His eyes bulged from his head as he looked upward. The lights of the city were neon sharp even in the afternoon sunlight. Every color he’d ever seen (and a few he hadn’t) ran up the sides of the buildings: blue and violet and red and orange. Above them, what appeared to be a rail system stretched along the length of the street, crates not unlike the ones they’d been in flying by at incredible speeds, attached to large cables. And it was loud, so loud that Vic couldn’t hear himself think. Everything seemed to make a sound bent on assaulting him. From some out-of-sight speaker system, a semi-soothing voice blared, the words echoing up and down the buildings even as they crackled. “EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE RECORDED BY ORDER OF THE AUTHORITY. REMEMBER, THERE IS COMFORT IN ROUTINE. DO WHAT YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO DO, AND YOU WILL BE AS RIGHT AS RAIN. IF THERE IS A FAULT IN YOUR PROTOCOLS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE NEAREST ADMINISTRATION OFFICE IMMEDIATELY FOR PROCESSING. IT WILL NOT HURT. WE WILL FIX YOU AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THE AUTHORITY WISHES YOU A WONDERFUL AFTERNOON. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. ATTENTION. EVERYTHING YOU DO MUST BE—” Gaze still turned upward, he stepped onto the street. The moment his foot touched down, he was jerked back by his collar. Something whizzed by in front of him, horn blaring angrily. “W-watch it,” Hap growled at him. “Pay attention.” Vic grimaced. “Sorry. It’s just … loud. I can’t focus.” “Try,” Hap said. “Follow th-the others. Don’t stop.” He spun Vic around, pushing him down the road. Nurse Ratched didn’t hesitate. She moved with purpose, ignoring everything happening around her. Rambo attempted to do the same but kept getting distracted by literally everything. “Oh my gosh! Would you look at that. And that. And what is that? I’ve never seen such a thing!” He rolled up to a
| 0 |
31 |
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt
| 42 |
start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. "'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness. "I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. "Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her. "'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.' "'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.' "'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my
| 1 |
92 |
The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt
| 67 |
in front of him, and the fatal wound wasn’t the one either of them could see. “If Sylvia survives, she will return,” he told Wes. His loyal guard’s eyes widened. “Sire, you cannot mean to let her go. You have chased her since—” Arin turned his horse toward the Ivory Palace and snapped the reins. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR I sank through clouds of mist and ash, grappling for purchase. We were in a nursery, me and two other shadows. An infant slept in the corner. “You cannot do this to him!” a frail woman gasped. Recognition rippled through my flickering body. Isra of Nizahl. Arin’s mother. “He won’t survive it. Please, Rawain, you have to wait.” The second shadow took shape. I stumbled back, hitting the baby’s bassinet. The Supreme did not react, oblivious to my presence. Supreme Rawain regarded his weeping wife with disdain. “What do you care what happens to my son?” “He is mine just as he is yours. Please, I beg you. Two years old, three. He’ll withstand it then. Imagine the power of your ascension with a healthy Heir at your side. Your father had you. See how he prospers! When you become Supreme, Arin will be your Heir. Your legacy.” Rawain palmed the jeweled glass orb at the head of his scepter. The sight of it had his wife reaching for the infant, bundling him in her arms. “Two years, not three,” Rawain grunted. “He cannot remember the loss.” She rocked the child in her arms, stroking tufts of black hair. Black hair? Voices floated in the nothingness, calling my name. My false name. The voices argued loudly. One of them, melodic even in fury, sent awareness trickling through the fog. I was so cold. The voice changed, coming closer. The lilting one spoke in gentle Nizahlan. I glanced at the place where my hand used to be, startled by a phantom pressure. I landed in a void of darkness. Water lapped at my legs. The darkness writhed, coalescing into four thrones before me. I stumbled back. My foot caught on the edge of a sheer stone. If I had a body, I might have bled. Each throne save one held an occupant. They glittered with the glory of the stars and sun, the only light in a barren wasteland. They were time and life and death made magic, existing beyond the realms of earthly souls. Reverent tears dripped from my chin, joining the shallow waters moving beneath the Awaleen. “An eternity of sleep does not guarantee their safety,” said Kapastra, beloved mother of Omal. “What if we wake?” “What if we do not?” whispered Baira. Her beauty seared me so thoroughly I could not lift my gaze a second time. “What if we dwell between the bounds of life and death forever?” “We cannot remain aboveground any longer,” Dania boomed. “Our children need peace.” “Rovial ruined them. Why should we punish ourselves with him?” Baira rasped. “Especially since he is not even—” “Fortify your faith in my prophecy, sister,” Dania said. The Orban Awala’s gaze lingered
| 0 |
32 |
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt
| 72 |
"Hello yourself, and see how you like it." "What's that you got?" --------------------------------------------------------- -72- "Dead cat." "Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?" "Bought him off'n a boy." "What did you give?" "I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house." "Where'd you get the blue ticket?" "Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick." "Say -- what is dead cats good for, Huck?" "Good for? Cure warts with." "No! Is that so? I know something that's better." "I bet you don't. What is it?" "Why, spunk-water." "Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water." "You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?" "No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did." "Who told you so!" "Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now!" "Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know him . But I never see a nigger that wouldn't lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck." --------------------------------------------------------- -73- "Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was." "In the daytime?" "Certainly." "With his face to the stump?" "Yes. Least I reckon so." "Did he say anything?" "I don't reckon he did. I don't know." "Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say: 'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,' and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted." "Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done." "No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean." --------------------------------------------------------- -74- "Yes, bean's good. I've done that." "Have you? What's your way?" "You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the
| 1 |
41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 81 |
heard him, but he ended by chuckling. "Eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. Tha'rt a Yorkshire lad for sure. An' tha'rt diggin', too. How'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I can get thee a rose in a pot." "Go and get it!" said Colin, digging excitedly. "Quick! Quick!" It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon had deepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. "I want to do it before the sun goes quite--quite down," he said. Mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. He had begun to be excited, too. He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. "Here, lad," he said, handing the plant to Colin. "Set it in the earth thysel' same as th' king does when he goes to a new place." The thin white hands shook a little and Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nut and Shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree. "It's planted!" said Colin at last. "And the sun is only slipping over the edge. Help me up, Dickon. I want to be standing when it goes. That's part of the Magic." And Dickon helped him, and the Magic--or whatever it was--so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. CHAPTER XXIII MAGIC Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send some one out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously. "You should not have stayed so long," he said. "You must not overexert yourself." "I am not tired at all," said Colin. "It has made me well. Tomorrow I am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon." "I am not sure that I can allow it," answered Dr. Craven. "I am afraid it would not be wise." "It would not be wise to try to stop me," said Colin quite seriously. "I am going." Even Mary had found out that one of
| 1 |
16 |
Great Expectations.txt
| 16 |
her, said I had a favour to ask of her. "And it is, Biddy," said I, "that you will not omit any opportunity of helping Joe on, a little." "How helping him on?" asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance. "Well! Joe is a dear good fellow - in fact, I think he is the dearest fellow that ever lived - but he is rather backward in some things. For instance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners." Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her eyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me. "Oh, his manners! won't his manners do, then?" asked Biddy, plucking a black-currant leaf. "My dear Biddy, they do very well here--" "Oh! they do very well here?" interrupted Biddy, looking closely at the leaf in her hand. "Hear me out - but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would hardly do him justice." "And don't you think he knows that?" asked Biddy. It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, "Biddy, what do you mean?" Biddy having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands - and the smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in the little garden by the side of the lane - said, "Have you never considered that he may be proud?" "Proud?" I repeated, with disdainful emphasis. "Oh! there are many kinds of pride," said Biddy, looking full at me and shaking her head; "pride is not all of one kind--" "Well? What are you stopping for?" said I. "Not all of one kind," resumed Biddy. "He may be too proud to let any one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is: though it sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I do." "Now, Biddy," said I, "I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can't help showing it." "If you have the heart to think so," returned Biddy, "say so. Say so over and over again, if you have the heart to think so." "If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy," said I, in a virtuous and superior tone; "don't put it off upon me. I am very sorry to see it, and it's a - it's a bad side of human nature. I did intend to ask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was gone, of improving dear Joe. But after this, I ask you nothing. I am extremely sorry to see this
| 1 |
54 |
Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt
| 91 |
calculating. “Well. That might change things. I could explain that to Madam.” “But, then again,” she said, “perhaps I was wide-awake.” Mr. Shepherd pressed her wrist to the banister. “Keys, Mrs. King.” She peered up at the green baize door. The house loomed over her, vast and unreachable. The answer she needed was up there. She knew it. Hidden, or sliced into bits, but there. Somewhere. Waiting to be found. I’ll just have to come back and get it, she thought. * * * She took him to the housekeeper’s room, her room, and he stood guard in the doorway, blocking the light. Already it seemed to belong to her past. It wasn’t cozy, just cramped. On the table was the master’s present to her. Four weeks before, she’d marked her birthday, her neat and tidy thirty-fifth. The master had given her a prayer book. He gave them all prayer books with gilt edging, satin ribbons. She held her head up as she handed Mr. Shepherd the keys. “Any others?” She shook her head. “We’ll see to your personal effects. You can come and collect them in...” He considered this. “In due course.” Mrs. King shrugged. They could inspect her bedroom and sniff the sheets and lick the washbasin all they liked. Even give away her uniforms, if it pleased them. Serge dresses, plain ribbons, tight collars. You could construct any sort of person with those. “Best to choose a new name,” they’d told her when she’d first arrived, and she chose King. They frowned, not liking it—but she held firm: she chose it because it made her feel strong, unassailable. The Mrs. came later, when she made housekeeper. There was no Mr. King, of course. She kept her navy coat and her hatpins, and everything else she folded away into her black leather Gladstone. There was only one more thing she needed to remove. Pulling open a drawer in the bureau, she rummaged for a pack of papers. She threw them on the fire. One neat move. Mr. Shepherd took a step. “What are those?” “The menus,” said Mrs. King, all the muscles in her chest tight. The packet was held together with a ribbon, and she watched it darken on the fire. Red turning brown, then black. “The what?” His eyes hurried around the room, disturbed, as if he were looking for things he’d missed, secrets stuffed and hidden in the walls. “For Miss de Vries’s ball,” she said. Mr. Shepherd stared at her. “Madam won’t like it that you did that.” “I’ve settled all the arrangements,” Mrs. King said with a cool smile. “She can take it from here.” She studied the ribbon on the grate. It was satin no longer, simply earth and ash. How quickly it changed, dematerialized. How completely it transformed. Shepherd marched her through the servants’ hall to the mews yard, but he didn’t touch her again. They passed the portrait of the master hanging above the long table. The frame had been draped with black cloth. She wondered when Shepherd would replace the portrait,
| 0 |
90 |
The-Lost-Bookshop.txt
| 79 |
a cream satin dress falling just so from her athletic frame. ‘Um, I need to speak with you. Alone.’ My expression was unmistakable. ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’ I was still on the doorstep. Christ, my whole life seemed to be lived on the doorstep. Never fully in or out, never feeling as though I belonged anywhere. She pulled the door behind her and stepped outside. ‘You’ll get cold,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have a feeling this conversation won’t take very long.’ I looked up at her. She was always more intuitive than me. She was the smartest woman I’d ever met. There was no point trying to find the ‘right’ words because they simply did not exist. ‘You’re an amazing woman—’ ‘Oh God.’ ‘What?’ ‘Anything but the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. It’s humiliating, Henry.’ ‘But it’s true! It’s me, I’m the problem.’ ‘I know that. So why are you leaving me?’ Fuck. This was why people lied. It’s far easier to lie to someone than to watch them bear the hurt of your careless words. ‘Because I thought I knew what love was. I thought it was something I could … manage. You and I, we knew how to rub along together. We had a good partnership. But if you’re honest I know you’ll think the same thing. We weren’t’—I searched the sky for inspiration—‘fireworks.’ ‘Wow.’ She wiped a stray tear from her eye. ‘You must have had your doubts too, Issy.’ Stupidly, I thought she would agree with me. ‘Don’t expect me to make this easier for you, Henry. You see the thing is, I do love you. Very much, as it happens. And I thought we had fireworks.’ I felt ten stone heavier. Her arms were folded tightly around her. What could I say to make it better? ‘I’m so sorry, Isabelle. I truly am. I never wanted to hurt you.’ She said nothing; wouldn’t even meet my eyes. ‘I feel terrible,’ I said. ‘You feel terrible? Try being dumped on the doorstep by your fiancée before we even had a chance to pick out a ring! This must be some kind of record.’ Nothing I said was coming out right. ‘You’re better off without me.’ ‘Finally, something we can agree on.’ With that, she walked back inside and slammed the door in my face. I buried my face in my hands and hardly noticed when the door opened again. ‘And here is all your shit,’ she said, handing me a black plastic bag. ‘I hope she’s worth it.’ The door slammed again. It was late by the time I returned home. There was scaffolding on the house next door, which, in the evening sunlight, made it look as though it were trapped in a gilded cage. I walked up our driveway and noticed an e-bike parked where my mother’s old VW Golf used to be. I turned my key in the door and was hit by the welcome scent of a roast chicken giving me an appetite for food that I thought I
| 0 |
12 |
Fahrenheit 451.txt
| 56 |
heave them into the 'parlour' and turn the switch. It's like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid." Mrs. Bowles tittered. "They'd just as soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back! " The women showed their tongues, laughing. Mildred sat a moment and then, seeing that Montag was still in the doorway, clapped her hands. "Let's talk politics, to please Guy!" "Sounds fine," said Mrs. Bowles. "I voted last election, same as everyone, and I laid it on the line for President Noble. I think he's one of the nicest-looking men who ever became president." "Oh, but the man they ran against him!" "He wasn't much, was he? Kind of small and homely and he didn't shave too close or comb his hair very well." "What possessed the 'Outs' to run him? You just don't go running a little short man like that against a tall man. Besides -he mumbled. Half the time I couldn't hear a word he said. And the words I did hear I didn't understand!" "Fat, too, and didn't dress to hide it. No wonder the landslide was for Winston Noble. Even their names helped. Compare Winston Noble to Hubert Hoag for ten seconds and you can almost figure the results." "Damn it!" cried Montag. "What do you know about Hoag and Noble?" "Why, they were right in that parlour wall, not six months ago. One was always picking his nose; it drove me wild." "Well, Mr. Montag," said Mrs. Phelps, "do you want us to vote for a man like that?" Mildred beamed. "You just run away from the door, Guy, and don't make us nervous." But Montag was gone and back in a moment with a book in his hand. "Guy!" "Damn it all, damn it all, damn it!" "What've you got there; isn't that a book? I thought that all special training these days was done by film." Mrs. Phelps blinked. "You reading up on fireman theory?" "Theory, hell," said Montag. "It's poetry." "Montag." A whisper. "Leave me alone! " Montag felt himself turning in a great circling roar and buzz and hum. "Montag, hold on, don't..." "Did you hear them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!" "I didn't say a single word about any war, I'll have you know," said Mrs, Phelps. "As for poetry, I hate it," said Mrs. Bowles. "Have you ever read any?" "Montag," Faber's voice scraped away at him. "You'll ruin everything. Shut up, you fool!" "All three women were on their feet. "Sit down!" They sat. "I'm going home," quavered Mrs. Bowles. "Montag, Montag, please, in the name of God, what are you up to?" pleaded Faber. "Why don't you just read us one of those poems from your little book," Mrs. Phelps nodded. "I think that'd he very interesting." "That's not right,"
| 1 |
39 |
The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt
| 85 |
his warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon. They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined. St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy and silence. From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests
| 1 |
55 |
Blowback.txt
| 74 |
message. If I decided against it, Hannah said she’d respect my decision and keep the secret. I didn’t doubt her trustworthiness for a minute, but it didn’t matter. Hannah had held up a mirror so I could see what should have been strikingly clear from the outset. Hiding was untenable, politically and personally. I released a statement the morning of October 28, 2020, from my hotel room in Asheville. “Donald Trump is a man without character,” the social media post read. “It’s why I wrote A WARNING… and it’s why me & my colleagues have spoken out against him (in our own names) for months. It’s time for everyone to step out of the shadows.” I linked to a longer statement that confessed everything. Why I went into the Trump administration, why I quit, why I wrote cloaked critiques, why I chose this moment to take responsibility. People could dismiss me, but they couldn’t disregard all of the other officials who’d told the truth about the Trump presidency. I listed their names. “These public servants were not intimidated. And you shouldn’t be either. As descendants of revolutionaries, honest dissent is part of our American character, and we must reject the culture of political intimidation that’s been cultivated by this President. That’s why I’m writing this note—to urge you to speak out if you haven’t.” Beyond my revelation, it was a closing argument about the need to get rid of Donald Trump and the political turmoil affecting our democracy. I ended with a few lines Lincoln delivered when the country was nearing civil war. “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” If we didn’t heed the martyred president’s words and repair our republic, I wrote, America wouldn’t endure. Even I was surprised by what happened next. Within minutes of my posting the statement, a burst of notifications and “BREAKING NEWS” alerts made the calm hotel room feel like a packed stadium. My face appeared on the wall-mounted TV. Every favorable and unfavorable opinion you can imagine—about my political views, my choices, my character—arrived in a ceaseless series of warring dings and vibrations on the desk. I spoke to a few people on the phone, including John Kelly—“I’m proud of you,” he said. His approval should have meant a lot to me in the moment, but once again, the negative reactions stood out in starker relief than the words of encouragement. Trump went on the attack at a campaign event. “You know ‘Anonymous’—this ‘Anonymous’ everybody has been looking for? That law enforcement could’ve found?” he asked the crowd to widespread booing. “It turned out to be a low-level staffer, a sleazebag, a disgruntled employee!” Never mind that Trump’s own White House had referred to me as a “senior administration official” whenever they sent me out to speak publicly. “There should be major criminal liability for some scum like this!” People cheered and whistled. “And you know for a year everybody walks into my office—Secretary of State Pompeo—I
| 0 |
41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 21 |
and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week's baking and enjoy herself thoroughly. Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house. She went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times. She counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits. The sunshine made the whole place look different. The high, deep, blue sky arched over Misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about. She went into the first kitchen-garden and found Ben Weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners. The change in the weather seemed to have done him good. He spoke to her of his own accord. "Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?" Mary sniffed and thought she could. "I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said. "That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black earth after a bit." "What will they be?" asked Mary. "Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?" "No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India," said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night." "These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em." "I am going to," answered Mary. Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question. "Do you think he remembers me?" she said. "Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him." "Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?" Mary inquired. "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again. "The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the
| 1 |
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The Da Vinci Code.txt
| 38 |
this church's mysteries. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has ever found any explanation for it." "Hello?" the altar boy said, arriving with a perturbed look on his face. "Forgive me if this seems rude, but you told me you wanted to spread ashes, and yet you seem to be sightseeing." Teabing scowled at the boy and turned to Langdon. "Mr. Wren, apparently your family's philanthropy does not buy you the time it used to, so perhaps we should take out the ashes and get on with it." Teabing turned to Sophie. "Mrs. Wren?" Sophie played along, pulling the vellum-wrapped cryptex from her pocket. "Now then," Teabing snapped at the boy, "if you would give us some privacy?" The altar boy did not move. He was eyeing Langdon closely now. "You look familiar." Teabing huffed. "Perhaps that is because Mr. Wren comes here every year!" Or perhaps, Sophie now feared, because he saw Langdon on television at the Vatican last year. "I have never met Mr. Wren," the altar boy declared. "You're mistaken," Langdon said politely. "I believe you and I met in passing last year. Father Knowles failed to formally introduce us, but I recognized your face as we came in. Now, I realize this is an intrusion, but if you could afford me a few more minutes, I have traveled a great distance to scatter ashes amongst these tombs." Langdon spoke his lines with Teabing-esque believability. The altar boy's expression turned even more skeptical. "These are not tombs." "I'm sorry?" Langdon said. "Of course they are tombs," Teabing declared. "What are you talking about?" The altar boy shook his head. "Tombs contain bodies. These are effigies. Stone tributes to real men. There are no bodies beneath these figures." "This is a crypt!" Teabing said. "Only in outdated history books. This was believed to be a crypt but was revealed as nothing of the sort during the 1950 renovation." He turned back to Langdon. "And I imagine Mr. Wren would know that. Considering it was his family that uncovered that fact." An uneasy silence fell. It was broken by the sound of a door slamming out in the annex. "That must be Father Knowles," Teabing said. "Perhaps you should go see?" The altar boy looked doubtful but stalked back toward the annex, leaving Langdon, Sophie, and Teabing to eye one another gloomily. "Leigh," Langdon whispered. "No bodies? What is he talking about?" Teabing looked distraught. "I don't know. I always thought... certainly, this must be the place. I can't imagine he knows what he is talking about. It makes no sense!" "Can I see the poem again?" Langdon said. 240 Sophie pulled the cryptex from her pocket and carefully handed it to him. Langdon unwrapped the vellum, holding the cryptex in his hand while he examined the poem. "Yes, the poem definitely references a tomb. Not an effigy." "Could the poem be wrong?" Teabing asked. "Could Jacques Saunire have made the same mistake I just did?" Langdon considered it and shook his head. "Leigh, you said it yourself. This church
| 1 |
2 |
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt
| 3 |
is his before it is mine. How different are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. --And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime, the dean added, to distinguish between moral beauty and material beauty. And to inquire what kind of beauty is proper to each of the various arts. These are some interesting points we might take up. Stephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm, dry tone, was silent; and through the silence a distant noise of many boots and confused voices came up the staircase. --In pursuing these speculations, said the dean conclusively, there is, however, the danger of perishing of inanition. First you must take your degree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by little, you will see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life and in thinking. It may be uphill pedalling at first. Take Mr Moonan. He was a long time before he got to the top. But he got there. --I may not have his talent, said Stephen quietly. --You never know, said the dean brightly. We never can say what is in us. I most certainly should not be despondent. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA. He left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to oversee the arrival of the first arts' class. Leaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly and impartially every Student of the class and could almost see the frank smiles of the coarser students. A desolating pity began to fall like dew upon his easily embittered heart for this faithful serving-man of the knightly Loyola, for this half-brother of the clergy, more venal than they in speech, more steadfast of soul than they, one whom he would never call his ghostly father; and he thought how this man and his companions had earned the name of worldlings at the hands not of the unworldly only but of the worldly also for having pleaded, during all their history, at the bar of God's justice for the souls of the lax and the lukewarm and the prudent. The entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of Kentish fire from the heavy boots of those students who sat on the highest tier of the gloomy theatre under the grey cobwebbed windows. The calling of the roll began and the responses to the names were given out in all tones until the name of Peter Byrne was reached. --Here! A deep bass note in response came from the upper tier, followed by coughs of protest along the other benches. The professor paused in his reading and called the next name: --Cranly! No answer. --Mr Cranly! A smile flew across Stephen's face as he thought of his friend's
| 1 |
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spare.txt
| 19 |
us to a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">place even more remote.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We squinted at the terrain, the skies. Really? Here?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Colder, heavier rain started to come down. The instructors shouted that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we should imagine our helicopter had just crash-landed behind enemy lines,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and our only hope of survival was to go by foot from one end of the moor to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the other, a distance of ten miles. We’d been given a meta narrative, which<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we now recalled: We were a Christian army, fighting a militia sympathetic<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">to Muslims.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Our mission: Evade the enemy, escape the forbidding terrain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Go.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The truck roared away.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Wet, cold, we looked around, looked at each other. Well, this sucks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We had a map, a compass, and each man had a bivvy bag, essentially a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">body-length waterproof sock, to sleep in. No food was allowed.<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">206<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">Which way?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">This way?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">OK.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Bodmin was desolate, allegedly uninhabited, but here and there in the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">distance we saw farmhouses. Lighted windows, smoke curling from brick<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">chimneys. How we longed to knock on a door. In the good old days people<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">would help out the soldiers on exercise, but now things were different.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Locals had been scolded many times by the Army; they knew not to open<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">their doors to strangers with bivvy bags.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">One of the two men on my team was my mate Phil. I liked Phil, but I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">started to feel something like unbounded love for the other man, because he<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">told us he’d visited Bodmin Moor as a summer walker and he knew where<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we were. More, he knew how to get us out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">He led, we followed like children, through the dark and into the next day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">At dawn we found a wood of fir trees. The temperature approached<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">freezing, the rain fell even harder. We said to hell with our solitary bivvy<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bags, and curled up together, spooned actually,
| 0 |
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Lord of the Flies.txt
| 14 |
patches blinked more rapidly, dulled and went out, so that he saw that a great heaviness of smoke lay between the island and the sun. If anyone peered under the bushes and chanced to glimpse human flesh it might be Samneric who would pretend not to see and say nothing. He laid his cheek against the chocolate-colored earth, licked his dry lips and closed his eyes. Under the thicket, the earth was vibrating very slightly; or perhaps there was a sound beneath the obvious thunder of the fire and scribbled ululations that was too low to hear. Someone cried out. Ralph jerked his cheek off the earth and looked into the dulled light. They must be near now, he thought, and his chest began to thump. Hide, break the line, climb a tree--which was the best after all? The trouble was you only had one chance. Now the fire was nearer; those volleying shots were great limbs, trunks even, bursting. The fools! The fools! The fire must be almost at the fruit trees--what would they eat tomorrow? Ralph stirred restlessly in his narrow bed. One chanced nothing! What could they do? Beat him? So what? Kill him? A stick sharpened at both ends. The cries, suddenly nearer, jerked him up. He could see a striped savage moving hastily out of a green tangle, and coming toward the mat where he hid, a savage who carried a spear. Ralph gripped his fingers into the earth. Be ready now, in case. Ralph fumbled to hold his spear so that it was point foremost; and now he saw that the stick was sharpened at both ends. The savage stopped fifteen yards away and uttered his cry. Perhaps he can hear my heart over the noises of the fire. Don't scream. Get ready. The savage moved forward so that you could only see him from the waist down. That was the butt of his spear. Now you could see him from the knee down. Don't scream. A herd of pigs came squealing out of the greenery behind the savage and rushed away into the forest. Birds were screaming, mice shrieking, and a little hopping thing came under the mat and cowered. Five yards away the savage stopped, standing right by the thicket, and cried out. Ralph drew his feet up and crouched. The stake was in his hands, the stake sharpened at both ends, the stake that vibrated so wildly, that grew long, short, light, heavy, light again. The ululation spread from shore to shore. The savage knelt down by the edge of the thicket, and there were lights flickering in the forest behind him. You could see a knee disturb the mold. Now the other. Two hands. A spear. A face. The savage peered into the obscurity beneath the thicket. You could tell that he saw light on this side and on that, but not in the middle--there. In the middle was a blob of dark and the savage wrinkled up his face, trying to decipher the darkness. The seconds lengthened. Ralph was looking straight
| 1 |
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Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 89 |
a nuclear explosion. We need to clean it up.” “What’s the worst thing the guy is going to do? Maybe, I dunno, he’ll wake up and simply want to watch a movie and see the elephants at Chapultepec. He won’t bother anyone.” “He’ll want to do more than see the elephants.” “You don’t know that.” “I think I do. He’ll be angry, he’ll be hungry, and he’ll want to fuck up the world.” “How can you be sure?” Because she knows the guy, he thought, and she was glad she didn’t actually say this, instead making a vague gesture, but it was the truth. She’d spent enough time reading his book that she had a pretty good idea of who he was. Tristán didn’t like that; it made him nervous. “All right, yeah, I don’t think he and his cult want peace and world harmony. And I know I can’t carry Karina with me anymore, I know now is the time to let her go, but it’s hard.” Tristán pressed both hands against his face. He felt Montserrat’s hand on his shoulder. He brushed her aside, as gently as he could, then walked out of the room and into a small bathroom. He’d been near water the previous times he’d seen Karina. He didn’t know if water was necessary, but he thought it might help. He also wanted to be alone. He couldn’t attempt this with Montserrat by his side. He held up Karina’s photograph with two fingers, carefully looking at every feature and detail of the snapshot. “I should have taken flowers to your grave. You loved pink roses,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He tried to think of Karina as she’d been in the photo, energetic, full of possibilities, instead of the way he’d seen her in the bathroom the last time: bloodied, with cuts on her face and body. He hadn’t loved Karina the way she needed to be loved, but he did miss her, and he felt true sorrow at the memory of her loss. The bathroom remained cool and quiet. He didn’t notice a change. He wasn’t sure how you were supposed to formulate spells with nothing but need and loneliness. He drew a “K” on the mirror in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut and whispered her name. He remained like that for a long time, until his head was throbbing and he heard the faint whisper of footsteps on the tiled floor. He turned his head and she was there, standing next to him. Karina, with her mournful eyes. She did not cough blood, and glass did not spill from the folds of her clothing. She simply stood by his side, and he raised a hand in a mute goodbye. He took out his lighter and pressed the flame against a corner of the photo. Tristán let the photograph fall into the sink, where it curled up and smoldered, a bitter trail of smoke rising in the air. He stared at the tiny bits of black left behind, opened the faucet until the ashes
| 0 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 58 |
the contract includes a clause. In the event of his death, the heir to Inys may wed another relative of Queen Rozaria of Yscalin – in the first or second degree, specifically – within the next month.’ ‘Usually the clause is included because one of the parties has some illness, or partakes in dangerous pursuits,’ Lade Edith said. ‘A sensible precaution. Prince Therico had a fragile constitution.’ Lord Randroth set the document in question on the table. ‘Two members of the House of Vetalda who fit the description were, tragically, killed with him. However, there is another, who is free to wed. If you were to accept him, it would mean we could proceed as planned. We would not have to seek other candidates or negotiate favourable terms, which will prove almost impossible in wartime. We would preserve our historic union with Queen Rozaria.’ ‘I thought all her other grandchildren married,’ Glorian said. ‘You had it right, Queen Glorian.’ Lade Edith loosened their collar, looking a little faint. ‘Forgive me. I truly do not believe we should consider this, but the Lord Protector—’ ‘—is in favour,’ Lord Randroth finished. ‘He knows the man well, and vouches for his conduct.’ Glorian nodded. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Prince Guma Vetalda.’ Florell, who had been waiting outside the Council Chamber, now ventured into it. ‘Prince Guma,’ she echoed. ‘Lord Randroth, you can’t possibly be talking about the Duke of Kóvuga.’ ‘You are not permitted to enter the Council Chamber, Lady Florell.’ ‘Who is Prince Guma?’ Glorian asked. ‘Who is he to Queen Rozaria?’ Florell stared at the three councillors, then let out a high, queer laugh that unsettled Glorian. ‘Prince Guma,’ she said, ‘is her twin brother.’ ‘Queen Rozaria is . . . at least seventy years old.’ Lade Edith drained their entire goblet of wine. ‘Seventy-four in a few weeks’ time.’ In the hearth, the fire crackled and spat. ‘What in the Saint’s name is this madness?’ Florell whispered. ‘The Lord Protector stresses that it would be your choice, Queen Glorian,’ Lady Brangain said, though her face was pinched. ‘He told us we should be honest with you, and that he trusted you to take the wisest course of action.’ She slid an envelope across the table. ‘He left you a letter.’ It was sealed with green wax, the seal shaped like a crowned sheaf of wheat. When Glorian broke it, she found lines of neat handwriting. Your Grace, I must leave to instruct the Earls Provincial, and so I write in haste. I trust you have been informed of the tragedy clause in your marriage contract. Prince Guma is a good and canny man, who spent much of his youth defending Yscalin from free raiders and other threats. I have met him several times during my visits to the mainland and found him amiable, honourable and kind. His castle sits in the Saurga Mountains, giving him command of the Ufarassus, the largest gold mine in the West. I am reliably informed this mine is nowhere close to playing out. I will be frank: after
| 0 |
96 |
We-Could-Be-So Good.txt
| 31 |
Andy sighs. “I don’t think I can eat any more.” He gets up. Well, Nick supposes that settles it. Even if Andy’s attracted to him, he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Nick is mortified, but better to figure this out now than later. It’ll be embarrassing for a few days and they’ll get over it. That’s the important thing, not the heavy lump of disappointment that’s settled in his stomach. Before he can figure out what to do next, what to say to return things to normal, Andy speaks again. “So,” Andy says as he rinses his dish in the sink. “I have news.” “Oh?” He turns to face Nick, his hands gripping the edge of the sink behind him. “I’m going to Washington with Bob Diamond,” he says, naming the Chronicle’s Washington correspondent. “Next weekend there’s going to be a march for school integration. Dr. King is going to speak.” This, Nick guesses, is Andy’s father’s attempt to get Andy experience covering national news. It makes sense. It also means that Andy’s time at the city desk is probably coming to an end. But it’s good news for Andy, and Nick tries to sound like he’s happy about it. “That’s great,” Nick says. “When are you going?” “Tomorrow morning.” Andy is resolutely looking at some spot just beyond Nick’s ear. “Tomorrow?” Nick frowns. “And the march is next weekend?” “This way I can get the lay of the land beforehand.” Probably this means that Andy is going to spend the week shadowing Bob or meeting other reporters. Still, though. He’s leaving tomorrow and hasn’t thought to mention it until now? That isn’t like Andy. He hasn’t even packed. “What time do you need to wake up?” Nick has a sense that all airplanes leave at ungodly hours. Andy looks away. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to my father.” “He didn’t let you know? Or—wait—you didn’t plan on going until now.” That’s fine. Andy is allowed to make spur-of-the-moment decisions. He doesn’t need to explain his every move to Nick. There’s no reason for Nick to be taking this personally, but he’s doing it anyway. “It’s a good opportunity,” Andy says, which answers none of Nick’s questions. “They’re expecting tens of thousands of marchers.” “I hope—I hope you—I hope it’s good,” Nick says stupidly. “Yeah.” “I’m sorry I put pepper in the eggs,” Nick blurts out, apologizing for the one thing he can apologize for without making everything worse. Andy’s Presbyterian; he can barely handle a shake of black pepper and Nick knows better. “Do you want me to make you something else? A fried egg, maybe?” Andy’s expression softens, and it’s only then that Nick realizes Andy’s been looking—not annoyed, but agitated. Anxious. “No,” Andy says. “I really wasn’t hungry. The eggs were fine.” “Okay.” Nick isn’t convinced. Andy does the dishes—that’s his job, because Nick cooks—and Nick takes a shower. He turns the tap until the water is as hot as he can stand it, then shampoos the hell out of his hair. When he gets
| 0 |
59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 66 |
thinks of Helen in bed with Paris, right at this very moment, their perfect bodies woven together, moving like a dance. * * * The army leaves at dawn. Clytemnestra wraps herself in a cloak and goes to the Lion Gate to watch. Orestes is already there, waving to his father, his curls a messy knot on his head. Outside the citadel, the road is thick with soldiers, polishing their armor, soothing their horses. The sky has cleared after the storm, and now the shields are glistening in the warm light. At the gate, Agamemnon looks up and their eyes lock. Then he spurs his horse, and his men follow, the banners of Mycenae flying like golden swans around them. Last night, before falling asleep, he told her he would return for her. “You know you can’t escape me. I always come back. So be a good wife for once and wait.” Now, as she watches him against the brightening sky, she hopes her husband will die in the war. 24 Aulis IT HAS BEEN just two weeks since the army’s departure when an envoy no older than a boy comes to Mycenae. His hair is as black and shiny as olives, and his tunic is covered with dust and dirt. Clytemnestra receives him in the megaron, sitting on her husband’s throne. Leon is at her side, polishing his sword, yawning. It has been a boring day so far, filled with merchants’ requests and noble women’s gossip. “Where do you come from?” she asks as servants give the envoy bread and water. He takes it too willingly, coughing when he almost chokes himself. He clearly isn’t used to speaking to royalty. “Aulis, my queen,” he says. She frowns. “Who sent you?” “The king and lord of men, Agamemnon, my queen.” Lord of men. Her husband has already found himself a pretty name. The boy pants, drinking some more water. “He wants you to go to Aulis and meet him there with your eldest daughter.” “Why would he send you and not a general?” The boy looks apologetic. He scratches a scab on his elbow. “All the men are preparing for the war, my queen. The generals must stay with the lord of men, Agamemnon. So they found me in the village and sent me.” “And what does my husband want?” The boy stands straight, proud to give the news. “A marriage, my queen.” “A marriage?” The boy nods, his eyes shiny with excitement. “Among the generals, there is the greatest warrior who ever lived, Achilles Pelides.” The son of Peleus. “King Agamemnon wants your oldest daughter to marry him before the troops sail for Troy.” Leon’s head jerks up. He stares at the boy with contempt. “Why would Iphigenia marry a man who is about to leave for war?” he asks. The envoy gives him a perplexed look, then turns back to Clytemnestra. “The army will be ready to sail soon, but King Agamemnon says that the men need to be cheered up before the long war. He says that a wedding
| 0 |
12 |
Fahrenheit 451.txt
| 0 |
And the leg was at last his own leg again. He had been afraid that running might break the loose ankle. Now, sucking all the night into his open mouth, and blowing it out pale, with all the blackness left heavily inside himself, he set out in a steady jogging pace. He carried the books in his hands. He thought of Faber. Faber was back there in the steaming lump of tar that had no name or identity now. He had burnt Faber, too. He felt so suddenly shocked by this that he felt Faber was really dead, baked like a roach in that small green capsule shoved and lost in the pocket of a man who was now nothing but a frame skeleton strung with asphalt tendons. You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you, he thought. Right now it's as simple as that. He searched his pockets, the money was there, and in his other pocket he found the usual Seashell upon which the city was talking to itself in the cold black morning. "Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive in city. Has committed murder and crimes against the State. Name: Guy Montag. Occupation: Fireman. Last seen . . ." He ran steadily for six blocks, in the alley, and then the alley opened out on to a wide empty thoroughfare ten lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless river frozen there in the raw light of the high white arc-lamps; you could drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was too wide, it was too open. It was a vast stage without scenery, inviting him to run across, easily seen in the blazing illumination, easily caught, easily shot down. The Seashell hummed in his ear. "... watch for a man running ... watch for the running man . . . watch for a man alone, on foot . . . watch..." Montag pulled back into the shadows. Directly ahead lay a gas station, a great chunk of porcelain snow shining there, and two silver beetles pulling in to fill up. Now he must be clean and presentable if he wished, to walk, not run, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard. It would give him an extra margin of safety if he washed up and combed his hair before he went on his way to get where . . . ? Yes, he thought, where am I running? Nowhere. There was nowhere to go, no friend to turn to, really. Except Faber. And then he realized that he was indeed, running toward Faber's house, instinctively. But Faber couldn't hide him; it would be suicide even to try. But he knew that he would go to see Faber anyway, for a few short minutes. Faber's would be the place where he might refuel his fast draining belief in his own ability to survive. He just wanted to know that there was a man like Faber in the world. He wanted to see the man alive and not burned back there like a body shelled in another body. And some of the
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51 |
A Spell of Good Things.txt
| 68 |
them at all. The white car swung out into the street and sped off. He stood there, watching it go. What if many of the big men who worshipped here came to church in cars that had tinted windows? The next car to come out of the church was identical to the first, but the driver’s window was rolled all the way down. When it slowed to a stop, Ẹniọlá stuck his bowl inside the window and pointed at the sign on his chest. The driver, who wore a plain white T-shirt, scoffed before hunching over the steering wheel to look past Ẹniọlá at the lane to his left. Ẹniọlá bent down to bring his face closer to the window. The driver glanced right and left again before honking at pedestrians who were coming out of the church compound into the street. “Samson,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere in the car. “Yes ma!” The driver sat up straight. “Read that boy’s sign to me.” “Madam, this one I’m looking at is not a boy-o, he’s taller than me, sef. Small time now, he will be growing beard.” “Samson!” “Okay ma.” The driver glared at Ẹniọlá before squinting at the sign. “ ‘Please help me. I’m a deaf and dumb orphan.’ ” Ẹniọlá grunted and pushed his face closer to Samson’s, hoping that whoever was in the back seat would see him. “Give him that change from this morning,” the voice from the back said. “Yes ma.” Samson reached into his trouser pocket and dropped a crumpled two-hundred-naira note in Ẹniọlá’s bowl. Ẹniọlá bowed his head in thanks and waved at the car as it drove off. The road was clear when the next few cars came out. Ẹniọlá’s mouth went dry as he watched them speed away, leaving him with a nearly empty bowl. Fees paid or not, Ẹniọlá knew his parents would insist that he go to school the next day. Just in case, his mother would say, just in case the school decides to write off some fees, just in case the principal forgets about the debtors, just in case you’re allowed to take a few classes before being sent away. All of this would seem possible to him until the moment came when Mr. Bísádé shouted his name. It might be during the morning assembly or before the end of first period, but always, always, it was in front of his peers. Although a light breeze fanned his face, sweat trickled down Ẹniọlá’s back as cars zoomed past him. If all the car-owning parishioners left before he made enough money, he would be stuck with people who could not even afford to bring a car to church. How much would those ones drop in his bowl? Tattered, dirty, sellotaped five-naira notes? Those coins that had just been reintroduced but were useless, because not even bàbá dúdú was sold for fifty kobo or one naira anymore? Was one naira actually money if you could not even buy sweets with it? Twelve one-naira coins had been thrown in his bowl
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23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 10 |
Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar. But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason --a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah's going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris's Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil. .. <p 365 > .. < chapter lxxxiv 2 PITCHPOLING > To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event. Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium. Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained? Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manoeuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its .. <p 366 > exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an
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58 |
Confidence_-a-Novel.txt
| 68 |
came out a week later. “Bliss Effect: The Combined Genius of Orson Ortman and Dexter Ellhorn.” Orson and Dexter standing arms akimbo among a sea of mini drones. Orson flying a drone while Dexter watched. Orson and Dexter and Mickey peering out of the air taxi, hovering in midair. I speed-read the profile aloud while Orson lay in the hotel bed next to me. As usual, I had Brianna book us two rooms, and as usual, we’d completely neglected one of them. Orson was still naked from our exploits, smoking, staring at the ceiling. I was spent and giddy, a compound coursing through my system that I could only describe as him. “Well that was nice,” he said, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed. “That was a lot of nice things at once.” “All merited.” He turned on his side and draped his leg across mine. “Maybe yes, maybe no.” His smile was tense, and there was an opacity in his gaze that gave me pause. “What’s wrong?” “Mm,” he said, and then said nothing else. “What?” “There’s just a lot going on.” I sat up on my elbows. “Like what?” “Like a lot.” He flopped onto his back again. “I don’t know what to say.” Now I could feel myself beginning to sweat. “You can say anything.” “You’re not going to like it.” “Just say it.” “I don’t think we should sleep together for a while.” “What do you mean.” I couldn’t bring myself to inflect the question. “Well, you know—the people coming to the Farm are very traditional. They’ve got kids. They’re straight.” “You’re not straight, though.” He sighed. “But I have to play a certain role. I have to be as the people see me.” “Be as the people see you?” “I have to lead.” He fished another cigarette from his pack on the bedside table and lit it, exhaled a thick plume into the air above us. “A lot of people are looking to me to lead.” I rubbed my cheeks, trying to digest the information, but it was inorganic, poisonous. “Orson,” I said. He didn’t acknowledge me. “You get it, little dude, right? The whole thing has to be, I don’t know, uniform. Presentable. Convincing.” Then the awful drumbeat behind my eyes again. It felt worse than before, worse than it had in a year. I imagined there was blood dripping from my tear ducts. I tried to think of the Lumigan, when I’d last used it. I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t gotten my prescription refilled since I’d spilled the bottle at the Farm. “Ez?” I waved him away. “You’re wincing.” There was a tenderness in his voice that I suddenly resented. “I’m fine,” I said. He touched my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I rolled away from him, unseeing, my eyes pulsing. When I tried to look up, there was only a shape that suggested the ceiling fan: everything around it was constricted by darkness. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Ez.” He sounded worried now. “What’s happening?” “Nothing.” “Something’s clearly happening.” “I’m having a migraine.” He
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51 |
A Spell of Good Things.txt
| 19 |
sure his clothes, though threadbare, were clean before each wear. On Saturdays, she washed everyone’s clothes with soda, the round yellow bars peeling back her skin with each soak. She did not allow her children to wash their own clothes because of how harsh the soda soaps were. Her hands, she often said, were ruined already. Ẹniọlá and Bùsọ́lá should keep theirs as long as they could. “I’ll tell my wife to give you a spray before you leave,” Honourable said. “Some anti-perspirant. I sweat a lot too, so I understand what’s going on with you.” Ẹniọlá looked up. Honourable seemed sincere. He was not mocking him. Honourable leaned back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. “Stand up, let me see you.” Ẹniọlá stood, pressing his bare feet firmly into the plush rug because he worried that he might sway on his feet. He felt his throat dry up as the older man’s gaze swept over his body. Honourable’s face was expressionless, as though he were looking not at a human being but an unpainted concrete wall. “How old are you?” Honourable asked. “Sixteen sir.” “You’re eighteen, do you understand?” Honourable said. “Yes sir.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Maybe Honourable would ask him to register to vote in the next year’s election. He had to be eighteen to get a voter’s card. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done.” “Sir?” “Out with it. At eighteen, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Stabbed someone? Now, don’t lie. Your friends must have told you that is the number one rule here, all liars end up in the fire, they told you that, right?” Ẹniọlá nodded. They had told him no such thing, but he did not want to get them in trouble. He cleared his throat. “Last month, I stole a phone from a woman who was sitting in front of me in church.” “Hmmm, were there people beside you?” “Yes sir.” “How come they didn’t see you take the phone?” “Everyone was praying sir, so their eyes were closed.” “I see. Where was this phone?” “The phone?” “When you took it, where was it? Was it in her bag?” “No sir. She put it beside her on the bench, I just had to reach forward a little.” “So she was careless.” Honourable stood up, lifted the folds of his agbádá and settled the dark blue fabric on his shoulders. “You see, if she really valued that phone, it would have been in her bag. She would have protected it. What is that thing they say? A goat can only eat what is left uncared for, àbí? You took your chance, I like that. One must take everything life has offered up. Gobble up every chance and opportunity. And so, what happened after you took this phone? Tell me.” Honourable’s voice was warm now, his face creased into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “I switched off the phone and left the church immediately. I knew she would try to call it once she noticed it was
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56 |
Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt
| 0 |
on me that first day mid–Fizzy googling before Ella interrupts to breathlessly explain that she isn’t a big reader but knows everything about every dating show ever and cannot wait for the show to start tonight. Ash mostly stands off to the side smiling at the countertop and trying not to make direct eye contact. I’ve been so wrapped up in the Fizzyness of the situation tonight I’ve barely let myself think about the show. But when it’s time and everyone crowds into my living room, the nerves finally kick in. Likewise, Fizzy declines food or a glass of wine, saying she’s not sure it will stay down. Everyone tries to get Fizzy to sit on the couch in the center of the room—she is the star, after all—but she insists it will only make her more anxious. She needs space to pace and possibly escape if needed. Everyone laughs, and that’s how Fizzy ends up standing in the back with me. The room falls into silence as the opening notes of the theme song play. The glossy True Love Experiment logo appears on the screen, followed by our host. Just as we hoped, Lanelle Turner is the perfect amount of funny and relatable as she introduces herself and explains the premise of the show. We’ll meet our Heroine, and her eight Heroes. Along with Fizzy, each contestant has undergone the popular DNADuo screening, and the results have been sealed. Not even the producers know the outcome. It will be up to the audience to follow each date and vote for who they think is Fizzy’s soulmate. Each week the votes will be tallied, and two Heroes will be eliminated. In the final episode, the DNADuo scores will be revealed, and we’ll see if the audience or science has been a better predictor of Fizzy’s soulmate. The Hero chosen by the audience will win a $100,000 cash prize, and, after the scores are revealed, Fizzy will have the chance to choose who she takes along for an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji. Hopefully, the audience correctly chooses her true love and happily ever after. But first, the audience gets to meet River. When Lanelle mentions his name, the room around me fills with applause, the loudest—including a few catcalls and whistles—from Nat and Fizzy. When I asked Fizzy how she managed to convince him, she first told me she used nature’s credit card. When I didn’t get it— Sex, Connor. Oh my God, a dirty joke doesn’t work if I have to explain it! —she said she told him that by laying out the science himself, he controlled the narrative, and therefore how people would see it. It didn’t mean he was necessarily backing the show, only his technology. Now, footage of River walking through the halls of the Salk and working in a lab fills the screen, followed by a voiceover of him explaining the initial idea, and the years and years of research that went into developing it. He’s careful to clarify that it isn’t about finding people with similar DNA.
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6 |
Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt
| 26 |
previous. He answered nothing. “Will you, or will you not, quit me?” I now demanded in a sudden passion, advancing close to him. “I would prefer not to quit you,” he replied, gently emphasizing the not. “What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you pay my taxes? Or is this property yours?” He answered nothing. “Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could you copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few lines? or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do any thing at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the premises?” He silently retired into his hermitage. I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt. But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from higher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and prudent principle—a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have committed murder for jealousy’s sake, and anger’s sake, and hatred’s sake, and selfishness’ sake, and spiritual pride’s sake; but no man that ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet charity’s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be enlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings to charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in question, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the scrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor fellow! thought I, he don’t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen hard times, and ought to be indulged. I endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to comfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the morning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him. Bartleby, of his own free accord, would emerge from
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