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17 |
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt
| 66 |
here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch. Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find -- how about -- up a tree?" "Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!" Harry grabbed his broom. "No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move -- you'll get us all into trouble." Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him -- and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught -- this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron. He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned. "Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!" "Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried. Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping. "No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called. The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. "Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground. Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down -- next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball -- wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching -- he stretched out his hand -- a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist. "HARRY POTTER!" His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling. "Never -- in all my time at Hogwarts -- " Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, " -- how dare you -- might have broken your neck -- " "It wasn't his fault, Professor -- " "Be quiet, Miss Patil -- " "But Malfoy -- " "That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now." Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the
| 1 |
90 |
The-Lost-Bookshop.txt
| 15 |
to mine until our lips touched. To say that I saw fireworks would have been an exaggeration, but to say that I felt fireworks in my entire network of blood vessels would have been one hundred per cent accurate. I bent my head and kissed her as though it was the first time I had ever kissed anyone. It felt brand-new. We fit perfectly together. Her fingertips skated from my chest up along my jawline and then through my hair. I pulled her hips closer to mine and heard her sigh. I stopped for a moment and spoke, my own voice hardly recognisable as it had dropped to the husky octave of Barry White. ‘Is this okay?’ She nodded and then her lips were back on mine. I don’t know how long we stood there, it could have been twenty minutes or twenty seconds, before a customer came in and cleared his throat loudly. While silently vowing to murder him in his sleep, I found Martha’s hand and curled mine around it. ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ ‘There’s something I have to do first,’ she said and she dragged me out of the shop, making a run for it. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Trinity. I have five minutes left to register for my course!’ Chapter Twenty-Two OPALINE England, 1922 My trip began as planned, with a visit to the Brontë Society. Merely to stand where the Brontë sisters had stood, to look out at the moors that inspired Emily’s writing, was such a touching experience. The house itself stood like a fortress, its grey brick tempered by the large sash windows. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live there, daughters of a fervently religious man, pressed up against the wilds of such an unyielding landscape. Young women, spinsters like myself, ignored by the world of men and literature, pouring their heart and passion into their writing and taking on the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. I stood there in Mr Fitzpatrick’s trousers and a long overcoat, similarly at odds with the constraints of our gender. It was also a disguise, in case Lyndon had his spies out. After Patrick Brontë’s death, the entire contents of the house were either auctioned off or gifted to those who worked at Haworth. The Society was fortunate enough to have acquired much of these effects and their archives were quite impressive. I came across poems by Emily, annotated by elder sister Charlotte, immediately giving me the impression of a sibling power struggle, albeit a loving one. It was common knowledge that Charlotte was critical of her younger sister’s masterpiece. In the preface to the 1850 edition of Wuthering Heights, where Emily’s authorship was finally recognised, Charlotte wrote: Whether it is right or advisable to create beings like Heathcliff, I do not know: I scarcely think it is. Wuthering Heights was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. Charlotte was the only one of the sisters to marry. She married Arthur
| 0 |
46 |
To Kill a Mockingbird.txt
| 77 |
over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him... an' he did it so quick, like... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit somethin'...." Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?" "Nome," I said meekly. "Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he called. When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. "Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said. "What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County." Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us." "Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said. "Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything- I wouldn't care if he couldn't do a blessed thing." Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!" 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without passing her
| 1 |
56 |
Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt
| 53 |
so his adorable assistant is good at the Google. That must be why I’m here. “Base Paired it is.” Hot Brit spreads his hands magnanimously. “It’s a clever idea, Felicity, and the timing was great.” Or maybe he’s not so good at the Google: anyone who knows me either personally or professionally knows that the only people who call me Felicity are my former schoolteachers, and even then only on the first day of class or when I was in trouble. Anyway, despite his patronizing tone, he’s right—the timing was great. I wrote Base Paired just as GeneticAlly launched the DNADuo app, and its publication dovetailed perfectly with the rising hype of the technology. That book, about two sworn enemies who turn out to be a Diamond Match, spent a long time on the bestseller list. But after a small production company failed to sell a series, I got the rights back last month. “Listen, Ted—” “Connor.” “—I’m going to be honest,” I say, rolling past this because, frankly, his name doesn’t much matter. “The rights are available, and I’m not opposed to working with someone to adapt it into a film or series, but this project is special to me for a lot of reasons, and I’m wary of—” He holds up a giant man hand. “Sorry to interrupt. It’s just—that’s not why I asked for a meeting.” I am immediately confused. And maybe a little annoyed with myself for skimming my agent’s email. “What?” “I’m not interested in adapting Base Paired.” Hot Brit shakes his head. “I’m curious whether you’re open to being cast as the lead in an upcoming show.” At this, I frown, concerned. “I’m an author.” “Yes.” “I felt like we were on the same page for a minute.” I wave a finger back and forth between us. “But that question took us to different genres.” He laughs, and not only does it seem to come from some sexy depth in his chest, it also reveals a small dimple, low on one cheek. Tall, British, and dimpled? Never trust a cliché. “We’d like to offer you the role of the central character in an upcoming reality dating show.” I stare blankly at him. “Me?” “Yes.” “A dating show?” “Yes.” “One where I’m dating?” “Yes.” “Is this a joke?” I am immediately suspicious. And then it clicks. I went on a couple of dates last year with a community theater director who insisted he had lots of connections in the feature world. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so obvious in my disbelief. “Did Steven put you up to this?” “Steven?” “I don’t remember his last name,” I admit. “But picture the hot guitar-playing college heartthrob archetype, then add twenty years to his jawline.” Hot Brit frowns. “I don’t—Yeah, no. There’s no Steven involved in this.” Oh. Of course. “Billy? He used to work at Paramount.” I mime muscles. “Gym rat? Shaves everything?” He shakes his head, bewildered. “It’s coming from—” “Evan.” I slap the arm of the leather chair. “Goddammit, of course!” I look at Hot Brit. “He
| 0 |
68 |
I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt
| 18 |
he wanted a glass of water.” She explained that she’d felt herself to be a child, she was a child, she was naïve, so young. And Jerome, aged thirty-six, had been a full-fledged adult. Having married Jerome when he was thirty-nine, I can attest that he was still in most ways a child, as he continues to be. At thirty-nine, the only dinner he could make was eggplant parmesan. He would ruin suede sneakers in the washing machine. He’d never registered to vote. I’m wary of the narrative that suggests men mature so slowly that they pair best with younger women; I just mean that Jerome in particular was not terribly grown-up in his thirties. Jerome took an interest in her work, Jasmine said to the next person who sat down, a woman with a squirmy toddler. He asked Jasmine about her own art over dinner, told her it sounded exciting. They began sleeping together, he introduced her to friends in the art world, he was a shitty boyfriend. For instance: He broke up with her on her birthday, begged her forgiveness the next morning. He left used condoms on her floor. He told her he hated wearing condoms at all. He ordered a pizza for them, but it had pepperoni, because he’d forgotten she didn’t eat pork. He told her he couldn’t be monogamous. She didn’t like having sex in the morning, but he did, so she agreed to it but didn’t enjoy it as much, and he knew she didn’t enjoy it as much but he still asked for it, and she obliged. Once, he woke her at four in the morning and they had sex because he asked, but she kept drifting off and so he stopped. I kept waiting for the bombshell, the moment when he would pin her down or hit her or threaten to ruin her career—the thing I wouldn’t recognize as Jerome, that would forever change my sense of him; the thing that would make me divorce him for good and get custody of the kids; the thing that would derail his career and lead to his unanimous public censure. But forty-five minutes in, she was wrapping things up (circling the bench again like a lioness) and it had gotten no worse than undesirable—but consensual—morning sex. She looked at the camera for the first time, and she said, “Have you ever lost something somewhere, a book or a necklace, and you—it feels like you left an arm back there, or an ear? You’re missing a part of yourself, and—I left a part of myself in Denver in 2003. I left parts of myself all over this country. What I left back there, it was—” And here she made a fist in front of her stomach, and I understood it as a pit, a missing pit in her core. “—I can’t ever find it.” Fair enough. Her trauma was real. (This was, incidentally, what so many of the Twitter comments said. I see you, Jasmine, and I see your trauma.) I felt ancient, from some elderly
| 0 |
63 |
Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt
| 40 |
the Citadel. It will be the peasants in their villages, the poison runners in the streets. People like you.” He said it like it bothered him. She hoped it did. Gabriel appealing to her sense of greater good—did she even have that? She wanted to—and Anton appealing to her sense of self-preservation. Death on one end, blackmail at the other. “This leads us nicely to the second part of your assignment,” Anton said, as if following a carefully constructed script. “Necromancy is not the only skill you possess that is useful to us. You are also an accomplished spy.” “Accomplished might be pushing it,” Lore muttered. Anton continued as if he hadn’t heard. “We have reason to believe that someone within the Court of the Citadel is passing information on to Kirythea. Possibly the Sun Prince himself.” Lore’s eyes widened until they ached. “You want me to spy on the fucking Sun Prince?” “We just want you to stay near him,” Anton said. He gestured to her. “You’re a pretty enough woman, and Bastian likes pretty people. Insinuating yourself into his good graces once you’re established as part of the court shouldn’t be an issue.” She knew what all those words meant individually, but strung together like that, she had a hard time following. “I don’t—what do you mean, part of the court—” “Things will be clearer once we speak to my brother.” Anton glanced upward, as if he could see straight through the ceiling to the sunshine outside and use it to tell the time. “Which we should go do as soon as possible. The Consecration ceremony begins in just a few hours.” His eye came back to rest on her, the handsome side of his face perfectly peaceful. “So what will it be, Lore? The Isles, or the court?” Put so baldly, it wasn’t much of a choice at all. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Gabriel almost looked relieved. Anton inclined his head, like her answer was exactly what he expected. “Come on, then,” he said, headed toward the door. “The Sainted King doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” CHAPTER FIVE And Nyxara, hungry for power, did attempt to take Apollius’s rightful place—thus, He cast Her down, over the sea and the Golden Mount where They dwelt, and over the Fount that had made them gods. Where She landed, the earth blackened into coal, and where He bled, the ground grew jewels like fruit. And They were known from this point as the Buried Goddess and the Bleeding God. —The Book of Holy Law, Tract 3 Apparently, Lore’s oversize man’s shirt and muddy breeches weren’t suitable for an audience with His Royal Majesty, August Arceneaux, the Sainted King and Apollius’s Blessed. Outside of the interrogation room, Anton had waved her down a small hallway. “Donations,” he said simply, gesturing to Gabriel that he should follow. “Find something that fits. Preferably on the conservative side.” Now Lore stood in a giant closet, stuffed to the brim with sumptuous clothing that no one outside of the Citadel could possibly use. On the conservative
| 0 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 66 |
ordinary; (adj, n) ANTONYMS: (adj, adv) right; (adv) unacceptable native; (n) citizen, local perfectly, properly, suitably, aided: (adj) power, favored alienation: (n) estrangement, appropriately, correctly, well; (adj) aiding: (adj) healthy, subventitious, abalienation, disaffection, dislike, okay, correct, good subsidiary, serviceable, auxiliary, separation, transfer, breach, frenzy, amused: (adj) amusing, smiling, convenient insanity, conveyance; (adj) madness tickled pink, pleased, diverted ailment: (n) complaint, affection, alight: (v) light, land, perch, amusing: (adj) humorous, fun, disease, trouble, condition, ill, dismount, get down, settle, get off, pleasant, entertaining, risible, disorder, sickness, affliction; (adj, n) descend; (adj) ablaze, burning, comical, diverting, enjoyable, infirmity; (v) distemper blazing. ANTONYM: (v) mount laughable, agreeable, pleasing. airily: (adv) gaily, breezily, allot: (v) assign, distribute, apportion, ANTONYMS: (adj) tragic, boring, cheerfully, visionarily, ethereally, dispense, grant, deal, administer, unpleasant, unfunny, tiring, grim, slightly, flippantly, freshly, jauntily, portion, allow, set, split. depressing, sad, annoying, heavy, sprightly, lively ANTONYMS: (v) retain, disallow, serious airing: (n, v) drive, ride, outing; (n) keep, refuse, reject, take analytical: (adj) rational, curious, aeration, stroll, saunter, walk, allowable: (adj, v) permissible; (adj) inquisitive, systematic, critical, expedition, improvement, turn, justifiable, acceptable, lawful, logical, methodical, judicious, journey permitted, tolerable, bearable, perceptive, prognostic, airy: (adj) light, windy, aery, aerial, passable, sufferable, legal; (v) mathematical. ANTONYMS: (adj) ethereal, insubstantial, sprightly, allowed. ANTONYMS: (adj) synthetic, synthetical, disorganized, perky, volatile, aeriform, aired. inexcusable, inadmissible, chaotic, unsystematic, intuitive ANTONYMS: (adj) airless, hot, intolerable ancestor: (n) forerunner, forefather, massive, wooden, weighty, alloy: (n) amalgam, admixture, blend, parent, father, precursor, substantial, stifling, sluggish, mixture, fusion, compound; (adj, v) antecedent, forebear, forbear, ponderous, musty, lumbering sophisticate; (v) devalue, mix, prototype, ancestry, ascendant. akin: (adj) near, like, allied, debase, deteriorate. ANTONYMS: ANTONYMS: (n) descendant, equivalent, alike, similar, analogous, (v) clean, clear, separate successor, offspring, progeny parallel, cognate, kindred, almighty: (adj) omnipotent, ancestral: (adj) family, patrimonial, corresponding. ANTONYMS: (adj) powerful, potent, great, supreme; heritable, genetic, linear, patriarchal, unconnected, alien, disconnected, (adj, n) divine; (n) lord, Jehovah, familial, lineal, inherited, dissimilar, different deity, God, godhead. ANTONYMS: inheritable, ethnic alacrity: (n) rapidity, speed, (adj) ineffectual, insignificant, lay, ancestry: (n) origin, descent, birth, promptness, activity, preparedness, powerless, lowly derivation, extraction, family, velocity, haste, swiftness, quickness, aloes: (n) physic, aloe; (adj) gall and pedigree, lineage, line, heredity, expedition; (adj) life. ANTONYMS: wormwood, quassia, rue breed. ANTONYMS: (n) (n) aversion, reservation, reluctance, aloft: (adj, adv) overhead; (adv) up, descendants, posterity indifference, hesitance, dullness, on high, over, aloof, upwards, anew: (adv) again, newly, lately, 258 The Scarlet Letter recently, over again, once more, new delicious, appetising, luscious, once again, new; (adj) only antiquary: (n) antiquarian, expert, savory, palatable, scrumptious, yesterday, the other day, just now archaeologist, antiquist alluring, exquisite; (adj, v) angelical: (adj) seraphic, cherubic, antiquated: (adj) old, aged, tantalizing, spicy. ANTONYMS: heavenly, saintly, saintlike, sainted, antediluvian, archaic, obsolete, (adj) tasteless, unsavory, sickening, lovable, good, angelic ether, sweet, musty, old-fashioned, outdated, nauseating, inedible, distasteful, beatific dowdy, outmoded, antique. repulsive, revolting, unappealing anguish: (n, v) pain, ache; (n) ANTONYMS: (adj) new, appliances: (n) equipment, rig, torment, agony, torture, distress, contemporary, fresh, modernistic, hardware, rigging, outfit, tackle, misery, suffering, despair, grief, recent, current tackling sorrow. ANTONYMS: (n) pleasure, antique: (adj) old, antiquated,
| 1 |
69 |
In the Lives of Puppets.txt
| 20 |
through the trees. It hadn’t, and he moved on to the chest and back. The cheek. He saved the leg for last. Hap sat on the table, legs hanging down, watching Vic’s every move. He’d removed his clothing at Vic’s request, questioning why Vic had placed a blanket over his bare lap. Vic lifted Hap’s leg, extending it, hearing the metal bones underneath the wood creak. The knee joint locked, and Vic soon saw why. On the inner part of his knee, the piece of wood was slightly too large. An easy mistake, but also an easy fix. He lifted a small tool from his work bench, lifting it so Hap could see. “This is a short bent.” Hap frowned. “What is it f-for?” “Shaving wood. Your knee is catching. It’s why you keep stumbling. I can fix it if you want.” “Does the patient need to be sedated?” Nurse Ratched asked. “I can help, if need be.” “No,” Victor said, and turned in time to see her slowly retracting a metal mallet back inside her. “It won’t hurt.” “H-hurt,” Hap repeated. “You w-will not h-hurt me unless I d-do something to make you.” What Dad had said, not quite word for word, but close enough. Then, “What is h-hurt?” “Ow,” Vic cried after Nurse Ratched thumped him on the head. “What was that for?” “You know what,” she said. “Hap, that was a demonstration of pain.” Hap scowled at all of them. “Fine. Do it. I n-need to have full range of mmotion. It’s a hazard if I d-don’t have it because you are f-fragile.” “He is,” Nurse Ratched said as Vic glared at her. “So breakable. It really is a flawed design, if you think about it. Humans are so squishy.” Vic rolled his eyes, and then sank to his knees in front of Hap. He motioned for Nurse Ratched to hold Hap’s leg in place as he wiped the sweat away from his brow. He thanked Rambo when the vacuum pulled down the magnifying glass, flipping through the different sizes until he found the right one. “Ready?” he asked Hap. Hap didn’t respond. Vic lowered the tool, pressing it against the side of the knee joint, ready to shave off a small piece until it fit better. “Ow,” Hap said. Vic startled. He looked up, eyes wide. Hap stared down at him. “Ow,” he said again. “That h-hurt.” Vic was incredulous. “What? It did? How can it—I don’t understand. That shouldn’t have—” “P-practice,” Hap said. “I was p-practicing. Ow. Pain. Hurt.” He grimaced, face twisting before smoothing out. “You can’t do that,” Vic said. “Wh-why?” “Because it didn’t hurt. I hadn’t even started yet.” Hap nodded. “I w-will wait until you s-start.” Vic sat back up on his knees, grabbing the short bent. “That’s not how I— just hold still. Don’t move.” Hap froze. He didn’t blink. His mouth hung open slightly. “What happened?” Vic asked. He raised his hand up and waved it in front of Hap’s face. No reaction. “Is he dead?” Rambo whispered nervously. “Did we
| 0 |
36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 66 |
time, indirect character of the man seemed to be brought out in a kind of spiritual relief. Such an effect may occasionally be observed in pictures of antique date. They acquire a look which an artist (if he have anything like the complacency of artists nowadays) would never dream of presenting to a patron as his own characteristic expression, but which, nevertheless, we at once recognize as reflecting the unlovely truth of a human soul. In such cases, the painter's deep conception of his subject's inward traits has wrought itself into the essence of the picture, and is seen after the superficial coloring has been rubbed off by time. While gazing at the portrait, Hepzibah trembled under its eye. Her hereditary reverence made her afraid to judge the character of the original so harshly as a perception of the truth compelled her to do. But still she gazed, because the face of the picture enabled her--at least, she fancied so--to read more accurately, and to a greater depth, the face which she had just seen in the street. "This is the very man!" murmured she to herself. "Let Jaffrey Pyncheon smile as he will, there is that look beneath! Put on him a skull-cap, and a band, and a black cloak, and a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other,--then let Jaffrey smile as he might,--nobody would doubt that it was the old Pyncheon come again. He has proved himself the very man to build up a new house! Perhaps, too, to draw down a new curse!" Thus did Hepzibah bewilder herself with these fantasies of the old time. She had dwelt too much alone,--too long in the Pyncheon House, --until her very brain was impregnated with the dry-rot of its timbers. She needed a walk along the noonday street to keep her sane. By the spell of contrast, another portrait rose up before her, painted with more daring flattery than any artist would have ventured upon, but yet so delicately touched that the likeness remained perfect. Malbone's miniature, though from the same original, was far inferior to Hepzibah's air-drawn picture, at which affection and sorrowful remembrance wrought together. Soft, mildly, and cheerfully contemplative, with full, red lips, just on the verge of a smile, which the eyes seemed to herald by a gentle kindling-up of their orbs! Feminine traits, moulded inseparably with those of the other sex! The miniature, likewise, had this last peculiarity; so that you inevitably thought of the original as resembling his mother, and she a lovely and lovable woman, with perhaps some beautiful infirmity of character, that made it all the pleasanter to know and easier to love her. "Yes," thought Hepzibah, with grief of which it was only the more tolerable portion that welled up from her heart to her eyelids, "they persecuted his mother in him! He never was a Pyncheon!" But here the shop-bell rang; it was like a sound from a remote distance,--so far had Hepzibah descended into the sepulchral depths of her reminiscences. On entering the shop, she found
| 1 |
54 |
Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt
| 18 |
gently on the cheek. Her sister didn’t feel like marble anymore. She had warm skin, warm as any other human’s, warm as Alice’s own. “You’re marvelous,” she said, solemnly, meaning it. Mrs. King laughed, startled. “Heavens,” she said. “I’m not.” Something shifted in her expression, something dark. “How can I be? Knowing who I come from?” She meant her father. Alice hesitated. The women were skirting around it, avoiding it. This topic felt too enormous, too dangerous, to discuss. They were both waiting for Mrs. King to set it out for them, explain what it meant, tell them what they were supposed to think. And yet she hadn’t done so. She seemed to have turned inward, growing fretful, as if there were something constantly on her mind. Alice was still trying to compose the right reply when Mrs. King pulled away. Her eyes were on the gravestones behind Alice. A small temple had been erected there, a flashy memorial. “What is it?” Alice said. Mrs. King closed her eyes. “I need to see Mr. Shepherd.” 41 Winnie had to tell the conductor to stop at her station. It was hardly a station at all—it was more like a halt. The train would have steamed right through otherwise. It took nearly two hours to get there from London. “I want the slow train,” she told them in the ticket office. She wanted to watch the countryside unfolding at its own pace. She wanted to be sure that she’d picked the right spot. She took a seat in a first-class carriage. Important journeys deserved suitable investment. They also deserved expensive millinery. I can’t make a good hat, she told herself stolidly, but I can buy one. She purchased a slanted-cartwheel hat with magenta tips, a big boxy centerpiece, and rosettes all around the brim. It made her look a little like a banker and a little like a prize pony. It was quite something. She wondered if they would treat her differently at the station and, of course, they didn’t. She could have stood in the middle of the terminus throwing banknotes up into the air, and people would have ignored her. She was still herself. She wasn’t the queen. “All right, madam?” said the conductor as she stepped down onto the platform. “Yes, thank you,” she said, feeling her rosettes flapping, but he was back up on his plate, raising his hand to the guard, and the train was already huffing into motion. When the last carriage had turned the corner the noise suddenly died away, and there was only birdsong left behind. Winnie unpinned her hat and felt the sun on her neck. “This is the right place,” she said out loud, testing the fact. She’d copied out the particulars, but she didn’t need to check them: she’d committed them to memory. Take a right at the station, follow the road till it comes to a fork, then head uphill. I trust myself, she thought, setting off down the lane. I know where I’m going. A horse chestnut stood sentinel at the
| 0 |
17 |
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt
| 10 |
Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned -- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced -- all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here -- they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad." On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult -- "; "You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing -- "). Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. "Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head. "What is it?" asked Percy. "N-nothing." The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all. "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy. "Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to -- everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape." Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again. At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. "Ahem -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of
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42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 34 |
the end of the First Age chose to be numbered among Men, and became the first King of Nmenor (called Tar-Minyatur), living to a very great age. The name means 'Star-foam'. 305, 315, 322, 328-32, 336, 354, 360 Elu Sindarin 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
| 1 |
94 |
Titanium-Noir.txt
| 16 |
fire up an anagram maker and try that. Go carpophore hobo And so on. I fall asleep again there, in the chair, and if I dream again, when I wake I don’t remember. * * * — Standing in the lobby of Roddy’s building waiting for the elevator. “Jerelyn?” “Yes, my darling.” “Roddy ever talk about old movies with you? The Marx Brothers?” “I don’t think so.” Someone’s holding the elevator on floor six. Jerelyn says the Millers are going away for a long weekend. “Mr. Miller never learned to pack light.” The light doesn’t move. “How about Rufus?” “How about him, what?” “You think he could have done it?” “Why would you think so?” I tell Jerelyn about the hair. She makes a face. “That is disgusting.” “It is, isn’t it?” “That man.” “You think he did it?” “Yes. Absolutely. Arrest him.” “You think?” “No, but now I absolutely wish that I did. Hair. Oh my god. My hair?” “Everyone’s hair. But probably women he finds attractive.” “Now I’m offended as well as revolted. Personally and on behalf of the sisterhood.” “You don’t need to take a vote?” “There is a mystical democratic connection which binds all women together. Also: do you hear what you just told me?” She shudders, then laughs. “Collecting hair. Eeeeyuch.” The elevator arrives, and I step in. * * * — I walk into Roddy Tebbit’s apartment and look around. I look for old media: discs and optical storage, even tape. I look for a backup hard drive. Something more accessible than the genetic stash, something for every day. Usually when you do this you’re looking for the disreputable collection, the ordinary things someone doesn’t want you to know. The cheap bikini snaps, the long-cherished personal nudes with old lovers. Sometimes it’s a fetish. Sometimes it’s darker than that. Roddy Tebbit doesn’t have much of anything to be nervous about, that I can find. I go into the bric-a-brac again looking for pictures, for history. Postcards from Italy: a bronze boar from Florence, the Vatican in Rome. An appallingly erotic Psyche and Eros. Three or four of Canova’s Perseus Triumphant, holding Medusa’s head in one hand and that weird hooked sword in the other. I remember the picture of Roddy in Susan Green’s sketchbook. I was wrong: not Achilles. And not Medusa, in Susan’s drawing, but a bearded Zeus. Figure it’s a stand-in for Stefan. We’ve all felt like that from time to time. Roddy Tebbit had lost his wife. Everyone says so. You’d think he’d keep something. But when someone dies—especially when someone dies and their spouse is going to live for a whole other lifetime—often the survivor doesn’t need or want to be reminded. You think of widows’ houses as full of pictures of the dead, but many times they’re not. Many times they look towards the future as if the past is just last winter’s snow. I keep looking. Some arthouse snaps of another city, could be anywhere, just as easily Istanbul as Denver. Come to that it could be both: holiday snaps
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85 |
Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 66 |
shock and pleasure merging in her expression. “Brad!” But she’s grinning like she can’t help herself. “What? You started it with all the hugging!” “People can hear us!” “So whisper,” I tease. Of course, I don’t really expect her to announce her feelings in public like this— But she does. “Fine. I love you, too, obviously.” And then—even though we have seconds before our parents rush over to crowd us, even though our friends are already swarming with congratulations—she grabs the back of my neck and kisses me. Hard. My heart grows wings and flies away. Me and Celine, we’ve been best friends. We’ve been enemies. We’ve even been a secret. But right now? We’re everything. Anything. Whatever we want. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Obsessive-compulsive disorder runs in my family, so I wasn’t surprised when it finally kicked down the door of my brain, waltzed right in, and made itself at home. Upon receiving my diagnosis, I tutted a bit, panicked a bit, made several emergency cups of tea, and finally decided I’d better stick the whole thing in a book. Which brings me to the first person I’d like to thank: Bradley Graeme, the hero of this novel, who’s been dealing with OCD for years and is enviably sensible about it. I have no idea if I’ll ever be as good at coping as Brad is, but I do know that writing him inspired me to take better care of myself. So…cheers, mate. Couldn’t have done it without you. I also couldn’t have done this without the help of numerous real people. Thank you to my mother for steering me through the angsty Celine years and giving me a name to be proud of; to my baby sisters, Truly and Jade, for being delightful pudding cups; to my best friend, Cairo Aibangbee, for supporting me through multiple creative breakdowns and assuring me that I did in fact still know how to write and had not actually lost my grasp of the English language. Thank you to Chessie Penniston-Hill for her creative (and teenage) perspective, to Aaliyah Hibbert and Orla Wain for helping me to seem Young and Hip, and to Adjani Salmon for answering my emergency spelling questions. Thank you to the wonderful authors and literal inspirations (I know, but seriously, it’s true) I’ve had the privilege of befriending since my career began. Therese Beharrie, Kennedy Ryan, Dylan Allen, Ali Williams, and so many more—your books, your kindness, your friendship, and your invaluable advice get me through every single project. I am so lucky to know you. Many thanks to my incredible agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, for always having my back, finding solutions, and reducing my professional anxiety by a solid 90 percent just by existing. (You exist in a very badass manner.) Thank you also to the whole team at Joy Revolution who worked to make this story happen. Nicola and David Yoon, Bria Ragin, Wendy Loggia, Beverly Horowitz, Barbara Marcus, Casey Moses, Mlle Belamour, Ken Crossland, Lili Feinberg, Colleen Fellingham, Tamar Schwartz, Jillian Vandall, Adrienne Waintraub, Katie Halata, Shameiza Ally, Elizabeth Ward, Caitlin
| 0 |
69 |
In the Lives of Puppets.txt
| 67 |
hand and moved it up and down. “Whoa,” Rambo whispered as Hap let go. “Nurse Ratched, did you hear that? He loves me too!” “Th-that’s not what I said.” “It is. And you can’t take it back!” “I am going to die in this box,” Nurse Ratched said. Bernard stepped forward, extending an arm toward the screen. He tapped it once more, and the crate walls rose around Nurse Ratched and Rambo. The last Vic saw of them was Rambo waving frantically. “Goodbye,” Vic said quietly as the lid closed over them. Bernard motioned toward another crate set farther back. “This one is yours.” “And it’ll allow for air to move freely through it?” the Coachman asked. Bernard frowned. “Yes. As discussed. It’s meant for transporting florae and faunae.” He looked at Vic and Hap before his head spun toward the Coachman. “Why is that necessary? Are they transporting something alive?” “What?” the Coachman said, sounding outraged. “I take umbrage with your tone, sir. I would never allow something so—” “You look familiar,” Bernard said to Hap. “Have we met before?” Hap lowered his head, his hood falling around his face. “N-no.” “Hmm,” Bernard said. “Coachman, this better not come back on me.” “Of course it won’t,” the Coachman said. “There is nothing to come back on you. I don’t know what’s going through that circle you call a head, but I am an upstanding citizen. Everything I do is aboveboard, and—” “I don’t want to know any more,” Bernard said, turning to Hap. “Can you climb inside? If not, I can dismantle the crate for easier access.” “It’s f-fine,” Hap muttered. He pulled his pack off as he climbed over the ledge of the crate, settling his back against the side. He slunk down, legs stretching until his feet were flat against the opposite side. He set his pack next to him as he wiggled down farther. “Why did you go first?” Vic asked, suddenly unsure. The box was much smaller now that Hap was inside. Hap stared up at him. “I’m b-bigger than you.” “Heaven,” he heard Rambo warbling from the other crate. “I’m in heaven.” “Maybe I should get my own crate.” “Get inside,” Bernard said. “We’re running out of time.” Vic sighed as he turned his pack around to his front. He pushed his helmet off his face as he climbed gingerly into the box, careful to avoid Hap. “Ow,” Hap said when Vic stepped on his leg. Vic stared down at him, spluttering apologies. “That was a j-joke,” Hap said, and Vic swore he saw the curve of a smile, there and gone in a flash. “You’re not funny,” Vic told him as he climbed the rest of the way into the box. “I don’t know who told you that, but they lied.” “It was me!” Rambo shouted. “I told him that!” “Be quiet,” Bernard said, slapping the top of the box. “Okay!” Vic settled down against Hap, his back to Hap’s front. He kept his legs inside of Hap’s. He was stiff, back arched until Hap
| 0 |
20 |
Jane Eyre.txt
| 70 |
f i g u r e , a n d u n c o m e l y , d r y , e v e n c o a r s e f a c e , r e c u r r e d s o d i s t i n c t l y t o m y m i n d ' s e y e , t h a t I t h o u g h t : " N o ; i m p o s s i b l e ! m y s u p p o s i t i o n c a n n o t b e c o r r e c t , Y e t , " s u g g e s t e d t h e s e c r e t v o i c e w h i c h t a l k s t o u s i n o u r o w n h e a r t s , " y o u a r e n o t b e a u t i f u l e i t h e r , a n d p e r h a p s M r . R o c h e s t e r a p p r o v e s y o u a t a n y r a t e , y o u h a v e o f t e n f e l t a s i f h e d i d ; a n d l a s t n i g h t r e m e m b e r h i s w o r d s ; r e m e m b e r h i s l o o k ; r e m e m b e r h i s v o i c e ! " I w e l l r e m e m b e r e d a l l l a n g u a g e , g l a n c e a n d t o n e s e e m e d a t t h e m o m e n t v i v i d l y r e n e w e d . I w a s n o w i n t h e s c h o o l - r o o m . A d l e w a s d r a w i n g . I b e n t o v e r h e r a n d d i r e c t e d h e r p e n c i l . S h e l o o k e d u p w i t h a s o r t o f s t a r t . " Q u ' a v e z - v o u s , m a d e m o i s e l l e ? " s a i d s h e ; " V o s d o i g t s t r e m b l e n t c o m m e l e f e u i l l e , e t v o s j o u e s s o n t r o u g e s ; m a i s , r o u g e s c o m e d e s c e r i s e s ! " " I a m h o t , A d l e , w i t h s t o o p i n g ! " S h e w e n t o n s k e t c h i n g , I w e n t o n t h i n k i n g . I h a s t e n e d t o d r i v e f r o m m y m i n d t h e h a t e f u l n o t i o n I h a d b e e n c o n c e i v i n g r e s p e c t i n g G r a c e P o o l e ; i t d i s g u s t e d m e . I c o m p a r e d m y s e l f w i t h h e r , a n d f o u n d w e w e r e d i f f e r e n t . B e s s i e L e a v e n h a d s a i d I w a s q u i t e a l a d y ; a n d s h e s p o k e t r u t h ; I w a s a l a d y . A n d n o w I l o o k e d m u c h b e t t e r t h a n I d i d w h e n B e s s i e s a w m e ; I h a d m o r e c o l o r a n d m o r e f l e s h ; m o r e l i f e , m o r e v i v a c i t y ; b e c a u s e I h a d b r i g h t e r h o p e s a n d k e e n e r e n j o y m e n t s . " E v e n i n g a p p r o a c h e s , " s a i d I , a s I l o o k e d t o w a r d t h e w i n d o w . " I h a v e n e v e r h e a r d M r . R o c h e s t e r ' s v o i c e o r s t e p i n t h e h o u s e t o - d a y ; b u t s u r e l y I s h a l l s e e h i m b e f o r e n i g h t ; I f e a r e d t h e m e e t i n g i n t h e m o r n i n g ; n o w I d e s i r e i t , b e c a u s e e x p e c t a t i o n h a s b e e n s o l o n g b a f f l e d t h a t i t i s g r o w n i m p a t i e n t . " W h e n d u s k a c t u a l l y c l o s e d , a n d w h e n A d l e l e f t m e t o g o a n d p l a y i n t h e n u r s e r y w i t h S o p h i e , I d i d m o s t k e e n l y d e s i r e i t . I l i s t e n e d f o r t h e b e l l t o r i n g b e l o w ; I l i s t e n e d f o r L e a h c o m i n g u p w i t h a m e s s a g e ; I f a n c i e d s o m e t i m e s I h e a r d M r . R o c h e s t e r ' s o w n t r e a d , a n d I t u r n e d t o t h e d o o r , e x p e c t i n g i t t o o p e n a n d a d m i t h i m . T h e d o o r r e m a i n e d s h u t ; d a r k n e s s o n l y c a m e i n t h r o u g h t h e w i n d o w . S t i l l i t w a s n o t l a t e ; h e o f t e n s e n t f o r m e a t s e v e n a n d e i g h t o ' c l o c k , a n d i t w a s y e t b u t s i x . S u r e l y I s h o u l d n o t b e w h o l l y d i s a p p o i n t e d t o - n i g h t , w h e n I h a d s o m a n y t h i n g s t o s a y t o h i m ! I w a n t e d a g a i n t o i n t r o d u c e t h e s u b j e c t o f G r a c e P o o l e , a n d t o h e a r w h a t h e w o u l d a n s w e r ; I w a n t e d t o a s k h i m p l a i n l y i f h e r e a l l y b e l i e v e d i t w a s s h e w h o h a d m a d e l a s t n i g h t ' s h i d e o u s a t t e m p t ; a n d i f s o , w h y h e k e p t h e r w i c k e d n e s s a s e c r e t . I t l i t t l e m a t t e r e d w h e t h e r m y c u r i o s i t y i r r i t a t e d h i m ; I k n e w t h e p l e a s u r e o f v e x i n g a n d s o o t h i n g h i m b y t u r n s ; i t w a s o n e I c h i e f l y d e l i g h t e d i n , a n d a s u r e i n s t i n c t a l w a y s p r e v e n t e d m e f r o m g o i n g t o o f a r ; b e y o n d t h e v e r g e o f p r o v o c a t i o n I n e v e r v e n t u r e d ; o n t h e e x t r e m e b r i n k I l i k e d w e l l
| 1 |
69 |
In the Lives of Puppets.txt
| 62 |
if I can do this. I know, dear boy. Which is why I must warn you. With all great tasks comes sacrifice. The upload will not work unless you are connected to the neural network. And you yourself are not capable of such a thing. You lack the necessary components. He jerked his head back. What? She turned toward the others. Nurse Ratched. Hap. Rambo. It must be one of you. One of you must do what Victor cannot. One of you must upload the virus. And with that, you will lose all you have known. No, Vic said, No. I won’t let you. I won’t let you do this. They are my friends. You can’t— I will do it, Nurse Ratched said. You won’t, he snarled, head and heart breaking. She ignored him. She rolled toward the Blue Fairy. I will do this. They bowed before her. Are you sure? Yes. I am quite capable. No! Vic cried. Nurse Ratched, listen to me. There has to be another way. There has to be— All is not lost, the Blue Fairy said. We can help her. I can download her consciousness. A duplicate, if you will. Once the task is complete, and her memory wiped, you can return her to her current state. She will remember you. She will remember all of you. You can’t promise that. You can’t promise anything. It could go wrong. Everything could go wrong, and she could— Nurse Ratched touched his cheek with one of her tentacles. I have made my choice, Victor. I know what I am doing. Please do not take this away from me. You brought me back once. I know you can do it again. All I ask is that you do not leave me behind. I hate this city. It smells bad. I want to see the forest again. Nurse Ratched. I … I know. But I do this for you. Because of what you’ve done for me. Let me help you. Let me help Rambo and Hap. Let me help Gio. He wiped his eyes. I can’t lose you. You will not, she said. I am not done with you yet. When you are old and gray, you will need me to monitor your health to ensure you live longer than any human ever has. I will be by your side. I promise. “I promise,” he said as the alarms blared around them, as Dad and Hap fought with devastating blows, as Rambo screamed for Nurse Ratched to hurry, you need to hurry, they’re coming, they’re coming! Nurse Ratched stopped in front of Victor. He looked up at her. On her screen were the words YOU ARE MY FRIEND. She said, “When you found me, it was the greatest day of my life, though I did not know it then. I have watched you grow into the man you have become. In the end, that is all that matters. In case this does not work, in case you cannot bring me back, I need you to know that you are precious
| 0 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 15 |
the sheltering in Tube file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (88 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance--above all, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed--cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece--always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also
| 1 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 66 |
for the detectives to stand. “Let’s go.” “We need you to surrender Chelsea’s phone,” Ethan says. “And the keys to her Belltown apartment.” “Do you have a warrant?” the attorney asks. Jonah reaches inside his suit pocket. “We do.” He extends the folded paper toward Carr’s attorney who snatches it out of his hands. He looks over the warrant with a frown. “I’ll bring them to your car. As soon as you two see yourselves out.” Carr covers his face with his hands, and it takes all of Ethan’s willpower to extinguish the image of them traveling down Sloane’s back. Ethan keeps his eyes trained on Carr, his shoulders heaving with each dramatic sob, as he pushes back his chair. “I loved her so much,” Carr manages to say between sobs. The attorney makes a show of impatience with a deep sigh as he gestures toward the open doorway. Ethan looks back at Carr before following Jonah out of the room. If he learned one thing from their interview, it was this: the app founder is almost as good an actor as Sloane. Chapter 23 Sloane moves her salad around with a plastic fork in the ER breakroom, tuning out the upbeat chatter from the two nurses and medical resident at the other end of the table. She hadn’t slept a minute the night before. Instead, she spent the night tossing and turning, trying to force the images of Brody—and his dead wife—from her mind. She doesn’t feel like eating even though she skipped breakfast that morning, not wanting to risk bumping into Ethan in the kitchen. Laughter breaks out from a pretty blonde nurse fresh out of nursing school, whose name escapes Sloane. Sloane glances in the nurse’s direction and sees the resident showing her something on his phone. She strains to read the nurse’s name badge that’s clipped to her scrubs. Rachel. Her heart sinks. Of course, it is. Sloane looks away, willing herself to eat a bite of tasteless iceberg lettuce. The breakroom door swings open. She turns to see Logan striding toward her. “Hey.” He leans his hand on the chair beside her. Sloane has yet to apologize for yelling at him yesterday about the Narcan, but he seems to have forgiven her. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to clarify an order you wrote for the patient in trauma room five, Daniel Salazar. “He was in the motorcycle accident,” Logan adds, seeing the look of confusion on Sloane’s face. “Oh, right.” Sloane sets down her fork. “Sure.” “You wrote the Epi 1:1,000 to be given IV. But from the dosage, I’m guessing you wanted it to be IM.” “I did?” “Yeah.” She leans back against her chair as a twist forms in her gut. She’s never made a medication error before. “Good catch. Sorry, yes. I meant IM.” Although, they both knew it was more than a good catch. If he hadn’t caught her mistake, it could have put the patient into V-tach. Or worse, V-fib. He nods. “Go ahead and give it IM. I’ll change the
| 0 |
18 |
Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt
| 2 |
asking is ... has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time ... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt ..." The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: "Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?" but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian - she had thrown the pencil. "Hey," he said, what do you do that for?" Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures. "I've just thought of something," she said. "Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?" "You hear enough about yourself as it is." "I'm very insecure. We know that." "Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important." "If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now." Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed. "Listen," she said, "we picked up those couple of guys ..." "What couple of guys?" "The couple of guys we picked up." "Oh, yeah," said Zaphod, "those couple of guys." "We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha." "Yeah?" said Zaphod and blinked. Trillian said quietly, "Does that mean anything to you?" "Mmmmm," said Zaphod, "ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha?" "Well?" said Trillian. "Er ... what does the Z mean?" said Zaphod. "Which one?" "Any one." One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so - but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it. She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way. "There," she pointed, "right there." "Hey ... Yeah!" said Zaphod. "Well?" she said. "Well what?" Parts of the inside of her head screamed at other parts of the inside of her head. She said, very calmly, "It's the same sector you originally picked me up in." He looked at her and then looked back at the screen. "Hey, yeah," he said, "now that is wild. We should
| 1 |
90 |
The-Lost-Bookshop.txt
| 75 |
husband, I can’t imagine the courage it took and I wanted to say thank you for trusting me with it.’ She looked at me, as though slightly relieved. ‘And I should have told you about Isabelle. Honestly, I don’t know why I didn’t.’ I said this although, at that moment, it was crystal clear to me why I hadn’t wanted her to know. My feelings grew stronger every time I saw her, but there was nothing either of us could do about it. She was vulnerable and I had made commitments. The end. ‘I hope we can carry on our friendship,’ I said, sounding like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Yet it was the best I could do and I really meant it. Her friendship meant more to me than I realised and if I couldn’t have anything else, it would have to be enough. ‘Are they doughnuts?’ ‘What?’ Of all the things I had imagined she might say, that was not one of them. She hunkered down on the rough ground with its patchy grass and weeds, crossed her legs and opened the box of doughnuts I’d bought, whilst taking a large gulp of coffee. ‘Of course we can be friends, you big eejit!’ she said between bites, sugar all over her lips. I sat down beside her and leaned my back against the gable wall. I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. ‘I mean, besides Madame Bowden, you’re the only friend I’ve made since coming here.’ ‘Oh, I see, so it’s more a lack of options thing?’ I said, taking the lid off my coffee and blowing on the liquid, which was already stone cold. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ She shrugged and all but concealed a malevolent grin. Banter. A safe harbour. I got stuck into a custard doughnut, grateful that we were back on a firm footing. I didn’t know why she had confided in me and I wasn’t sure why I had told her about the darkest times in my life, but perhaps the trick was not to question it. Not to put a label on it, as clichéd as it sounded. ‘Any luck with the manuscript?’ I made a mental note that whenever I showed up at Martha’s window, I should bring sugar. Her mood was positively upbeat. ‘Um, no, not really. A colleague found something about her brother, Lyndon. He was a soldier – a general or something – in the war. It’s strange,’ I said, tearing a chocolate doughnut into two halves and offering her one. ‘You’d think a woman like her who’d been rubbing shoulders with Hemingway and contacting one of the top book dealers in America would leave some sort of trace, wouldn’t you?’ She took her time to think about it and once she had satisfactorily munched the last of the doughnut and wiped her hands on her jeans, she looked me square in the eye. ‘You think it’s strange that a woman has been silenced? Forgotten about? Written out of history? Henry, what have they been teaching you?’
| 0 |
84 |
Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 11 |
The girl with auburn hair was indeed beautiful, and the young man had a cheery smile on his face. Montserrat did a little math in her head and realized Urueta was now sixty-one. It surprised her. He looked older, worn down. The booze had carved his face with a rough hand. Tristán peered down at the pictures. “You were awfully young to be directing movies at that age,” he said. Montserrat could recognize the note of rehearsed admiration in her friend’s voice, but Urueta was immediately taken by the compliment. “They called me ‘The Kid.’ I had three movies under my belt by then. It runs in the family. My mother was a script girl, my father was a cinematographer. I grew up playing around the prop department. I knew anyone there was to know in the movie business.” “Including Alma Montero?” “She was a friend of the family.” “Was Ewers a friend of the family, too?” Montserrat turned the page of the album. There were more pictures of Urueta, some alone, others with people she did not recognize. Her fingers drifted across the edges of the photographs. “No. I met Ewers through Alma. In 1960, I had shot three films. Yes, low-budget horror films, but I knew I’d get bigger projects soon enough. Unfortunately, I had developed what you’d call a little bit of a credit problem. I owed money, and it kept me awake at night. Alma heard about this and told me she was going to be financing a film and wanted to shoot the following year. She would pay me a decent salary, and when the movie was done she’d get me in touch with her old Hollywood friends so I could try my luck there. Turn three more pages and you’ll see him,” Urueta said, pointing at the album. Montserrat did as he said. She turned those three pages and there he was. The picture startled her, not because there was anything unusual about Ewers’s appearance, but because his face had been half hidden in the other picture she’d seen, as if he feared the camera. But there was nothing shy about Ewers in this photograph. In fact, the photo dripped with self-possession. Ewers was seated with his hands resting on his thighs, and he was leaning forward. His legs were spread wide. His face might have been bland if it hadn’t been for his firm mouth and the piercing blue eyes that stared at the viewer. Something in the tightness of the jaw, in the sharp slope of the eyebrows, demanded attention. There was a trace of rancor in those features. This was a hungry man. “He looks like a dude who would stab you in an alley and go through your pockets for spare change,” Tristán said, peering down at the picture. “He looks pissed.” “I don’t think I ever thought that exactly, but he made a vivid impression on everyone who met him, although in the beginning I admit I assumed he was a garden-variety gigolo.” “How come?” “Ewers changed his biography and age
| 0 |
37 |
The Hunger Games.txt
| 71 |
Cinna thinks about this a moment. “Why don’t you just be yourself?” “Myself? That’s no good, either. Haymitch says I’m sullen and hostile,” I say. “Well, you are . . . around Haymitch,” says Cinna with a grin. “I don’t find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won 121 over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can’t stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit.” My spirit. This is a new thought. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I’m a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It’s not as if I’m never friendly. Okay, maybe I don’t go around lov- ing everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people. Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. “Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you’re addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?” asks Cin- na. “Gale,” I say instantly. “Only it doesn’t make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already knows them.” “What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?” asks Cinna. Of all the people I’ve met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn’t disappointed me yet. “I think so, but —” “I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re asked a ques- tion, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible,” says Cin- na. “Even if what I think is horrible?” I ask. Because it might be, really. “Especially if what you think is horrible,” says Cinna. “You’ll try it?” 122 I nod. It’s a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at. Too soon it’s time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I’m in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem. As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. “Cinna . . .” I’m completely overcome with stage fright. “Remember, they already love you,” he says gently. “Just be yourself.” We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it’s a relief not to be dressed identically. Hay- mitch and Effie are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid Haymitch, but accept Effie’s compliments. Effie can be tire- some and clueless, but she’s not destructive like Haymitch. When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a big arc throughout the interviews. I’ll be last, or second to last since the girl tribute precedes the boy from each district. How I wish I
| 1 |
44 |
Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt
| 28 |
goin’ outa here and Ah ain’t gointuh hush. Naw, you gointuh listen tuh me one time befo’ you die. Have yo’ way all yo’ life, trample and mash down and then die ruther than tuh let yo’self heah ’bout it. Listen, Jody, you ain’t de Jody ah run off down de road wid. You’se whut’s left after he died. Ah run off tuh keep house wid you in uh wonderful way. But you wasn’t satisfied wid me de way Ah was. Naw! Mah own mind had tuh be squeezed and crowded out tuh make room for yours in me.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 103 “Shut up! Ah wish thunder and lightnin’ would kill yuh!” “Ah know it. And now you got tuh die tuh find out dat you got tuh pacify somebody besides yo’self if you wants any love and any sympathy in dis world. You ain’t tried tuh pacify nobody but yo’self. Too busy listening tuh yo’ own big voice.” “All dis tearin’ down talk!” Jody whispered with sweat globules forming all over his face and arms. “Git outa heah!” “All dis bowin’ down, all dis obedience under yo’ voice—dat ain’t whut Ah rushed off down de road tuh find out about you.” A sound of strife in Jody’s throat, but his eyes stared unwillingly into a corner of the room so Janie knew the futile fight was not with her. The icy sword of the square-toed one had cut off his breath and left his hands in a pose of agoniz- ing protest. Janie gave them peace on his breast, then she studied his dead face for a long time. “Dis sittin’ in de rulin’ chair is been hard on Jody,” she muttered out loud. She was full of pity for the first time in years. Jody had been hard on her and others, but life had mis- handled him too. Poor Joe! Maybe if she had known some other way to try, she might have made his face different. But what that other way could be, she had no idea. She thought back and forth about what had happened in the making of a voice out of a man. Then thought about herself. Years ago, she had told her girl self to wait for her in the looking glass. It had been a long time since she had remembered. Perhaps she’d better look. She went over to the dresser and looked hard at her skin and features. The young girl was gone, but a hand- 104 Zora Neale Hurston some woman had taken her place. She tore off the kerchief from her head and let down her plentiful hair. The weight, the length, the glory was there. She took careful stock of herself, then combed her hair and tied it back up again. Then she starched and ironed her face, forming it into just what people wanted to see, and opened up the window and cried, “Come heah people! Jody is dead. Mah husband is gone from me.” 9 Joe’s funeral was the finest thing Orange County had
| 1 |
61 |
Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt
| 31 |
but also you refused to allow her to treat you as a guest. If you do not admit kindness from others, you cannot be surprised when they fail to offer any.” “I don’t see what that has to do with your arm,” I muttered, more to end the conversation than anything. To my surprise, he did not persist in arguing the point, merely gave a breath of laughter and went to fix tea. Within the span of a single day, I learned more of the ways of the Ljosland Folk than I gleaned during the entirety of my research heretofore. In the space of two weeks, I may have gathered enough material for not only a chapter, but an entire book. To summarize broadly: the interactions of mortal Ljoslanders with the common fae follow established patterns seen on the continent. Offerings are left for them, most often in the form of food; those with wealth and status are expected to leave trinkets, with mirrors and singing boxes being especially favoured. Mortals will sometimes enter into bargains with the common fae— like my bargain with Poe—but this is seen as dangerous given their unpredictability, and a road taken only by the desperate or foolhardy. None of the common fae of Ljosland dwell within households; that is the key difference. As for the courtly fae, they are wholly unique. They are, above all else, elusive. Few mortals have laid eyes on them—of the villagers of Hrafnsvik, Thora alone makes that claim, and she only spied them once from a distance a very long time ago, whilst playing with her schoolfellows in the woods. Their courts move with the snows, and they dwell for much of the year in the mountainous north and interior of the country, where winter never rests. They love music and hold elaborate balls in the wilderness, particularly upon frozen lakes, and if you hear their song drifting on the icy wind, you must stop your ears or burst into song yourself, or be drowned by it and swept insensible into their realm. For they are also hungry. They have a particular fondness for youth in love. Those who are drawn into their dances are invariably found wandering alone the next day, alive but hollow. It was not always so; it is said that the courtly fae of Ljosland were once a peaceable people, if somewhat standoffish with mortals. No one is certain when the change occurred, but this behaviour has persisted for many generations. Auður is the only living victim of the courtly fae in Hrafnsvik. But another boy was taken last winter, two girls the winter before that, and three years ago, a child of fifteen. Victims of these Folk are continually drawn to the winter wilderness after their abduction, and will wander into the night in their shifts or shirtsleeves when their guardians are distracted, to be found frozen a little distance from town. The “tall ones,” it seems, have no interest in taking them back. It seems clear these creatures are increasingly drawn to Hrafnsvik, though it
| 0 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 87 |
For nine years, the child had been kept docile and dependent, in awe of her granduncle. Another silver Noziken. Dumai looked at them all, the whole belfry of courtiers. Her father had summoned her because she owed allegiance to no one. Now she saw that no one owed allegiance to her, either. I am alone. She stood at a great distance from herself. I am alone, with my foot in the fishnet. No, not alone. Outside, a dragon waited for her. The stone was tucked between her breasts. And when she heard the words in her head, they did not belong to a god, or a woman in a dream. It was her own voice. What are you doing? As that question filled her mind, a weight lifted. She did not have to fight this battle. She did not have to stand here and try to outwit the River Lord. She did not have to become like him – and she had come so close, some days. This court had made her reckless, untrusting and hard; it had almost made her cruel. Now she remembered the godsinger of Mount Ipyeda, who had wished for nothing more than the life she already had. That godsinger had needed no throne to serve Kwiriki, or to help the people of Seiiki. After all, she had known Kwiriki before she ever set eyes on his throne. You are a kite, a rainbow, a rider. The realisation tilted the corners of her lips. Where have you ever belonged but the sky? Before she could think better of it, she walked towards the throne and knelt, taking Suzumai by the hand. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said, ‘I love and respect you, as your big sister. I will not ask for the Rainbow Throne. You have every right to sit on it, too.’ She touched her cheek. ‘I must leave again, for a little while, but I will always come back.’ Suzumai swallowed, eyes shimmering. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go away again.’ ‘I know.’ Dumai tightened her hold on her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Will you keep me safe?’ ‘Yes,’ Suzumai whispered. Dumai looked at the River Lord, whose face betrayed his curiosity. He was trying to predict her next move. ‘I do not wish to fight you when an enemy threatens our island. I would not seek to divide it from within,’ Dumai said, rising to face him. ‘My mother was once a . . . provincial, as you say. She worked the barley fields of Afa. Her father was its governor, long ago.’ At last, understanding barbed his gaze. She wondered if he had ever guessed who Unora was, or if she had disappeared from his notice as soon as she was stripped of her nobility. ‘As a godsinger, as a rider, and as a princess, I serve them,’ Dumai told him. ‘It is they who will suffer most in this time of fire. I have the means to defend them. I must use it.’ Beside her, Nikeya released a breath. The River Lord watched Dumai without speaking. She
| 0 |
35 |
The Da Vinci Code.txt
| 92 |
attractive young woman always drew eyes away from the work at hand. The man on the radio said, "Agent Neveu insisted on speaking to you immediately, Captain. I tried to stop her, but she's on her way into the gallery." Fache recoiled in disbelief. "Unacceptable! I made it very clear-" For a moment, Robert Langdon thought Bezu Fache was suffering a stroke. The captain was mid-sentence when his jaw stopped moving and his eyes bulged. His blistering gaze seemed fixated on something over Langdon's shoulder. Before Langdon could turn to see what it was, he heard a woman's voice chime out behind him. "Excusez-moi, messieurs." Langdon turned to see a young woman approaching. She was moving down the corridor toward them with long, fluid strides... a haunting certainty to her gait. Dressed casually in a knee-length, cream-colored Irish sweater over black leggings, she was attractive and looked to be about thirty. Her thick burgundy hair fell unstyled to her shoulders, framing the warmth of her face. Unlike the waifish, cookie-cutter blondes that adorned Harvard dorm room walls, this woman was healthy with an unembellished beauty and genuineness that radiated a striking personal confidence. 36 To Langdon's surprise, the woman walked directly up to him and extended a polite hand. "Monsieur Langdon, I am Agent Neveu from DCPJ's Cryptology Department." Her words curved richly around her muted Anglo-Franco accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you." Langdon took her soft palm in his and felt himself momentarily fixed in her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive-green-incisive and clear. Fache drew a seething inhalation, clearly preparing to launch into a reprimand. "Captain," she said, turning quickly and beating him to the punch, "please excuse the interruption, but-" "Ce n'est pas le moment!" Fache sputtered. "I tried to phone you." Sophie continued in English, as if out of courtesy to Langdon. "But your cell phone was turned off." "I turned it off for a reason," Fache hissed. "I am speaking to Mr. Langdon." "I've deciphered the numeric code," she said flatly. Langdon felt a pulse of excitement. She broke the code? Fache looked uncertain how to respond. "Before I explain," Sophie said, "I have an urgent message for Mr. Langdon." Fache's expression turned to one of deepening concern. "For Mr. Langdon?" She nodded, turning back to Langdon. "You need to contact the U.S. Embassy, Mr. Langdon. They have a message for you from the States." Langdon reacted with surprise, his excitement over the code giving way to a sudden ripple of concern. A message from the States? He tried to imagine who could be trying to reach him. Only a few of his colleagues knew he was in Paris. Fache's broad jaw had tightened with the news. "The U.S. Embassy?" he demanded, sounding suspicious. "How would they know to find Mr. Langdon here?" Sophie shrugged. "Apparently they called Mr. Langdon's hotel, and the concierge told them Mr. Langdon had been collected by a DCPJ agent." Fache looked troubled. "And the embassy contacted DCPJ Cryptography?" "No, sir," Sophie said, her voice firm. "When I called the
| 1 |
80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 19 |
how easy it is to talk to him, this guy I didn’t know only an hour and a half ago. “I guess I just thought I’d be . . . well, more successful by now,” I say, brushing this off with a hollow laugh. “So there it is. It’s not that I want to be famous or anything. I just want to create something I can be proud of. You know?” “I do,” he says quietly, his eyes heavy on mine, the soft creases on either side of them making him seem weary for the first time all evening. We finish our pizza and continue wandering. As his self-appointed tour guide, I go deep into Seattle lore, pointing out the Jimi Hendrix statue on the intersection of Broadway and Pine, the movie theater that used to be a Masonic temple. At one point, he holds out his phone, beckoning me closer to see what’s on the screen. “I googled ‘dearly beloved.’ You can say it at a funeral, too.” I exaggerate a groan. “I hate being wrong.” “Would a churro make it better?” he asks, gesturing to a food truck on the next block, and I instantly brighten. We take our churros to a bench in Cal Anderson Park, which even this late is full of people picnicking, drinking, dancing to music blaring from phones and mini speakers. “I’m kind of glad that bartender’s guinea pigs were such agents of chaos,” I say. “Or we might not have met.” “God bless Ricardo and Judith.” Drew nudges his churro out of the paper to take a bite. As he does this, his jeans brush against mine, our hips just barely touching. My lungs catch on an inhale, and when I finally let out a breath, I can sense the heat of him not just along my thigh but in the tips of my toes, the back of my neck. He’s half a foot taller than I am, but all night, he’s carried his height with a quiet kind of grace I’m not used to. He doesn’t slouch, but he doesn’t lord it over those of us who are vertically challenged. We could spread out if we wanted to; the bench is big enough. It quickly becomes evident that neither of us wants to. This whole thing is surreal. There’s no desire to check my phone for the time or chart an escape route, the way I might if I’m at a gathering that’s gotten too people-y. When I’m on deadline, I’m laser-focused, but I sent off a final revision of the personal trainer’s book last week, and now I’m waiting for my agent to submit me to other gigs, browsing job websites, sitting in that strange void of what’s next. This is the first time since that mistake with Wyatt that I’ve felt at home in my own skin. Maybe since before then, if I’m being honest. “Seattle is winning me over,” Drew says. “I might even be a little sad to leave tomorrow.” When he says it, there’s an inexplicable twinge in
| 0 |
27 |
Silas Marner.txt
| 39 |
note of tragedy into this comic evening. The men don't react to the news of his robbery at first. When Silas accuses Jem Rodney, Jem seems more annoyed than afraid. Jem's one of the poorer customers, sitting far from the fire, yet he is more accepted here than Silas is. Once they've absorbed what's going on, the men at the pub treat Silas kindly. Eliot moves inside his mind to describe the effect of this. A vague sensation of blurry faces, voices, and the fire's warmth unlocks Silas' heart, and a new kind of feeling starts to grow inside him (note the plant imagery). The news transforms Silas' reputation: The superstitious villagers imagine that the Devil robbed Silas, so he must not be one of the Devil's helpers. Everyone chimes in with his own opinion. Mr. Snell, the peacemaker, tries to convince Silas of Jem's innocence. And Mr. Macey, who believes in authority, starts talking about the proper legal proceedings. NOTE: MEMORY Mr. Macey's remark about accusing the innocent arouses Silas' memory of his own false accusation years ago. The force of memory is important for George Eliot. Remembering his mother's death helped Silas rediscover his herbal medicines to cure Sally Oates in Chapter 2. He tried to forget his past in Lantern-Yard, but remembering it is good for him now, giving him compassion for Jem. Silas is jolted by Mr. Macey's words into withdrawing his accusation of Jem. This takes a great effort, however--it's excruciating to give up his hope of recovering his money. The men around him don't seem to understand his inarticulate pain. Mr. Macey makes a dry joke about Silas' money being in Hell. Dowlas the farrier suggests that Silas missed the thief's footprints because of his poor eyesight ("eyes... like an insect's," he says). Officiously, Dowlas lays out the procedure for inspecting the premises and offers to serve as a deputy. But at least he's willing to get involved. Everyone in the room, in fact, agrees that it's their duty as respectable men to take action. How would the men of your neighborhood act if a local eccentric came running to them wildly for help? Of course, the men get bogged down in another silly quarrel, over whether the farrier can serve as a deputy. (As a veterinarian, he usually puts on airs of being a doctor, and doctors are traditionally excused from constables' duties.) Imagine Silas sitting there, shivering and waiting for them to resolve this dispute. How would you feel in his place? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 8 The other side of Raveloe--the gentry's world--seems unconnected to the goings-on at the Rainbow. Eliot briefly mentions Godfrey, returning from his party to find that Dunstan hasn't come home. This doesn't seem very important. In the morning, however, Godfrey is swept up in the news about Silas, just as everyone else in town is. Think about hometown crime cases that are covered on your local television news. They unfold with new evidence daily. This is what happens in Raveloe. A tinder-box is discovered near the stonepit, and
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49 |
treasure island.txt
| 49 |
the funeral he was as drunk road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before him with a as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of mourning, to stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose; and hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge he was, we were all in the fear of death for him, and the doc- old tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear posi- tor was suddenly taken up with a case many miles away and tively deformed. I never saw in my life a more dreadful- was never near the house after my father’s death. I have said looking figure. He stopped a little from the inn, and raising the captain was weak, and indeed he seemed rather to grow his voice in an odd sing-song, addressed the air in front of weaker than regain his strength. He clambered up and down him, “Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back again, lost the precious sight of his eyes in the gracious defence of and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea, his native country, England—and God bless King George!— holding on to the walls as he went for support and breathing where or in what part of this country he may now be?” hard and fast like a man on a steep mountain. He never par- “You are at the Admiral Benbow, Black Hill Cove, my ticularly addressed me, and it is my belief he had as good as good man,” said I. forgotten his confidences; but his temper was more flighty, “I hear a voice,” said he, “a young voice. Will you give me and allowing for his bodily weakness, more violent than ever. your hand, my kind young friend, and lead me in?” Contents He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of drawing I held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But creature gripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 26 27 startled that I struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled went out of him and left him staring sober. The expression of me close up to him with a single action of his arm. his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness. He “Now, boy,” he said, “take me in to the captain.” made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough “Sir,” said I, “upon my word I dare not.” force left in his body. “Oh,” he sneered, “that’s it! Take me in straight or I’ll “Now, Bill, sit where you are,” said the beggar. “If I can’t break your arm.” see, I can hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold
| 1 |
83 |
Romantic-Comedy.txt
| 8 |
in the studio, we’d spoken only when necessary. But I neither longed for nor resented him, as I’d always sensed he believed. Though I’d been hurt and humiliated by his rejection, it had, I soon realized, freed me and offered clarity. I would never again risk poisoning TNO for myself by falling for or trying to date anyone there. And this decision made me see that there was a different way I wrote when, even subconsciously, I was seeking male approval, male sexual approval: a more coy way, more reserved, more nervous about being perceived as angry or vulgar. It was the syntactical equivalent of dressing up as a sexy zombie for Halloween. From my third season on, I’d embraced my anger and vulgarity. I’d been a gross zombie. I began writing about ostensibly female topics—camel toe and wage inequity, polycystic ovary syndrome and Jane Austen, Do-si-dos and Trefoils and mammograms and shapewear and Dirty Dancing and the so-called likeability of female politicians. By October of that year, I’d written my first viral sketch, Nancy Drew and the Disappearing Access to Abortion, in which Henrietta played the amateur detective. By December, I’d written my second, My Girlfriend Never Farts, which was a digital short that interspersed men at a bachelor party remarking on how their girlfriends and wives always smelled great and were hairless interspersed with shots of the women grunting and sweating as they moved a couch up a staircase, writhing on the toilet with explosive diarrhea, and giving instructions to an aesthetician who was waxing their buttholes. I didn’t try to be disgusting for the sake of being disgusting, but I didn’t try not to be disgusting. A few years after not reciprocating my feelings, Elliot appeared to develop an almost identical friendship with another new female writer except that I had the impression they were hooking up, but it didn’t last. The same season that Elliot became head writer, Nicola Dornan was a musical guest on the show, they began dating, and a year after that, they got married. This development did seem to vindicate his apparent belief that he shouldn’t have settled for me. Quite a few people from TNO had been invited to the wedding, and I hadn’t been one of them. All of which was to say, as we stood in the hallway outside his office, below a framed photo of a legendary TNO alum from the first season dressed as the Easter bunny—many such photos adorned the halls—I knew that Elliot was saying he hoped someday I could get over him. I tried to sound persuasively non-defensive as I said, “Really and truly, Elliot, the Danny Horst Rule sketch isn’t about you. It’s not revenge for you marrying Nicola.” The expression on his face was sympathetic and disbelieving, which made me realize I’d have vastly preferred unsympathetic and believing. Somberly, he said, “You have good qualities, Sally. You’re not out of the game unless you think you are.” I was filled with such loathing for him that it almost retroactively tainted the wise yet not
| 0 |
42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 16 |
gathered together and set as signs in the heavens of Arda: Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronm, and Anarrma; and Menelmacar with his shining belt, that forebodes the Last Battle that shall be at the end of days. And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom. It is told that even as Varda ended her labours, and they were long, when first Menelmacar strode up the sky and the blue fire of Helluin flickered in the mists above the borders of the world, in that hour the Children of the Earth awoke, the Firstborn of Ilvatar. By the starlit mere of Cuivinen, Water of Awakening, they rose from the sleep of Ilvatar; and while they dwelt yet silent by Cuivinen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight, and have revered Varda Elentri above all the Valar. In the changes of the world the shapes of lands and of seas have been broken and remade; rivers have not kept their courses, neither have mountains remained steadfast; and to Cuivinen there is no returning. But it is said among the Elves that it lay far off in the east of Middle-earth, and northward, and it was a bay in the Inland Sea of Helcar; and that sea stood where aforetime the roots of the mountain of Illuin had been before Melkor overthrew it Many waters flowed down thither from heights in the east, and the first sound that was heard by the Elves was the sound of water flowing, and the sound of water falling over stone. Long they dwelt in their first home by the water under stars, and they walked the Earth in wonder; and they began to make speech and to give names to all things that they perceived. Themselves they named the Quendi, signifying those that speak with voices; for as yet they had met no other living things that spoke or sang. And on a time it chanced that Orom rode eastward in his hunting, and he turned north by the shores of Helcar and passed under the shadows of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East. Then on a sudden Nahar set up a great neighing, and stood still. And Orom wondered and sat silent, and it seemed to him that in the quiet of the land under the stars he heard afar off many voices singing. Thus it was that the Valar found at last, as it were by chance, those whom they had so long awaited. And Orom looking upon the Elves was filled with wonder, as though they were beings sudden and marvellous and unforeseen; for so it shall ever be with the Valar. From without the World, though all things may be forethought in music or foreshown in vision from afar, to those who enter verily into E each in its time shall be met at unawares as something new and unforetold. In the
| 1 |
55 |
Blowback.txt
| 41 |
aide scrambled to put together the legal, operational, and moral case for not outsourcing core military functions. Fortunately, the proposal died. “Next time we won’t be so lucky,” a person familiar with the discussions told me, envisioning a Trump-like future president. “We’ll have a military run by mercenaries.” A privatized force. Weaponized for political purposes. Policing U.S. city streets. If that’s how the shield and the sword of government are recast, then Tom Warrick’s caricature of the Next Trump commanding his own forces doesn’t seem so hyperbolic. “A junior gestapo,” as he put it, is exactly what it would be. * * * When I reflect on the nightmare scenario—of an American president hijacking the military for nefarious ends—I like to believe there are safety valves. That’s the type of moment when the Twenty-Fifth Amendment gets invoked, isn’t it? Surely the president’s cabinet would save the day by ejecting him from office if he tried to turn the armed forces against the American people. But I know better. The Next Trump’s cabinet will be stacked with loyalists. If they think about flipping, they’ll be watched. Top officials are routinely tracked so they can be whisked away in the event of a crisis. A paranoid president would use those same security measures as a trip wire to determine whether his cabinet was convening—and conspiring—against him. We can protect our institutions up to a point with obvious remedies. Congress can curtail the two-hundred-year-old law that allows a president to deploy the military on U.S. soil, and legislators should make it harder for the White House to misuse the armed forces. As far as guarding against isolationism, Congress should craft a new Marshall Plan to advance U.S. influence abroad, to protect global trade routes, to defend the territorial integrity of democratic allies, to resist the spread of autocracy, and to prevent meddling in our republic, especially if we want this to be another American century. * * * Up to this point, I’ve outlined the many plausible ways the Next Trump might dismantle the guardrails of our democracy. He or she will almost certainly do much of the damage piecemeal, a form of low-level democratic vandalism. Other possibilities (such as turning the American military against the citizenry) would catalyze a more drastic civic implosion. Despite these dangers, I don’t think another MAGA presidency will be America’s ultimate undoing. At least it won’t be the only factor. If our republic fails, the demise will follow the fabled path of other self-defeated democracies throughout world history. In other words, we’ll do it ourselves. Chapter 7 THE CITIZEN … [M]en are ambitious, vindictive, and rapacious. To look for a continuation of harmony between a number of independent unconnected sovereignties, situated in the same neighborhood, would be to disregard the uniform course of human events, and to set at defiance the accumulated experience of ages. —ALEXANDER HAMILTON, FEDERALIST NO. 6, 1787 PART I The trilling of insects came from all directions, as I set off along the familiar countryside. Back home in Indiana for Independence Day 2020, I was
| 0 |
95 |
USS-Lincoln.txt
| 29 |
faced. Which, of course, wasn’t true in the least. He knew deep down that his words would offer little solace to the admiral. His mind flashed back to his last conversation with the admiral, one that had shaken him to his core, the intense electric shock that had incapacitated him. The memory only fueled his frustration, reminding him of his vulnerability and the weight of the admiral’s expectations. “Admiral, please, the battle continues … We should at least wait before—” “I should never have entrusted you with such an important post. It is time we bring our red ships into the battle, finish off these trespassers once and for all … I suggest you get your affairs in order, Commander. No, things do not bode well for you.” The admiral’s feed blinked out. Lu-puk continued to stare at the blank display. How could he face his crew, knowing that he had led them into failure once again? Yet, amidst the turmoil within, a flicker of determination sparked in Lu-puk’s eyes. He knew that dwelling on the loss would not change the outcome. There was still work to be done, lessons to be learned, and a future to shape. He couldn’t allow this defeat to define him or his team. Straightening his serpentine posture, Commander Lu-puk addressed his scattered crew, his voice steady but laced with a newfound resolve. “Get back in here … all of you!” He waited as his command center crew slunk back into the compartment and retook their post stations. Lu-puk said, “How much control do we still have over what is left of those nanites fluttering around there in space?” Remote Operator #5 answered, “Without a central power supply, the nanites have little time left before they become inert, sir. It is why they are currently incapable of reforming.” “If you were to direct them toward the interloper’s starships … the humans’ shields … Could we utilize—” Remote Operator #2 interjected with renewed enthusiasm, “Yes! More than enough power … a simple, directed signal transmission and our squad of Slissets will be resurrected, ready to defeat the enemy.” Remote Operator #5, looking to gain favor over the meddlesome Operator #2, said, “Perhaps there will be a better objective for our re-energized nanite forces, sir. These advanced nanites all are adaptable … All have the latest hull drilling, hull breaching capabilities.” Lu-puk’s eyes widened; his forked tongue flicked. “Tell me more …” Chapter 37 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos Chen said, “Captain, we’re being hailed by Wrath.” “On display,” I said. Captain Loggins, Commander F. Stanly, and Science Officer Lieutenant Trevor Mandyport were huddled together on Wrath’s bridge, looking as if the three of them were having a tense conversation. Loggins held up a restraining palm to the two others. “Ah, Captain Quintos, we have a serious problem.” Akari spun around and offered up a confused shrug. I wanted to tell Loggins I couldn’t handle another “serious” problem right now. My problem-solving capabilities had been exceeded and he’d just have to wait. Like, forever. “What
| 0 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 7 |
to happen. And if it did, he’d overpower her. That wouldn’t be a problem. She was a weakling. Easy prey. And a temporary release. But there was still more to come, the ultimate triumph. His heart began pounding at the thought of it, of ending Samantha’s life. His blood tingled with anticipation at the image of watching her fight tooth and nail, then, of course, lose the battle, and as she realized her death was not just imminent but fated, the fear overcoming her. Then, oh, then she would begin to plead, to beg, to bargain with him. Her fingers would twist in the fold of his cassock as she cried and swore that she would do anything—absolutely anything—he wanted if he just spared her and— “Where are you taking me?” the whore’s voice—Luna’s tinny little whine—interrupted his fantasy. He snapped back to the present and caught a glimpse of the speedometer. What!?! The needle was hovering near ninety! If he wasn’t careful he’d blow through a speed trap and catch the notice of a roadside cop lying in wait. No, no, no! Everything would be ruined! Starting to sweat, he eased off the gas as they reached the far end of the bridge. Calm down. Take it slow. Enjoy the moment. “I asked you where the fuck are you taking me?” the whore demanded in a show of defiance he hadn’t expected. She was facing him, her terror still evident, but some other emotion—anger?—burning in those round eyes. So she was tougher than he’d thought. Good. He liked a little fight in them and up to this point she’d been a nearly petrified, weak little sniveling creature. But maybe not. Maybe there was a little grit deep inside that tiny body. He felt the thrumming deep inside, the anticipation racing through his blood, the thought of what was coming, the beads of the home-made rosary, cut glass strung on piano wire, pressing into the soft flesh of her throat. His cock hardened a bit at the thought of what was to come and the glorifying, spiritual act that was still just a precursor to his final, ultimate sanctification. That could only come with Samantha. And it would. Soon. “Very soon,” he whispered under his breath, though he hated this departure from his regular routine. Though necessary as they had to get out of the city quickly, it didn’t feel right, like a scratchy sweater that rubbed and chafed. “What?” his terrified captive asked, quaking in her fear again as the lights of the city disappeared behind them. She was twisting in her seat, looking back through the rear window as New Orleans faded into darkness. “What will come very soon?” “You will see, my child,” he said, telling himself that a change of plan, an altering of routine was good, would keep those who would thwart him guessing. He just had to get his mind around it and he would. They were close now and he could feel that special little thrum in his veins, the twitching of his cock as
| 0 |
75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 91 |
through the dressing room, Poppy reaches in to place a lantern on the bench. “I’ll be right here, Little Miss,” she says with a bow. By the time I’m under the quilts with Maoren, Poppy has rolled out her bedding in the first antechamber and lain down. I do not know—nor do I want to know—what she thinks of the sounds Maoren and I make as we begin to perform bedchamber affairs. He takes one of my feet in the palm of his hand. He caresses the silk. He admires the embroidery, saying, “When I see the beautiful petals you stitched, I’m reminded that in every step you take your golden lilies bloom beneath you.” He brings my slippered foot to his nose so he can appreciate its aroma. But mostly it’s as I’ve always been told. My feet are physical proof of the pain I suffered to give him this treasure so dear to him. He’ll never see them naked, but he knows from the books that taught him about bedroom affairs that hidden beneath the binding cloth is the deep cleft formed where my toes meet my heel. I could not have known this when Respectful Lady told me about the importance of this attribute when I was a girl, but now I understand that the shape and depth of this fissure are titillating to my husband. I have not yet needed to twist myself into the strange positions I saw in the books Miss Zhao showed me before marriage, but Maoren must have seen or read some of those same volumes, because he’s attentive to my desires and makes sure I find pleasure. Afterward, as we lie curled together, our Blood and Essence mingled, I have the courage to ask, “Would you allow me to invite my friend Meiling for a visit?” He answers as he always does—with patience and the exact same words: “That is for my mother to decide.” Tonight, I press him further. “I miss sharing confidences with Meiling. For many years, our hearts beat together as one.” “My mother would say that now your heart should only beat with mine,” he says sympathetically. After a moment, he adds, “But I will speak to her.” * * * The next morning, I complete all the usual rituals for my mother-in-law and then return to my room. I take the package Poppy brought to me from my drawer. Grandmother has written a short note: You are correct in your diagnosis and plan for treatment. Proceed. I mix the ingredients and set the pot on the brazier to brew. The medicinal smell that fills the room instantly carries me to my grandparents’ pharmacy. The aroma both lightens and deepens my homesickness. I return my attention to the other items I requested from Grandmother. By the time Yining enters, I have everything ready. “I want to share a secret with you,” I say. “I’m a young doctor.” She giggles. “That’s not a secret. Everyone knows.” This must mean Lady Kuo has forbidden others to talk to me about this
| 0 |
90 |
The-Lost-Bookshop.txt
| 2 |
of, and yet something felt incomplete. ‘The tree!’ ‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ Henry responded to my scream, one eye still shut, his hair standing on end. ‘It’s gone.’ ‘Okay. The very fact of the tree growing here was odd in the first place, but this is just … what are you doing?’ I was getting dressed. Fast. ‘Well, aren’t you coming?’ Henry blinked, then reluctantly pulled on his jeans. I ran up the stairs ahead of him. ‘Martha? Were these words always here on the stairs? Strange things are found …’ he shouted up, but I had found something stranger still. I had expected to find the hallway of number 12 Ha'penny Lane at the top of the stairs, where it always was. Instead, I found myself standing in a place I had never fully believed existed up to that point – Opaline’s Bookshop. Daylight streamed in through the glass shopfront, creating rays of sunshine, glittering with dust motes falling like confetti. I hardly dared breathe in case the whole thing would evaporate. Slowly, I let my eyes readjust to what was in front of me. There were wooden bookcases from floor to ceiling lined with soft green moss and with ivy creeping along the edges. Fallen leaves swept silently across the tiled floor, and floating overhead were toy hot-air balloons. It felt as though the place had just woken up from a long slumber, like Rip Van Winkle, and was shaking off the years of hibernation. I blinked, but it did not disappear. The scent of warm wood and paper filled the air, along with a sweetness like a golden September apple. It was full of brightly coloured antique books and curiosities, all waiting for our arrival. I’d come home. Henry bumped into me at the top of the stairs and then took in the view. ‘Please tell me you’re seeing this and I’m not having an episode.’ ‘It’s real, Henry.’ I turned to look at him and smiled. ‘I’m seeing it, but I can’t believe it,’ he whispered. ‘How is this possible?’ I took a long, deep breath and tried to think of the last lines in Opaline’s book. ‘Maybe it was I who was lost all along and not the bookshop.’ I reached out for Henry’s hand and he clasped it tightly. ‘We did it,’ I said. ‘We found the bookshop.’ His smile was beautiful and unguarded, like that of a little child. ‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to the stained-glass panels at the top of the windows that were like nothing I’d ever seen and yet inexplicably familiar. ‘Is that—?’ Henry stepped closer and pointed to a design at the very edge. A woman, wearing a long coat and trousers, with very short hair, holding hands with a soldier. Epilogue The rain had eased off outside and the bank of grey clouds that had huddled over the city like a lumpy duvet was breaking apart and revealing small, irregular windows of blue sky. ‘Is all of that really true?’ asked the little boy, openly stuffing a teacake
| 0 |
22 |
Lord of the Flies.txt
| 31 |
the chief--" "--you got to go for your own good." "The chief and Roger--" "--yes, Roger--" "They hate you, Ralph. They're going to do you." "They're going to hunt you tomorrow." "But why?" "I dunno. And Ralph, Jack, the chief, says it'll be dangerous--" "--and we've got to be careful and throw our spears like at a pig." "We're going to spread out in a line across the island--" "--we're going forward from this end--" "--until we find you." "We've got to give signals like this." Eric raised his head and achieved a faint ululation by beating on his open mouth. Then he glanced behind him nervously. "Like that--" "--only louder, of course." "But I've done nothing," whispered Ralph, urgently. "I only wanted to keep up a fire!" He paused for a moment, thinking miserably of the morrow. A matter of overwhelming importance occurred to him. "What are you--?" He could not bring himself to be specific at first; but then fear and loneliness goaded him. "When they find me, what are they going to do?" The twins were silent. Beneath him, the death rock flowered again. "What are they--oh God! I'm hungry--" The towering rock seemed to sway under him. "Well--what--?" The twins answered his question indirectly. "You got to go now, Ralph." "For your own good." "Keep away. As far as you can." "Won't you come with me? Three of us--we'd stand a chance." After a moment's silence, Sam spoke in a strangled voice. "You don't know Roger. He's a terror." "And the chief--they're both--" "--terrors--" "--only Roger--" Both boys froze. Someone was climbing toward them from the tribe. "He's coming to see if we're keeping watch. Quick, Ralph!" As he prepared to let himself down the cliff, Ralph snatched at the last possible advantage to be wrung out of this meeting. "I'll lie up close; in that thicket down there," he whispered, "so keep them away from it. They'll never think to look so close--" The footsteps were still some distance away. "Sam--I'm going to be all right, aren't I?" The twins were silent again. "Here!" said Sam suddenly. "Take this--" Ralph felt a chunk of meat pushed against him and grabbed it. "But what are you going to do when you catch me?" Silence above. He sounded silly to himself. He lowered himself down the rock. "What are you going to do--?" From the top of the towering rock came the incomprehensible reply. "Roger sharpened a stick at both ends." Roger sharpened a stick at both ends. Ralph tried to attach a meaning to this but could not. He used all the bad words he could think of in a fit of temper that passed into yawning. How long could you go without sleep? He yearned for a bed and sheets--but the only whiteness here was the slow spilt milk, luminous round the rock forty feet below, where Piggy had fallen. Piggy was everywhere, was on this neck, was become terrible in darkness and death. If Piggy were to come back now out of the water, with his
| 1 |
33 |
The Age of Innocence.txt
| 27 |
to do what you all do--I want to feel cared for and safe." He was touched, as he had been the evening before when she spoke of her need of guidance. "That's what your friends want you to feel. New York's an awfully safe place," he added with a flash of sarcasm. "Yes, isn't it? One feels that," she cried, missing the mockery. "Being here is like--like--being taken on a holiday when one has been a good little girl and done all one's lessons." The analogy was well meant, but did not altogether please him. He did not mind being flippant about New York, but disliked to hear any one else take the same tone. He wondered if she did not begin to see what a powerful engine it was, and how nearly it had crushed her. The Lovell Mingotts' dinner, patched up in extremis out of all sorts of social odds and ends, ought to have taught her the narrowness of her escape; but either she had been all along unaware of having skirted disaster, or else she had lost sight of it in the triumph of the van der Luyden evening. Archer inclined to the former theory; he fancied that her New York was still completely undifferentiated, and the conjecture nettled him. "Last night," he said, "New York laid itself out for you. The van der Luydens do nothing by halves." "No: how kind they are! It was such a nice party. Every one seems to have such an esteem for them." The terms were hardly adequate; she might have spoken in that way of a tea-party at the dear old Miss Lannings'. "The van der Luydens," said Archer, feeling himself pompous as he spoke, "are the most powerful influence in New York society. Unfortunately--owing to her health--they receive very seldom." She unclasped her hands from behind her head, and looked at him meditatively. "Isn't that perhaps the reason?" "The reason--?" "For their great influence; that they make themselves so rare." He coloured a little, stared at her--and suddenly felt the penetration of the remark. At a stroke she had pricked the van der Luydens and they collapsed. He laughed, and sacrificed them. Nastasia brought the tea, with handleless Japanese cups and little covered dishes, placing the tray on a low table. "But you'll explain these things to me--you'll tell me all I ought to know," Madame Olenska continued, leaning forward to hand him his cup. "It's you who are telling me; opening my eyes to things I'd looked at so long that I'd ceased to see them." She detached a small gold cigarette-case from one of her bracelets, held it out to him, and took a cigarette herself. On the chimney were long spills for lighting them. "Ah, then we can both help each other. But I want help so much more. You must tell me just what to do." It was on the tip of his tongue to reply: "Don't be seen driving about the streets with Beaufort--" but he was being too deeply drawn into the atmosphere
| 1 |
45 |
Things Fall Apart.txt
| 66 |
end. "It is not our custom to fight for our gods," said one of them. "Let us not presume to do so now. If a man kills the sacred python in the secrecy of his hut, the matter lies between him and the god. We did not see it. If we put ourselves between the god and his victim we may receive blows intended for the offender. When a man blasphemes, what do we do? Do we go and stop his mouth? No. We put our fingers into our ears to stop us hearing. That is a wise action." "Let us not reason like cowards," said Okonkwo. "If a man comes into my hut and defecates on the floor, what do I do? Do I shut my eyes? No! I take a stick and break his head That is what a man does. These people are daily pouring filth over us, and Okeke says we should pretend not to see." Okonkwo made a sound full of disgust. This was a womanly clan, he thought. Such a thing could never happen in his fatherland, Umuofia. "Okonkwo has spoken the truth," said another man. "We should do something. But let us ostracise these men. We would then not be held accountable for their abominations." Everybody in the assembly spoke, and in the end it was decided to ostracise the Christians. Okonkwo ground his teeth in disgust. That night a bellman went through the length and breadth of Mbanta proclaiming that the adherents of the new faith were thenceforth excluded from the life and privileges of the clan. The Christians had grown in number and were now a small community of men, women and children, self-assured and confident. Mr. Brown, the white missionary, paid regular visits to them. "When I think that it is only eighteen months since the Seed was first sown among you," he said, "I marvel at what the Lord hath wrought." It was Wednesday in Holy Week and Mr. Kiaga had asked the women to bring red earth and white chalk and water to scrub the church for Easter, and the women had formed themselves into three groups for this purpose. They set out early that morning, some of them with their waterpots to the stream, another group with hoes and baskets to the village earth pit, and the others to the chalk quarry. Mr. Kiaga was praying in the church when he heard the women talking excitedly. He rounded off his prayer and went to see what it was all about. The women had come to the church with empty waterpots. They said that some young men had chased them away from the stream with whips. Soon after, the women who had gone for red earth returned with empty baskets. Some of them had been heavily whipped. The chalk women also returned to tell a similar story. "What does it all mean?" asked Mr. Kiaga, who was greatly perplexed. "The village has outlawed us," said one of the women. "The bellman announced it last night. But it is not our
| 1 |
77 |
Maame.txt
| 24 |
“Maddie was on her way over when I told her the news,” she says. “Her plans were to be with her father on his birthday.” Auntie Mabel clucks with affectionate pity I don’t deserve. “Indeed, it was a sad day,” she concludes. They should have known something was wrong with him. I blink hard at this accusatory thought. But no one sounds fine and then dies hours later. You would have been able to tell, right? I pinch my arm until a dent forms. He would have sounded off to you and you would have called the doctor, like you always do. I bow my head and silently cry. We next discuss the financial aspect of the funeral but run short of reaching a conclusion. Dad’s brother tells us how he’d had money set aside in Ghana but somehow, due to either the economy or dubious family members—my grasp on Fante is looser than I thought—it’s now gone. I look over at James and he appears to be following the conversation better than I am. Maybe the three years before me gave him the space to learn. The bottom line (and everyone agrees) is that we need money, but no one has any. They all promise to do their best but what this means is left open to interpretation. * * * When everyone begins to filter out of the house, I tidy away what’s left in the living room and take it to the kitchen sink. A man (the husband of the couple whose names are still a mystery) pops his head round. I smile politely, hoping he’s taken a wrong turn to the bathroom. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He’s quite a circular man, with a round stomach and a head reminiscent of a football. “Sorry, no.” “I’m your uncle Kojo,” he says. “I used to know your father, years ago.” And where have you been since? “The last time I saw you, you were small-small,” he says. “Young. Maybe ten years old?” “Oh.” I don’t know how to react to this revelation. It’s been a long time since I was small-small. “Well, it’s nice to see you again then.” “You really don’t remember me?” “Fifteen years is a long time.” He nods. “Of course it is. My condolences to you.” My hands drip soapy water as I say, “Thank you.” He stands and nods. I turn back to the sink. “I am sorry for your loss, but it’s not the last time you will see him, you know?” I sigh. “Yes.” “Don’t cry too hard, yes?” “Yes.” “Lamentation is just an opportunity to renew your trust and faith in God, you see?” I look at him. The corners of his eyes crease without aid and silver-gray threads hide within his nose. I don’t know this man. He hasn’t kept in touch, so of course I don’t know him. It strikes me that the dedications “auntie” and “uncle” have lost all meaning. Anyone can wander off the street, tell me they’re my aunt/uncle from years ago, drive it home
| 0 |
81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 68 |
thought I’d scream if I had to spend one more minute inside its walls. Whenever I got that way, the only cure was to be outside. I loved the grounds and the sea and the sky. They always managed to soothe me, which is exactly what they did that day. Standing on the terrace, I inhaled the salty air and felt the cool wind on my face. I leaned against the railing and stared up at the tall windows that ran around the southeastern corner of the house. My mother’s bedroom, which was separate from my father’s. The two of them had long stopped sharing a bed. The drapes were drawn, which meant she was suffering another one of her “nervous episodes.” By then, she rarely left her bedroom. I shuddered at the sight of those tightly closed curtains. I couldn’t imagine being trapped in my room all day, every day, never leaving. To me, that seemed like a fate worse than death. Yet here I am, living that exact scenario. It turns out I was right. Because here’s an intriguing fact about Hope’s End: The doors to all the bedrooms can only be locked from the outside, with individual keys required to open them. When my sister and I were young, one of my father’s favorite games was to lock us in our bedrooms. Whoever went the longest without begging to be let out received a prize. Usually a bit of money or a fancy dessert and, once, a gold bracelet. The winner also got to decide how much longer the loser had to stay in her room. My sister won every single time. She never minded the game, but, oh, how it drove me crazy. I could never last more than a few hours before the walls felt like they were closing in and would trap me forever if I didn’t get out. Because I was always the first to beg my father to open the door, I then had to stay in my room for as long as my sister decided. Once, she chose to keep me locked in for an additional twelve hours. I spent that entire night screaming and pounding on the door, demanding to be let out. When that didn’t work, I tried breaking down the door by throwing myself against it. The door never budged. Even though I had lost, my father and sister never relented. I remained locked inside until midmorning. That’s how it feels to be in this house, this room, this body. Like I’ve been locked inside during one of my father’s games and there’s no one on the other side of the door holding the key that can set me free. SIX Lenora and I have adjoining rooms, a fact I discover after bringing my belongings upstairs. The first thing I unpack is the metal lockbox I use to store medication. The same one that got me suspended and investigated by the police after I failed to use it. Now empty, I slide it under the bed and drop the key
| 0 |
26 |
Pride And Prejudice.txt
| 15 |
it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not, but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.'' ``Oh! where, where is my uncle?'' cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily exclaimed, ``I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not a moment to lose.'' ``Good God! what is the matter?'' cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, ``I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; -- you cannot go yourself.'' Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly. On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, ``Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you present relief? -- A glass of wine; -- shall I get you one? -- You are very ill.'' ``No, I thank you;'' she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. ``There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received
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36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 5 |
and at every moment being aware of it. Men of strong minds, great force of character, and a hard texture of the sensibilities, are very capable of falling into mistakes of this kind. They are ordinarily men to whom forms are of paramount importance. Their field of action lies among the external phenomena of life. They possess vast ability in grasping, and arranging, and appropriating to themselves, the big, heavy, solid unrealities, such as gold, landed estate, offices of trust and emolument, and public honors. With these materials, and with deeds of goodly aspect, done in the public eye, an individual of this class builds up, as it were, a tall and stately edifice, which, in the view of other people, and ultimately in his own view, is no other than the man's character, or the man himself. Behold, therefore, a palace! Its splendid halls and suites of spacious apartments are floored with a mosaic-work of costly marbles; its windows, the whole height of each room, admit the sunshine through the most transparent of plate-glass; its high cornices are gilded, and its ceilings gorgeously painted; and a lofty dome--through which, from the central pavement, you may gaze up to the sky, as with no obstructing medium between--surmounts the whole. With what fairer and nobler emblem could any man desire to shadow forth his character? Ah! but in some low and obscure nook, --some narrow closet on the ground-floor, shut, locked and bolted, and the key flung away,--or beneath the marble pavement, in a stagnant water-puddle, with the richest pattern of mosaic-work above,--may lie a corpse, half decayed, and still decaying, and diffusing its death-scent all through the palace! The inhabitant will not be conscious of it, for it has long been his daily breath! Neither will the visitors, for they smell only the rich odors which the master sedulously scatters through the palace, and the incense which they bring, and delight to burn before him! Now and then, perchance, comes in a seer, before whose sadly gifted eye the whole structure melts into thin air, leaving only the hidden nook, the bolted closet, with the cobwebs festooned over its forgotten door, or the deadly hole under the pavement, and the decaying corpse within. Here, then, we are to seek the true emblem of the man's character, and of the deed that gives whatever reality it possesses to his life. And, beneath the show of a marble palace, that pool of stagnant water, foul with many impurities, and, perhaps, tinged with blood,--that secret abomination, above which, possibly, he may say his prayers, without remembering it,--is this man's miserable soul! To apply this train of remark somewhat more closely to Judge Pyncheon. We might say (without in the least imputing crime to a personage of his eminent respectability) that there was enough of splendid rubbish in his life to cover up and paralyze a more active and subtile conscience than the Judge was ever troubled with. The purity of his judicial character, while on the bench; the faithfulness of his public service in subsequent
| 1 |
1 |
A Game of Thrones.txt
| 68 |
of the beasts fighting over the corpses they had left behind. Marillion grew visibly pale. Tyrion trotted up beside him. "Craven, " he said, "rhymes nicely with raven." He kicked his horse and moved past the singer, up to Ser Rodrik and Catelyn Stark. 298 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN She looked at him, lips pressed tightly together. "As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted," Tyrion began, "there is a serious flaw in Littlefinger's fable. Whatever you may believe of me, Lady Stark, I promise you this-1 never bet against my family." ARYA The one-eared black tom arched his back and hissed at her. Arya padded down the alley, balanced lightly on the balls of her bare feet, listening to the flutter of her heart, breathing slow deep breaths. Quiet as a shadow, she told herself, light as a feather. The tomcat watched her come, his eyes wary. Catching cats was hard. Her hands were covered with half-healed scratches, and both knees were scabbed over where she had scraped them raw in tumbles. At first even the cook's huge fat kitchen cat had been able to elude her, but Syrio had kept her at it day and night. When she'd run to him with her hands bleeding, he had said, "So slow? Be quicker, girl. Your enemies will give you more than scratches." He had dabbed her wounds with Myrish fire, which burned so bad she had had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. Then he sent her out after more cats. The Red Keep was full of cats: lazy old cats dozing in the sun, coldeyed mousers twitching their tails, quick little kittens with claws like needles, ladies' cats all combed and trusting, ragged shadows prowling the midden heaps. One by one Arya had chased them down and snatched them up and brought them proudly to Syrio Forel . . . all but this one, this one-eared black devil of a tomcat. "That's the real king of this castle right there," one of the gold cloaks had told her. "Older than sin and twice as mean. One time, the king was feasting the 300 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN queen's father, and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin's fingers. Robert laughed so hard he like to burst. You stay away from that one, child." He had run her halfway across the castle; twice around the Tower of the Hand, across the inner bailey, through the stables, down the serpentine steps, past the small kitchen and the pig yard and the barracks of the gold cloaks, along the base of the river wall and up more steps and back and forth over Traitor's Walk, and then down again and through a gate and around a well and in and out of strange buildings until Arya didn't know where she was. Now at last she had him. High walls pressed close on either side, and ahead was a blank windowless mass of stone. Quiet as a shadow, she repeated, sliding
| 1 |
37 |
The Hunger Games.txt
| 36 |
as I try to prepare for the next hour. The time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puf- fy eyes and a red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be more cameras at the train station. My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Prim and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them. 35 Prim is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they’re careful, on selling Prim’s goat milk and cheese and the small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people in the Seam. Gale will get her the herbs she doesn’t grow her- self, but she must be very careful to describe them because he’s not as familiar with them as I am. He’ll also bring them game — he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago — and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should thank him with some kind of trade, like milk or medicine. I don’t bother suggesting Prim learn to hunt. I tried to teach her a couple of times and it was disastrous. The woods terri- fied her, and whenever I shot something, she’d get teary and talk about how we might be able to heal it if we got it home soon enough. But she makes out well with her goat, so I con- centrate on that. When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard. “Listen to me. Are you listening to me?” She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what’s coming. “You can’t leave again,” I say. My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I couldn’t help what—” “Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out and leave Prim on her own. There’s no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you’ll fight through it!” My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment. 36 She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the medi- cine I have now.” That part about her being ill might be true. I’ve seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t afford. “Then take it. And take care of her!” I say. “I’ll be all
| 1 |
65 |
Hedge.txt
| 70 |
my God. She seems so happy. Horse camp saves the day! On the Fourth of July, Maud organized a canoe trip with the girls, borrowing canoes from Frazer and Lydia. She wanted to find the remnants of a folly—a false ruin popular during the Gilded Age—on the island across from Montgomery Place. Guests at the estate used to take evening rowboat excursions to see the stone structure, which was lit by torches and contained plundered Mayan statues. When she announced the plan to the girls on Friday night, Louise jumped up and down. “Gabriel was hoping to come,” Maud said, “but it’s up to you guys.” “Sure,” Ella said. “Maybe he can rescue us if we drown.” “We’re not going to drown. What do you think, Louise?” “Yes! But I want to row.” The next morning, the four of them walked the canoes across the road from Frazer and Lydia’s farm, wearing moldy teal life vests, flip-flops slapping on the asphalt. “I don’t get why you want to see a folly,” Ella said as they navigated through the gates. “It’s fake history in history. Just like Disneyland but back then.” “My parents boycott Disneyland,” Louise explained to Gabriel. She was walking in the shade of the canoe that he was carrying over his head. “There are more interesting places to go,” Maud told Louise, then said to Ella, “Maybe you won’t like the folly, but you’ll like canoeing.” “I hate canoeing,” Ella said. “You’ve never been canoeing.” “I’ve been rowboating. Same thing.” “I thought you loved going to Stowe Lake.” When they’d lived in England and visited her parents, she used to take the girls to Golden Gate Park, as she’d once done with her favorite grandmother. They tossed pink popcorn to passing ducks on Stowe Lake, held their breath under the bridge with the troll living under it, and then strolled from the lake to the Japanese Tea Garden for sesame cookies and sencha served in thimble-like cups. But Ella wasn’t buying nostalgia. “Follies are fake history in history,” she said. “That’s all I’m saying.” “My parents wouldn’t even let us get the Disney Princesses,” Louise told Gabriel as she carefully matched his pace to stay out of the sun. “Everyone had them but us.” “Help,” Maud said to Gabriel. “Mutiny.” “Drop the canoe and run,” Gabriel said. “Yeah, do that,” Ella said. “Then we won’t have to get in it.” But her grumpiness this morning was almost playful. The woods moved over them and, with them, mosquitoes. “Shithead,” Ella said. She stopped to stomp a mosquito off her leg, and Maud almost dropped her half of the canoe. “Ella,” she said. “Well, they are. And I can’t use my hands because I’m carrying this stupid canoe.” “Yes, yes, we know the canoe is stupid.” “They bite me too,” Gabriel said. “We let off a lot of carbon dioxide, you and me. Let’s move faster, maybe that’ll help.” He started to run, and Ella ran with him, pulling Maud down the hill. At the river, Louise stood on the shore and
| 0 |
64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 3 |
Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something. Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops. It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it. One day. Let them have one perfect day, and tomorrow we’ll come clean. By the time I get back upstairs, everyone’s laughing, the very picture of a laid-back best friends’ trip. Wyn’s gaze snags on mine, and his dimpled smile doesn’t fall or even falter. He’s fine! No big deal that his ex-fiancée’s here, or that we’re essentially staying in a honeymoon suite with an extreme every-surface-here-is- specifically-designed-with-fucking-in-mind vibe! No discernible reaction to my presence. This time, the zing that goes down my spine feels less like a zipper undone and more like angry flame on a streak of gasoline. It’s not fair that he’s fine. It’s not fair that being here with me doesn’t feel like having his heart roasted on a spit, like it does for me. You can do this, Harriet. If he’s fine, you can be too. For your friends. I set the wine bottle on the table as I round it and come to stand behind Wyn, sliding my hands down his shoulders to his chest, until my face is beside his and I can feel his heartbeat in my hands, even and unbothered. Not good enough. If I’m going to be tormented, so is he. I burrow my face into the side of his neck, all warm pine and clove. “So,” I say, “who’s up for a swim?” Goose bumps rise from his skin. This time, the zing feels like victory. • • • “I’M STARTING TO suspect,” Kimmy says, “that we might be a wee bit in-bree- biated. In-bee-biatred.” “Who? Us?” I say, slowly trying to push myself to my feet on the slippery stand-up paddle mat as Kimmy crouches on the far end. Wife Number Five bought the mats for “aqua yoga” a couple of years back, and I’d forgotten all about them until tonight. Kimmy screams, and Parth dives out of the way as the mat flips over, dumping us back into the pool for easily the sixth time. The three of us pop out of the water. Kimmy flicks her head back to get her matted red-gold hair out of her face. “Us,” she confirms. “All of us.” “Well,” I say, jerking my head toward the patio table, where Cleo, Sabrina, and Wyn are deep in a game of poker, “maybe not them.” “Oh, no,” Parth says. “Sabrina absolutely is. But competition sobers
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12 |
Fahrenheit 451.txt
| 61 |
going. Somehow he had picked up the spilled books; he didn't remember bending or touching them. He kept moving them from hand to hand as if they were a poker hand he could not figure. I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse? He stopped and his mind said it again, very loud. I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse! He wanted to run after them yelling. His eyes watered. The thing that had saved him was falling flat. The driver of that car, seeing Montag down, instinctively considered the probability that running over a body at that speed might turn the car upside down and spill them out. If Montag had remained an upright target. . . ? Montag gasped. Far down the boulevard, four blocks away, the beetle had slowed, spun about on two wheels, and was now racing back, slanting over on the wrong side of the street, picking up speed. But Montag was gone, hidden in the safety of the dark alley for which he had set out on a long journey, an hour or was it a minute, ago? He stood shivering in the night, looking back out as the beetle ran by and skidded back to the centre of the avenue, whirling laughter in the air all about it, gone. Further on, as Montag moved in darkness, he could see the helicopters falling, falling, like the first flakes of snow in the long winter. to come.... The house was silent. Montag approached from the rear, creeping through a thick night-moistened scent of daffodils and roses and wet grass. He touched the screen door in back, found it open, slipped in, moved across the porch, listening. Mrs. Black, are you asleep in there? he thought. This isn't good, but your husband did it to others and never asked and never wondered and never worried. And now since you're a fireman's wife, it's your house and your turn, for all the houses your husband burned and the people he hurt without thinking. . The house did not reply. He hid the books in the kitchen and moved from the house again to the alley and looked back and the house was still dark and quiet, sleeping. On his way across town, with the helicopters fluttering like torn bits of paper in the sky, he phoned the alarm at a lonely phone booth outside a store that was closed for the night. Then he stood in the cold night air, waiting and at a distance he heard the fire sirens start up and run, and the Salamanders coming, coming to bum Mr. Black's house while he was away at work, to make his wife stand shivering in the morning air while the roof let go and dropped in upon the fire. But now, she was still asleep. Good night, Mrs. Black, he thought. - "Faber! " Another rap, a whisper, and a long waiting. Then, after a minute, a small light flickered inside Faber's small house. After another pause, the back door opened. They
| 1 |
32 |
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt
| 60 |
different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by and --------------------------------------------------------- -262- by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted: "Who's ready for the cave?" Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside -- an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all things have an end. By-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand -- for Mc- --------------------------------------------------------- -263- Dougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same -- labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man "knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one. The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the "known" ground. By-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no
| 1 |
79 |
Quietly-Hostile.txt
| 45 |
damp, potpourri’d public bathroom air. I bought a tallboy of Diet Coke and two corn dogs and one pocket-sized Purell for every pocket of every single item of clothing I own, and I took all this to my car full of shit I didn’t need, slid behind the steering wheel, and cried from the stress and confusion of it all. Then I got worried that the virus had somehow attached itself to my corn dogs between the station and the car I had to return to Enterprise with a minimum half a tank, so I tossed them in a nearby trash can just in case those rumors about stomach acid killing Coronavirus weren’t true (they weren’t, imagine that, and even if stomach acid were the cure, how would you bypass all your infectable organs to submerge the Covid in its frothy death bath?), and I drove the rest of the way home without stopping, thinking about the bleach bath I would need to take once I got there. david matthews’s greatest romantic hits People always pretend to be shocked when I say I unabashedly love Dave Matthews, but…why? Sure, I don’t play hacky sack or whatever (Is that how you do it, do you “play” hacky sack?) so maybe I don’t look like I fit his target demographic, but I’ve played bags before. That’s gotta count for something!! I love Dave Matthews for real, passionately and without shame. Every time I make that declaration in public someone says, “You’re doing a bit, right.” I see why you might think so, but I promise you I am not. Here’s a thing people who are not me don’t talk about enough: Dave Matthews can write the shit out of a love song. I know everyone thinks his albums are made up of twelve-minute-long jam-band odes to tie-dye and weed. But he has so many gut-wrenching songs about love and heartache and regret and desire, and I know it’s hilarious to make fun of the bus poop and clown a dude who has flutes in his music. BUT: my man has an undeniably gorgeous voice (His falsetto!!!!!!!!! Sorry, but it rules!) and makes music that is extremely listenable. Stop fronting like he’s not great! Why am I forced to petition on this man’s behalf like he’s my son filming himself playing the recorder and I need him to get some likes, and not a person who has been (mostly unsuccessfully) nominated for fourteen Grammys?! Here is my list of the greatest Dave Matthews songs to swoon over: 1. “If Only” most romantic lyric, to me: “So help me get my way back to you” I do not believe in helping a man, AND YET…When Dave asks this woman I’m sure he dumped with neither cause nor due process to take him back, please—it breaks my cold, dead heart. I cry to this song a distressing amount, as I am interested in sex-weeping, especially because he does this plaintive keening near the end that sounds like he’s crying for his woman to take him back, a
| 0 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 73 |
almost stumbled, just catching herself on the wall with her good hand. Her first wild thought was that the gallery must have been walled up. Then the hanging was drawn back, and a stricken face appeared, cast into shadow. ‘Who in Halgalant are you?’ Glorian demanded. Pain and embarrassment sharpened her voice. She had not thought to see anyone up here. The man – a young man, not much older than her – stared back at her in shock. ‘My lady.’ Recovering, he lowered his head. ‘Your pardon. Are you hurt?’ His accent was a flinty burr. She could have sworn it had the rime of the North on it. ‘Hurt?’ Glorian snapped. ‘I am vexed, by your presence. Why are you lurking up here in the dark?’ He seemed at a loss for words. She knew she was being rude, but she needed him to get out of the way, before she fainted on him. Her bone hurt so badly it made her sight prickle. A second face looked out from behind the young man. A woman, about the same age, brown hair plaited over her pale forehead. When Glorian realised what she must have interrupted, she flushed. ‘Unless you two are wed, you should not be trysting.’ She drew herself up to her full, considerable height, her arm throbbing. ‘Off with you, or Queen Sabran will hear of this.’ ‘We weren’t—’ the woman started, but the man cut her off. ‘Aye, my lady. Forgive us.’ He ushered his friend away, and they were gone. Glorian waited until their footsteps had faded before she doubled over, painting the floor with vomit and bramble wine. Somehow, she thought gloomily, just as her guards caught up, I suspect Mother would have handled this better. **** Half an hour later, she sat at the high table in the Old Hall. Three hundred of the most important guests, including the delegation from Carmentum, had been invited to the more intimate chamber. Her guards had summoned the bonesetter, Kell Bourn, who had fastened her arm to her chest. Now Glorian felt steadier, though her body ached. She had chewed on some catmint to freshen her breath, and a mantle hid the slender leather strap from the Carmenti. Her fourth suitor was beside her. The first had been too shy to do anything more than whisper his name; the second had been odd (‘Lady, your eyes are as green as two smooth toads’), and the third, heir to an olive region in Yscalin, had not even managed to meet her gaze. This one was Magnaust Vatten, elder son of the Steward of Mentendon. His eyes were steely grey, and his white face was a picture of disdain. Where the Inysh were a blaze of autumn reds and golds, he wore sealskin and black tooled leather, defiant in his severity. He drew wary looks from all over the hall, this son of the man they had once called the Sea King. Glorian, daughter of a real king, was unimpressed. Magnaust had done little but complain while he sawed
| 0 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 69 |
the lower side of the frame to this day. hurt in the scuffle with the stranger. I got the rum, to be That blow was the last of the battle. Once out upon the sure, and tried to put it down his throat, but his teeth were road, Black Dog, in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful tightly shut and his jaws as strong as iron. It was a happy clean pair of heels and disappeared over the edge of the hill in relief for us when the door opened and Doctor Livesey came half a minute. The captain, for his part, stood staring at the in, on his visit to my father. signboard like a bewildered man. Then he passed his hand “Oh, doctor,” we cried, “what shall we do? Where is he over his eyes several times and at last turned back into the wounded?” house. “Wounded? A fiddle-stick’s end!” said the doctor. “No “Jim,” says he, “rum”; and as he spoke, he reeled a little, more wounded than you or I. The man has had a stroke, as I and caught himself with one hand against the wall. warned him. Now, Mrs. Hawkins, just you run upstairs to “Are you hurt?” cried I. your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing about it. For Contents “Rum,” he repeated. “I must get away from here. Rum! my part, I must do my best to save this fellow’s trebly worth- Rum!” less life; Jim, you get me a basin.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 18 19 When I got back with the basin, the doctor had already “Much I care,” returned the doctor. “It’s the name of a ripped up the captain’s sleeve and exposed his great sinewy buccaneer of my acquaintance; and I call you by it for the arm. It was tattooed in several places. “Here’s luck,” “A fair sake of shortness, and what I have to say to you is this; one wind,” and “Billy Bones his fancy,” were very neatly and clearly glass of rum won’t kill you, but if you take one you’ll take executed on the forearm; and up near the shoulder there was another and another, and I stake my wig if you don’t break off a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from it—done, as I short, you’ll die— do you understand that?—die, and go to thought, with great spirit. your own place, like the man in the Bible. Come, now, make “Prophetic,” said the doctor, touching this picture with an effort. I’ll help you to your bed for once.” his finger. “And now, Master Billy Bones, if that be your Between us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him name, we’ll have a look at the colour of your blood. Jim,” he upstairs, and laid him on his bed, where his head fell back on said, “are you afraid of blood?” the pillow as if he were almost fainting. “No, sir,” said I. “Now, mind you,” said the doctor, “I clear my conscience— “Well, then,” said he, “you
| 1 |
76 |
Love Theoretically.txt
| 17 |
quickly after.” His tone is wary, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Why didn’t she go back?” He exhales. “There were . . . issues. With the lead researcher of her group.” “Why?” “They had some . . . disagreement over their joint research. He was intensely controlling. She refused to abide. You can imagine the rest.” His face is blank. “Her diaries are . . . She wasn’t well when she found out that she wouldn’t be allowed back.” “That’s bullshit. How dare he cut her out of her own research group?” Jack doesn’t respond. His pause feels a little longer than normal. “Her work was on semiconductors.” My eyes widen. It’s not my field, but I know a bit about it, because it’s one of the topics my mentor works on. I wonder if I read Jack’s mom’s papers years ago without even realizing it. An invisible string, tying us together. “Good stuff?” “Very solid, yes.” “I bet she was great. I mean, she was a theoretical physicist.” “True. On the other hand, she did marry my dad.” “Good point. Maybe he used to be more . . . engaged with his surroundings?” “Maybe. Maybe she needed a green card? Or the Smith money.” “She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.” “For sure.” His smile is fond. And has me asking, “Do you miss her?” A long pause. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . .” He organizes his thoughts. Orders his feelings. “It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” His throat works. “But she wasn’t.” I’ve felt out of place my entire life, and nothing anyone ever said made me feel any less so. So I stay silent and just lean forward, hide my face in Jack’s throat, press a kiss to his Adam’s apple right as it moves. His hand comes up to cup my head, keep it there, and I feel him turn to the screen again. Bella’s pregnancy complications are getting alien-like, and he groans into my hair. “Elsie. I can’t watch this.” “But it’s the best part. The emotional roller coaster of her transformation. The inappropriate Jacob plotline. Her face when she drinks blood.” “No way.” “Fine. You may amuse yourself otherwise. But stay close, because you’re a space heater disguised as an organic life-form.” “Perfect.” He lifts me like I’m a pliant little thing, flips us around, braces himself over me. I can only watch him in confusion while he lowers himself down my body with a concentrated frown between his brows and then lifts my hoodie as though . . . Is he . . . He’s not . . . Is he actually? “What are you doing?” “You told me to
| 0 |
78 |
Pineapple Street.txt
| 56 |
put a hand on the boy’s head, made him wait while he talked to Fran. I remembered that I could pretend to look at my phone, so I did that until Max, clinging to the gutter, lost his kickboard; I knelt and reached over the water and sent it sailing to him, then tossed him rings to dive for. Robbie’s voice grew loud, traveled across the pool. He’d turned in my direction. “I know I can’t talk to Bodie,” he half shouted, “but I hope you’ll tell her it’s good to see her.” Thank God. I laughed, shrugged, waved again. He said, to the middle of the room, “Please tell her I think she turned out pretty cool. No hard feelings. Tell her my wife’s a big fan!” He turned his attention to the younger boy, who looked about seven. As Fran walked back to me, he picked the boy up and swung him—a giggling sack of potatoes—into the water. Robbie backed up, ran to the pool edge himself, grabbed his own legs in a cannonball, flew. 11 At 11:45, a text from Alder: Shit shit shit. I resisted answering. At 11:47: Very not good. 11:50: Can I not even tell u why??? It’s bad. Britt still on stand, state bringing u into it on cross. I was at Rite Aid, buying the dental floss and antacid I’d neglected to pack. 11:52: Flipping out. They’re doing the timeline of when u got involved and they’re going, was this the same week her husband was in the spotlight, was this before or after she got backlash for the following tweets. Batshit omfg 11:55: Like, they’re trying to say u did all this to get attention off u and husband? Fucking Jerome. If Jerome and his antics and my poor reaction ended up being the reason we lost, I’d never forgive him. Or myself. I’d stopped in the digestive aisle, by the rows of Pepto-Bismol. I should tell Alder to stop texting, but didn’t I need to know this? 11:59: Making u sound like this desperate person. Amy objecting to like every word but judge allowing?? It was everything I’d once feared—looking like a desperate interloper—but now I cared far less about that than about what this might do to Britt’s testimony, or what it might do to my own testimony tomorrow. Omar did not deserve this. 12:20: So they’ve been in bench conference forever, I can hardly even hear anything ughghghghgh I was at the checkout counter; I was walking down the icy sidewalk; I was drinking my bottled Frappuccino on the corner like a wino. 12:45: They got like 2 more qs out and now another bench conference 1:15: Can’t believe I’m missing class to stare at these lawyers’ backs The call from Amy March came a little after five. I was lying on the bed in a sandpapery hotel robe, my hair wet, unable to nap because the elevator was too loud through my wall. She said, “I know you might have heard some things today. I don’t want you to
| 0 |
59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 42 |
“So she plays by herself. You should see her. She draws the most wonderful things in the sand, and sometimes she makes adornments with feathers.” “So does Chrysothemis,” Clytemnestra says. “And Mother? How is she?” Helen shrugs. “She didn’t take well the departures of Phoebe and Philonoe. Phoebe was good with her, especially when Mother drank too much.” “We should hide the wine then.” “I have tried. It just makes her angry. She spends most of her time in her room now, so we visit her.” She sits again on the stone floor at the temple’s entrance. Her hair is plaited and it makes her eyes look bigger. “We need to speak to Castor and Polydeuces,” Clytemnestra says. “They must let the women go back to the men they were promised to.” Helen’s face is amused. “You never change. You’ve just arrived and are already planning to fix everything.” “If I don’t, who else will?” “With everything that happened to us, we should have learned to let things be. We don’t want to end up like Tyndareus.” We don’t want to end up like Leda either, Clytemnestra thinks. Their mother has always believed the gods decided for most men, but Clytemnestra never accepted that. To exist in the shivering knowledge that gods could do and undo things as they wished: how could anyone live such a life? No. The gods are cruel and have little time for mortals. Helen takes her hand. “Besides, our brothers aren’t holding anyone against their will.” “What do you mean?” “Phoebe and Hilaeira came here of their own accord. They love Castor and Polydeuces.” She looks down, then adds, “Who wouldn’t?” Clytemnestra draws away. “We can’t force Sparta into civil war. These women were promised to the king of Messenia’s sons.” Helen stares at her, frowning. “I can’t stay here and fight a war while Menelaus is away. I have a family, children to take care of.” “We are your family too,” Helen says with a sad smile. “I am not risking a civil war against Messenia,” Clytemnestra repeats, “so that Castor can sleep with yet another woman.” Helen stands, shaking her head. “This is different. I will take you to him now if you like. He’ll make you understand.” * * * On their way back to the palace, they pass the working helots and the stables, where the mares are resting. By the haystacks, next to a black stallion, a girl is retching, her hands keeping her hair out of her face. She lifts her head to look at them—her face is wet with sweat and sickness. “Pregnant,” Helen says. “We have all been there,” Clytemnestra replies. “She will be happy once the child is born.” “Will she?” Clytemnestra turns to look at her sister, but Helen’s face is unreadable. Inside the palace, Helen stops just outside the wooden door of Castor’s room. “You go in,” she says, “Menelaus will be leaving soon, and I must say goodbye.” Clytemnestra nods and Helen hurries back the way they came, her shadow following her, long and lean
| 0 |
83 |
Romantic-Comedy.txt
| 20 |
a fantastic idea, he texted back. On July 31, a FedEx package arrived at Jerry’s house: the twelve-count case of protein bars, an eleven-by-sixteen-inch spiral-bound road atlas, and a gray T-shirt that said California in a yellow 1980s font. In the accompanying note, he’d written, Sally, I can’t wait to see you! Your pen pal, Noah. I had never seen his handwriting, and even that seemed touching, and filled me with yearning: the way the S in Sally connected from its base to the a, the unadorned capital I, the straight unlooped line jutting down from the y in you. But was pen pal intended to be read as an inside joke or a reference to our platonic status? That night, we ended our conversation at midnight, meaning early, and I set the alarm on my phone for 6:15 a.m. Though I’d told Jerry he didn’t need to get up in the morning, he did; in his white-and-blue seersucker bathrobe, he carried my box of protein bars and masks outside and set it on the passenger side in the front seat, then he embraced me and said, “Some states let you drive eighty, but I think a bit slower is safer.” Sugar frolicked at our feet, and I crouched to pet her. I had explained to Jerry that I was going to visit a friend in L.A. for a week or two, and his sister, my aunt Donna, whom I’d been grocery shopping for when I shopped for Jerry and me, had offered her car; she’d said since she and my uncle Richard hardly went anywhere these days, they didn’t need two. It was strange to leave Jerry’s house; it was strange not to know how long I’d be in California; it was strange, even after five years, to live in the world without my mother; it was strange to be a person during a global pandemic. I started the engine and backed out of the driveway, waved goodbye to Jerry and Sugar from the street, and turned up the volume on the folky women satellite radio station, and a Mary Chapin Carpenter song I knew all the words to filled the car. I was both excited and melancholy as I drove south on State Line Road, through the early morning summer light, and my melancholy lifted some as I reached the Shawnee Mission Parkway and by the time I passed through Olathe, Kansas, half an hour later, it was almost completely gone, or at least eclipsed by giddiness and nervousness and sheer horniness. The highway in front of me was long and mostly flat, and I realized that I had been this excited and terrified only one other time in my life; it had been when I interviewed at TNO. * * * — The Albuquerque Hampton Inn was four stories flanked by a mostly empty parking lot of bleak concrete, with the Sandia Mountains visible in the east. Sitting on the bed in my room, I ate dinner at 8:15 mountain time: two protein bars, a banana, and an orange
| 0 |
10 |
Dune.txt
| 14 |
"Hey!" the pilot laughed. "Cub's got a bark. Ain't got no bite, though." And Jessica thought; Paul's pitching his voice too high. It may work, though. They flew on in silence. These poor fools, Jessica thought, studying her guards and reviewing the Baron's words. They'll be killed as soon as they report success on their mission. The Baron wants no witnesses. The 'thopter banked over the southern rim of the Shield Wall, and Jessica saw a moonshadowed expanse of sand beneath them. "This oughta be far enough," the pilot said. "The traitor said to put'em on the sand anywhere near the Shield Wall." He dipped the craft toward the dunes in a long, falling stoop, brought it up stiffly over the desert surface. Jessica saw Paul begin taking the rhythmic breaths of the calming exercise. He closed his eyes, opened them. Jessica stared, helpless to aid him. He hasn't mastered the Voice yet, she thought, if he fails . . . The 'thopter touched sand with a soft lurch, and Jessica, looking north back across the Shield Wall, saw a shadow of wings settle out of sight up there. Someone's following us! she thought. Who? Then: The ones the Baron set to watch this pair. And there'll be watchers for the watchers, too. Czigo shut off his wing rotors. Silence flooded in upon them. Jessica turned her head. She could see out the window beyond Scarface a dim glow of light from a rising moon, a frosted rim of rock rising from the desert. Sandblast ridges streaked its sides. Paul cleared his throat. The pilot said: "Now, Kinet?" "I dunno, Czigo." Czigo turned, said: "Ah-h-h, look." He reached out for Jessica's skirt. "Remove her gag," Paul commanded. Jessica felt the words rolling in the air. The tone, the timbre excellent--imperative, very sharp. A slightly lower pitch would have been better, but it could still fall within this man's spectrum. Czigo shifted his hand up to the band around Jessica's mouth, slipped the knot on the gag. "Stop that!" Kinet ordered. "Ah, shut your trap," Czigo said. "Her hands're tied." He freed the knot and the binding dropped. His eyes glittered as he studied Jessica. Kinet put a hand on the pilot's arm. "Look, Czigo, no need to . . . " Jessica twisted her neck, spat out the gag. She pitched her voice in low, intimate tones. "Gentlemen! No need to fight over me." At the same time, she writhed sinuously for Kinet's benefit. She saw them grow tense, knowing that in this instant they were convinced of the need to fight over her. Their disagreement required no other reason. In their minds, they were fighting over her. She held her face high in the instrument glow to be sure Kinet would read her lips, said: "You mustn't disagree." They drew farther apart, glanced warily at each other. "Is any woman worth fighting over?" she asked. By uttering the words, by being there, she made herself infinitely worth their fighting. Paul clamped his lips tightly closed, forced himself to be silent. There
| 1 |
39 |
The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt
| 25 |
spot where the roads parted, and his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started away. The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage. They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering round the beetling cliff. Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; while Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods. Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's or the hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only human habitations that appeared. The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set forward towards Beaujeu. The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind, wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not be very great, and comforted himself
| 1 |
43 |
The Turn of the Screw.txt
| 37 |
Well, he did have it; and it consisted--in part at least--of his coming in at about eight o'clock and sitting down with me in silence. On the removal of the tea things I had blown out the candles and drawn my chair closer: I was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt as if I should never again be warm. So, when he appeared, I was sitting in the glow with my thoughts. He paused a moment by the door as if to look at me; then--as if to share them-- came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair. We sat there in absolute stillness; yet he wanted, I felt, to be with me. XXI Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose, who had come to my bedside with worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish that an illness was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not against the possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that she protested-- it was conspicuously and passionately against mine. I was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as against my own. "She persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything?" My visitor's trouble, truly, was great. "Ah, miss, it isn't a matter on which I can push her! Yet it isn't either, I must say, as if I much needed to. It has made her, every inch of her, quite old." "Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her respectability. `Miss Jessel indeed--SHE!' Ah, she's `respectable,' the chit! The impression she gave me there yesterday was, I assure you, the very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. I DID put my foot in it! She'll never speak to me again." Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs. Grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frankness which, I made sure, had more behind it. "I think indeed, miss, she never will. She do have a grand manner about it!" "And that manner"--I summed it up--"is practically what's the matter with her now!" Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor's face, and not a little else besides! "She asks me every three minutes if I think you're coming in." "I see--I see." I, too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out. "Has she said to you since yesterday--except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful--a single
| 1 |
93 |
The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt
| 57 |
he complimented her because he loved her, there was no hidden agenda. She watched him tuck into his boiled egg with the same boyish enthusiasm, the same easy-going nature she’d always loved. She reached for the mug of coffee. ‘You are coming to the picnic by the barge today?’ ‘Oh?’ Neil frowned. ‘I thought it was next week.’ ‘No, today, 12 August.’ Lin indicated the kitchen window as if it was proof. ‘The weather’s perfect – it’s going to be glorious.’ Neil’s face took on an expression of anguish. ‘Lindy, I promised a man in Tadderly that I’d go and look at his car for him.’ ‘What man in Tadderly?’ Lin was surprised by how irritated she sounded. Neil’s eyes were on the ceiling, then on his plate. ‘You don’t know him – a customer from when I had the garage.’ ‘Can’t Dangerous Dave do it?’ Neil sighed. ‘This customer asked for me – he’s an older man, our age – he thinks Dangerous is a bit, you know, heavy handed…’ Lin pushed her plate away. ‘So you can’t make the barbecue?’ ‘I’m sure I can: if I set off now, maybe I’ll be back by about two…’ Neil looked around him shiftily. ‘It depends how long the job takes.’ ‘All right.’ Lin was visibly disappointed. ‘It just seems that I’m on my own all the time now whenever we are invited anywhere. You keep making excuses and disappearing…’ Neil was shocked. ‘I don’t make excuses, love.’ ‘You do,’ Lin countered. ‘You’re always helping someone or going walking or – all sorts of things, you’ll do anything rather than be with me.’ ‘No, that’s not true.’ ‘It is, Neil.’ Lin pushed her chair back, making a harsh squeak, and rushed to the kitchen sink. ‘If you’re not doing one thing then it’s another.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’ ‘Silly?’ Lin felt the tears spring to her eyes. ‘You think I’m silly?’ ‘No, Lindy.’ Neil was next to her, wrapping his arms around her. ‘Of course I don’t. I’m sorry, I just meant…’ She glared at him. ‘What did you mean?’ ‘I’m just helping someone.’ ‘So you say.’ Lin couldn’t stop her words. ‘You’ll help anyone else but you don’t care about me.’ ‘Please don’t say that.’ He looked hurt. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. You’re the most important thing in my life.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I promise you that.’ Lin blinked, staring at her husband through tears. ‘You promise?’ ‘Of course.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry I forgot the date, but I won’t be long. I’ll be quick…’ He kissed her nose. ‘Look, I’ll get going now, and I’ll rush through the job. Is that all right? I mean, if you want, I’ll stay with you and we’ll go to the picnic – I don’t have to help this man with his car…’ ‘No, you go, if you’ve promised,’ Lin huffed. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ Neil reached for his jacket, the smart one, then he changed his mind. ‘It’s warm outside – I’ll
| 0 |
72 |
Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt
| 16 |
in front of the canvas. I wanted to see the colors. I wanted to watch the brushstrokes happen. I wanted to see the painting appear in front of my eyes. No matter what else might happen with this painting, the process of making it was bliss. That counted for something. At last, when I finally worked up the courage to sketch his face, I didn’t try to make it make sense. I wasn’t thinking, What would Norman Rockwell do? I was thinking about what I would do. What I needed to do—with each mark and each line—to render my experience of Joe’s face. I was following my own compass. Wherever it would lead. And it turned out, Sue was right. That was a win in itself. * * * I PAINTED—AND TOUCHED, and painted and touched—Joe for two solid hours that night. He was endlessly patient. Didn’t check his phone or fall asleep or even ask for a glass of water. He just stayed with me the whole time, taking it all in. When I’d done everything I could do for the night and I had a pretty full, dynamic early painted sketch, I thanked him, like he could go. “Anyway,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “I really appreciate you doing this for me. Congratulations. You’re almost free.” “Free from what?” Joe asked. “From me. Once the art show is over, we won’t have to see each other anymore.” “Why wouldn’t we see each other?” “I’m just saying. I’ve taken up a lot of your time.” “I was hoping you’d give me roller-skating lessons.” “But how would Dr. Michaux feel about that?” Joe frowned. “Why would Dr. Michaux feel anything about that?” “Aren’t you … you know?” “What?” Joe took a swig of water. “Didn’t we talk about this?” “You said you weren’t dating. But I figured you must be hooking up.” Joe coughed. “What?” “You’re always … coming out of her apartment,” I said. And a bunch of others. “Yeah? So?” “So aren’t you guys … together?” “Wait—you thought we were—what?” My fingers were still tingling from touching him. I shrugged. Joe started laughing then, but I didn’t think it was funny. He leaned his head back and let out a big sigh. “I’m not dating Dr. Michaux. I am pet-sitting her snakes.” Now it was my turn to be befuddled. “You’re what-sitting her whats?” “Her snakes,” Joe confirmed. “Remember? Herpetologist? She has a whole den of snakes in there. Even an Indonesian flying snake. It’s pretty complicated, keeping them healthy.” Okay. I could freak out about a penthouse full of flying snakes later. First things first. I needed to get this straight: “You’re … a snake sitter?” “Pet sitter,” Joe corrected. “Why do you think I was feeding Parker’s cat?” “That’s what you do for a living?” I could feel Joe frowning, like that question was really odd. “It’s one of the things I do for a living,” he said. “All that time … you were going in there to feed snakes?” Joe nodded. “ “And so
| 0 |
72 |
Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt
| 7 |
My courageous, kindhearted mom. She would have given anything to go to this exact show fourteen years ago. She would give anything to be here right now, fully alive, facing whatever life threw at her, and just cherishing it all. Maybe the best way to hold on to her wasn’t to obsess over her paintings or wear her skates or listen to her music or copy her style or worry over what would happen when I finally lost Peanut. Maybe the best way to keep her with me was to embrace her spirit. To emulate her courage. To bring the warmth and love to the world that she always—fearlessly—had. She had loved us without reservation. She adored us wildly. And laughed. And danced. And soaked it all up—every atom of her life—every moment of her time She felt it all. She lived it all. That’s what I loved about her. Not just that she was a great mom or a great wife or a great dog rescuer. She was a great person. She knew some divine secret about how to open up to being alive that the rest of us kept stubbornly missing. She’d wanted me to know it, too. She’d wanted me to say yes to everything. She’d wanted me to go all in. But when she died, I went the other way. I’m not judging myself. I was a kid. I didn’t know how to cope with losing her—or any of the hardships that followed. But I guess that’s the great thing about life—it gives you chance after chance to rethink it all. Who you want to be. How you want to live. What really matters. I did want to go to the art show. I’d earned my right to be there. I didn’t, of course, want to be humiliated. But it was looking like I couldn’t have one without the other. And I just wasn’t going to let the things I was afraid of hold me back anymore. I had no idea how that decision would turn out, but I knew one thing for sure: My mom would approve. As the time approached, I zipped myself into her pink dress—much tighter and slinkier now. Sue had gifted me a makeover from her cousin who worked at Macy’s and a hair blowout from her cousin’s roommate. I did it all. If I had to go to this art show all alone, I would do my damnedest to look good. There was, of course, still a chance that Joe might show up in a surprise twist and whisk me off like Cinderella. But as I clanked down the metal stairs from the rooftop in a set of gorgeous but actively painful heels, he was running out of time. I walked down our long hallway, hoping to see him. I rode down in the elevator, hoping to see him. I walked out to the street in front of our building to meet my Uber, still hoping to see him. Waiting there in the late-afternoon light—my hair done, a daisy behind my ear
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41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 51 |
father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all. They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an' mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she believes they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young pony he calls his own." "Where did he get it?" asked Mary. "He found it on th' moor with its mother when it was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her. "I don't want it," she said. "Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously. "No." "Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "I don't want it," repeated Mary. "Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance. Martha looked indignant. "Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary. "It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "You wrap up warm an' run out
| 1 |
8 |
David Copperfield.txt
| 78 |
Copperfield,' he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head), 'you're in quite a wrong position'; which I felt to be true, and that made me chafe the more; 'you can't make this a brave thing, and you can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to mention it to mother, nor to any living soul. I'm determined to forgive you. But I do wonder that you should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so umble!' I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, on which I lay tormented half the night. In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing, and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had struck him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard that he went to a dentist's in London on the Monday morning, and had a tooth out. I hope it was a double one. The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone, for a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the visit. Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we resumed our usual work. On the day preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his own hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; and laid an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, never to refer to the subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed. Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentle compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would see her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards, I sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and go out of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing. As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor's house, the Doctor became
| 1 |
75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 85 |
an elite family.” When I shake my head, Meiling says, “Your mother-in-law won’t find out.” After a pause, she adds, “Please, Yunxian. Would you let a woman suffer just because she doesn’t live within the walls of your husband’s home?” “Bring her here the next time I visit—” “That won’t do. We need to go to her.” Before I can argue, she’s on her feet, opening cupboards and pulling out clothes. “You can’t walk the streets looking like that. You’ll need to change.” “Absolutely not!” I exclaim, but after her rejection of my help, I feel I have to do this to show I love her still. Against all the wisdom I’ve acquired in life, I find myself slipping off my gown and pulling on the indigo cotton trousers and jacket Meiling gives me. The pants are longer than those she’s wearing, so they cover my white, withered calves. Three problems remain: the carefully applied makeup that marks me as a wife from an elite family, my hair piled atop my head and decorated with jade and gold ornaments, and my feet. Meiling uses a cloth to wipe away the cream, powder, rouge, and lip paint from my face. “I don’t want to take apart your hair, because we won’t have time to put it back together before you go home,” she says, and then wraps a hand-dyed scarf over my bun and the adornments and ties the cloth at the back of my neck. We stand together to peer into a mirror. These simple changes make us look like sisters, but it also strikes me how only a layer of paint and a hairstyle can separate women by class. And our feet. “Sit down,” Meiling orders. I do as I’m told, while she rummages through more drawers and cupboards. She comes to me with clean rags and a pair of boots. She stuffs cloth into the toe of one of the boots. I slide my silk slipper inside. She prods the toe with her thumb, looks up at me, and says, “There’s still too much room.” I remove my foot, and she adds more rags. This time the boot fits. We go through the process for my other foot. I sit with my heels resting on the floor, my toes pointed toward the ceiling. My feet look disturbingly large. “Try standing,” Meiling says. “Take a few steps.” I wobble as I rise, and panic sweeps through me. “We shouldn’t do this. If someone finds out—” “No one will find out.” She holds my elbow as we go downstairs and slip out the back door into an alley. The boots, which seem huge and as heavy as anchors, make walking awkward. I lift each foot high and then deliberately set it down. Meiling naturally walks faster than I ever could, and she pulls me along at a quicker pace than is comfortable. We turn a corner and enter a busy pathway that edges a canal. We pass shops where customers bargain and negotiate. At an open-air teahouse, I see two men arguing
| 0 |
50 |
A Day of Fallen Night.txt
| 89 |
of the Great Chamber to Sabran VI of Inys. Gladwin Fynch (Lady Gladwin): Duchess of Temperance, descendant of the Knight of Temperance. Guma Vetalda (the Hermit of Hart Grove): High Prince of Yscalin and Duke of Kóvuga, and twin brother of Rozaria III of Yscalin, born a few minutes after her. Uncle to the Donmato Alarico and granduncle to Princess Idrega and Prince Therico. He rules from the stronghold of Hart Grove and is the wealthiest man in Yscalin, thanks to the mines known collectively as the Ufarassus. Helisent Beck (Lady Helisent): A lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet. Daughter of Lord Ordan Beck, the Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch. Idrega Vetalda: Princess of Yscalin and only daughter of the Donmato Alarico and his companion, Thederica Yelarigas. Sister to Therico, grandniece of Prince Guma, and granddaughter of Rozaria III. Julain Crest (Lady Julain): Principal lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet, and daughter of Lady Brangain Crest, the Duchess of Justice. Kell Bourn (Mastress Bourn): A bonesetter and assistant to Doctor Forthard. Liuma afa Dáura: A lady-in-waiting and former tutor to Sabran VI of Inys, who taught her Yscali. Liuma is now Mistress of the Robes. She is from minor Yscali nobility, the daughter of a knight, and is mother to Adeliza afa Dáura. Magnaust Vatten (Lord Magnaust): Firstborn child of Heryon Vattenvarg, the Sea King, making him heir to the Stewardship of Mentendon. Brother to Brenna and Haynrick. Mansell Shore (Lord Mansell): Baron Glenn of Langarth through his marriage to Lord Edrick Glenn, and adoptive father to Roland, Mara and Wulf. He is the younger brother of Baroness Shore of Caddow Hall. Mara Glenn: Niece and adopted daughter of Lord Edrick Glenn, born to his sister, Rosa. Mara is the middle child, sister to Roland and Wulf. Marian III (Marian the Less): A former Queen of Inys, the third and final monarch of the Century of Discontent. Daughter of Jillian III and mother to Sabran VI. Following her abdication, she retired to the coast with her companion, Lord Alfrick Withy, and now resides at Befrith Castle in the Lakes. Mariken: A servant of Florell Glade. Ordan Beck (Lord Ordan): Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch, responsible for the haithwood south of the Wickerwath. Father to Helisent, his heir apparent. He reports to Lady Gladwin Fynch, the highest authority of the Leas. Robart Eller (Lord Robart): Duke of Generosity, head of the noble Eller family, and a descendant of the Knight of Generosity. He is the Lord Chancellor of Inys – ceremonial head of the Virtues Council – and the highest authority in the province of the Lakes, as well as a trusted friend of Sabran VI of Inys. Randroth Withy (Lord Randroth): Duke of Fellowship, head of the noble Withy family, and a descendant of the Knight of Fellowship. Riksard of Sadyrr: An ostler at Langarth. Roland Glenn: Nephew and adopted son of Lord Edrick Glenn. He is brother to Mara and Wulf, and heir apparent to the Barony of Glenn. Rozaria III: Queen of Yscalin and head of the House of Vetalda, one of the three sovereigns of
| 0 |
5 |
Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 95 |
It was a beautiful fairy story, Marilla. I forgot the end of it, so I made up an end for it myself and Matthew said he couldn't tell where the join came in." "Matthew would think it all right, Anne, if you took a notion to get up and have dinner in the middle of the night. But you keep your wits about you this time. And-I don't really know if I'm doing right-it may make you more addlepated than ever-but you can ask Diana to come over and spend the afternoon with you and have tea here." "Oh, Marilla!" Anne clasped her hands. "How perfectly. lovely! You are able to imagine things after all or else you'd never have understood how I've longed for that very thing. It will seem so nice and grown-uppish. No fear of my forgetting to put the tea to draw when I have company. Oh, Marilla, can I use the rosebud spray tea set?" "No, indeed! The rosebud tea set! Well, what next? You know I never use that except for the minister or the Aids. You'll put down the old brown tea set. But you can open the little yellow crock of cherry preserves. It's time it was being used anyhow-I believe it's beginning to work. And you can cut some fruit cake and have some of the cookies and snaps." "I can just imagine myself sitting down at the head of the table and pouring out the tea," said Anne, shutting her eyes ecstatically. "And asking Diana if she takes sugar! I know she doesn't but of course I'll ask her just as if I didn't know. And then pressing her to take another piece of fruit cake and another helping of preserves. Oh, Marilla, it's a wonderful sensation just to think of it. Can I take her into the spare room to lay off her hat when she comes? And then into the parlor to sit?" "No. The sitting room will do for you and your company. But there's a bottle half full of raspberry cordial that was left over from the church social the other night. It's on the second shelf of the sitting-room closet and you and Diana can have it if you like, and a cooky to eat with it along in the afternoon, for I daresay Matthew'll be late coming in to tea since he's hauling potatoes to the vessel." Anne flew down to the hollow, past the Dryad's Bubble and up the spruce path to Orchard Slope, to ask Diana to tea. As a result just after Marilla had driven off to Carmody, Diana came over, dressed in HER second-best dress and looking exactly as it is proper to look when asked out to tea. At other times she was wont to run into the kitchen without knocking; but now she knocked primly at the front door. And when Anne, dressed in her second best, as primly opened it, both little girls shook hands as gravely as if they had never met before. This unnatural solemnity lasted until
| 1 |
66 |
Hell Bent.txt
| 2 |
been a contrary town. The good Reverend John Davenport steps up to the pulpit and preaches, ‘Hide the outcasts. Bewray not him that wandereth.’ And hide the outcasts they do. When the British come snooping around, the townspeople keep their secrets and the judges hide out near West Rock.” “At Judges Cave?” “It’s technically just a cluster of big rocks, but yes. Their names were Whalley, Goffe, and Dixwell.” Alex hadn’t lived in New Haven long, but she knew those names. They were streets that branched off of Broadway. Follow Whalley long enough and you’d end up in West Rock. Three streets. Three judges. Three murders. There will be a third. That was what Darlington had meant. He’d been trying to make the connection for them even as his demon half had been toying with them, enjoying the riddle the killer had set. “What happened to the judges?” Alex asked. “Did they get caught?” “Lived to a ripe old age. Two of them ended up somewhere in Massachusetts, but Dixwell changed his name and lived out his days in New Haven. His ashes are interred beneath the New Haven Green. British troops used to travel here just to piss on his gravestone, one hundred years after he died. That’s how big a deal these guys were. Martyrs to liberty and all that. And now they’re a footnote, a bit of trivia for me to try to impress you with over lunch.” Alex wasn’t sure whether to be uncomfortable or flattered at the idea of Anselm trying to impress her. “Have you ever wondered why the death words work?” He leaned forward. “Because we all amount to nothing in the end and there is nothing more terrifying than nothing.” Alex hadn’t really cared why they worked so long as they did. “You know a lot about this place.” “I like history. But there isn’t any money in it.” “Not like the law?” Anselm lifted a shoulder. “Lethe makes a lot of promises, so does Yale, but none of them come true in New Haven. This is a place that will never repay your loyalty.” Maybe not much like Darlington after all. “And Lethe?” “Lethe was an extracurricular. It’s silly to think of it as anything else. Dangerous even.” “You’re warning me.” Just as Michelle Alameddine had. “I’m just talking. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me pontificate about Cromwell and the perils of growing old in Connecticut.” So this was it. “You said you read my file. My mom … my mom isn’t doing great.” “She’s ill?” Was chasing after any whiff of a miracle diagnosable? Was there a name for someone doomed to seek invisible patterns in gemstones and horoscopes? Who thought life’s mysteries might be revealed by eliminating dairy from your diet? Or gluten or trans fats? Could Los Angeles be called an illness? “She’s fine,” Alex said. “She’s just not a realist and she’s not good with money.” That was putting it mildly. “Does she embarrass you?” The question startled her, and Alex wasn’t ready for
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4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 11 |
will look! ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ. HEARTHRUG, NEAR THE FENDER, (WITH ALICE'S LOVE). Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!' Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door. Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. `You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, `a great girl like you,' (she might well say this), `to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, `Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, `If you please, sir--' The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: `Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. `I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, `for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get
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9 |
Dracula.txt
| 73 |
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?" "Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!" "To please their relatives, I suppose." "To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?" He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read the lies on that thruff-stone," he said. The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read, "Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July 29,1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son.`He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny in that!" She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely. "Ye don't see aught funny! Ha-ha! But that's because ye don't gawm the sorrowin'mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd, a regular lamiter he was, an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin' crows with. `twarn't for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addle where she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate," he hammered it with his stick as he spoke, "a pack of lies? And won't it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin' ut the grees with the tompstean balanced on his hump, and asks to be took as evidence!" I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up, "Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favorite seat, and I cannot leave it, and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide." "That won't harm ye, my pretty, an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why, I've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans
| 1 |
37 |
The Hunger Games.txt
| 52 |
at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground, gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge. Now’s my chance to finish him off. I stop midway up the horn and load another arrow, but just as I’m about to let it fly, I hear Peeta cry out. I twist around and see he’s just reached the tail, and the mutts are right on his heels. “Climb!” I yell. Peeta starts up hampered by not only the leg but the knife in his hand. I shoot my arrow down the throat of the first mutt that places its paws on the metal. As it dies the creature lashes out, inadvertently opening gashes on a few of its companions. That’s when I get a look at the claws. Four inches and clearly razor-sharp. Peeta reaches my feet and I grab his arm and pull him along. Then I remember Cato waiting at the top and whip around, but he’s doubled over with cramps and apparently more preoccupied with the mutts than us. He coughs out something unintelligible. The snuffling, growling sound com- ing from the mutts isn’t helping. “What?” I shout at him. “He said, ‘Can they climb it?’” answers Peeta, drawing my focus back to the base of the horn. The mutts are beginning to assemble. As they join together, they raise up again to stand easily on their back legs giving them an eerily human quality. Each has a thick coat, some with fur that is straight and sleek, others curly, and the colors vary from jet black to what I can only describe as blond. 327 There’s something else about them, something that makes the hair rise up on the back of my neck, but I can’t put my finger on it. They put their snouts on the horn, sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws over the surface and then making high- pitched yipping sounds to one another. This must be how they communicate because the pack backs up as if to make room. Then one of them, a good-size mutt with silky waves of blond fur takes a running start and leaps onto the horn. Its back legs must be incredibly powerful because it lands a mere ten feet below us, its pink lips pulled back in a snarl. For a moment it hangs there, and in that moment I realize what else unsettled me about the mutts. The green eyes glowering at me are un- like any dog or wolf, any canine I’ve ever seen. They are un- mistakably human. And that revelation has barely registered when I notice the collar with the number 1 inlaid with jewels and the whole horrible thing hits me. The blonde hair, the green eyes, the number . . . it’s Glimmer. A shriek escapes my lips and I’m having trouble holding the arrow in place. I have been waiting to fire, only too aware of my dwindling supply of arrows. Waiting to see if the creatures can, in fact, climb. But now, even though
| 1 |
28 |
THE SCARLET LETTER.txt
| 53 |
most of which the reader is referred to the story entitled "THE SCARLET LETTER"; and it should be borne carefully in mind that the main facts of that story are authorized and authenticated by the document of Mr. Surveyor Pue. The original papers, together with the scarlet letter itself--a most curious relic--are still in my possession, and shall be freely exhibited to whomsoever, induced by the great interest of the narrative, may desire a sight of them I must not be understood affirming that, in the dressing up of the tale, and imagining the motives and modes of passion that influenced the characters who figure in it, I have invariably confined myself within the limits of the old Surveyor's half-a- dozen sheets of foolscap. On the contrary, I have allowed myself, as to such points, nearly, or altogether, as much license as if the facts had been entirely of my own invention. What I contend for is the authenticity of the outline.% This incident recalled my mind, in some degree, to its old track. There seemed to be here the groundwork of a tale. It impressed me as if the ancient Surveyor, in his garb of a hundred years gone by, and wearing his immortal wig- -which was buried with him, but did not perish in the grave--had bet me in the deserted chamber of the Custom-House. In his port was the dignity of one who Thesaurus affirming: (adj) predicative, predicant, slate, paper; (n) cap. perish: (v) expire, pass away, decease, assertory; (n) confirmation. garb: (n, v) dress, apparel, array, go, fade, decay, depart, fall, pass, authenticated: (adj) genuine, true, real, garment; (n) attire, clothing, costume, ruin, annihilate. ANTONYMS: (v) valid, authentic, official, legal, frock, outfit, clothes; (v) clothe. survive, live, appear. documented, authoritative, groundwork: (n) bottom, basis, base, personage: (n) person, notable, legitimate. foundation, bed, ground, footing, celebrity, personality, individual, doings: (n) conduct, behavior, bedrock, fundament, background, bigwig, figure, somebody, human, behaviour, deportment, demeanour, substructure. character, being. proceeding, episode, traffic; (v) act, immemorial: (adj) ancient, respecting: (prep) about, regarding, deed, job. prescriptive, pristine, primaeval, apropos, as regards, pertaining to; foolscap: (v) table, vellum, tablet, primeval, traditional, old, eternal, (adj) relative, not absolute, marble, papyrus, parchment, pillar, customary. pertaining, referring, loving. Nathaniel Hawthorne 33 had borne His Majesty's commission, and who was therefore illuminated by a ray of the splendour that shone so dazzlingly about the throne. How unlike alas the hangdog look of a republican official, who, as the servant of the people, feels himself less than the least, and below the lowest of his masters. With his own ghostly hand, the obscurely seen, but majestic, figure had imparted to me the scarlet symbol and the little roll of explanatory manuscript. With his own ghostly voice he had exhorted me, on the sacred consideration of my filial duty and reverence towards him--who might reasonably regard himself as my official ancestor--to bring his mouldy and moth-eaten lucubrations before the public. "Do this," said the ghost of Mr. Surveyor Pue, emphatically nodding the head that looked so imposing within its memorable wig; "do
| 1 |
11 |
Emma.txt
| 48 |
question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.-- Had she refused, I should have gone mad.--But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?--What did you look forward to?-- To any thing, every thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;--and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.-- A few words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.--My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.-- In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.-- Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.--She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We
| 1 |
30 |
Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt
| 94 |
hand in," said Tess. She drank a little milk as temporary refreshment-- to the surprise--indeed, slight contempt--of Dairyman Crick, to whose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage. "Oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," he said indifferently, while holding up the pail that she sipped from. "'Tis what I hain't touched for years-- not I. Rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerds like lead. You can try your hand upon she," he pursued, nodding to the nearest cow. "Not but what she do milk rather hard. We've hard ones and we've easy ones, like other folks. However, you'll find out that soon enough." When Tess had changed her bonnet for a hood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from her fists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundation for her future. The conviction bred serenity, her pulse slowed, and she was able to look about her. The milkers formed quite a little battalion of men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on the kindlier natures. It was a large dairy. There were nearly a hundred milchers under Crick's management, all told; and of the herd the master-dairyman milked six or eight with his own hands, unless away from home. These were the cows that milked hardest of all; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrust this half-dozen to their treatment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest they should fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in course of time the cows would "go azew"--that is, dry up. It was not the loss for the moment that made slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there came decline, and ultimately cessation, of supply. After Tess had settled down to her cow there was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr of the milk-jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beast requesting her to turn round or stand still. The only movements were those of the milkers' hands up and down, and the swing of the cows' tails. Thus they all worked on, encompassed by the vast flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley--a level landscape compounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscape they composed now. "To my thinking," said the dairyman, rising suddenly from a cow he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool in one hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard-yielder in his vicinity; "to my thinking, the cows don't gie down their milk today as usual. Upon my life, if Winker do begin keeping back like this, she'll not be worth going under by midsummer."
| 1 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 78 |
or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before 1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form--'English Socialism', that is to say--it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion---- 'Smith!' screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You're not trying. Lower, please! THAT'S better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.' A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston's body. 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
| 1 |
10 |
Dune.txt
| 98 |
and if this Count and his lady had a hand in it . . . The conversation in the Baron's box was remote movement to Feyd-Rautha, the voices drowned in the foot-stamping chant that came now from all around: "Head! Head! Head! Head!" The Baron scowled, seeing the way Feyd-Rautha turned to him. Languidly, controlling his rage with difficulty, the Baron waved his hand toward the young man standing in the arena beside the sprawled body of the slave. Give the boy a head. He earned it by exposing the slavemaster. Feyd-Rautha saw the signal of agreement, thought: They think they honor me. Let them see what I think! He saw his handlers approaching with a saw-knife to do the honors, waved them back, repeated the gesture as they hesitated. They think they honor me with just a head! he thought. He bent and crossed the gladiator's hands around the protruding knife handle, then removed the knife and placed it in the limp hands. It was done in an instant, and he straightened, beckoned his handlers. "Bury this slave intact with his knife in his hands," he said. "The man earned it." In the golden box, Count Fenring leaned close to the Baron, said: "A grand gesture, that--true bravura. Your nephew has style as well as courage." "He insults the crowd by refusing the head," the Baron muttered. "Not at all," Lady Fenring said. She turned, looking up at the tiers around them. And the Baron noted the line of her neck--a truly lovely flowing of muscles--like a young boy's. "They like what your nephew did," she said. As the import of Feyd-Rautha's gesture penetrated to the most distant seats, as the people saw the handlers carrying off the dead gladiator intact, the Baron watched them and realized she had interpreted the reaction correctly. The people were going wild, beating on each other, screaming and stamping. The Baron spoke wearily. "I shall have to order a fete. You cannot send people home like this, their energies unspent. They must see that I share their elation." He gave a hand signal to his guard, and a servant above them dipped the Harkonnen orange pennant over the box--once, twice, three times--signal for a fete. Feyd-Rautha crossed the arena to stand beneath the golden box, his weapons sheathed, arms hanging at his sides. Above the undiminished frenzy of the crowd, he called: "A fete, Uncle?" The noise began to subside as people saw the conversation and waited. "In your honor, Feyd!" the Baron called down. And again, he caused the pennant to be dipped in signal. Across the arena, the pru-barriers had been dropped and young men were leaping down into the arena, racing toward Feyd-Rautha. "You ordered the pru-shields dropped. Baron?" the Count asked. "No one will harm the lad," the Baron said. "He's a hero." The first of the charging mass reached Feyd-Rautha, lifted him on their shoulders, began parading around the arena. "He could walk unarmed and unshielded through the poorest quarters of Harko tonight," the Baron said. "They'd give him the
| 1 |
25 |
Oliver Twist.txt
| 10 |
me that again--once again, just for him to hear,' said the Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke. 'Tell yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishy. 'That about--NANCY,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. 'You followed her?' 'Yes.' 'To London Bridge?' 'Yes.' 'Where she met two people.' 'So she did.' 'A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did--and to describe him, which she did--and to tell her what house it was that we meet at, and go to, which she did--and where it could be best watched from, which she did--and what time the people went there, which she did. She did all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur--she did--did she not?' cried Fagin, half mad with fury. 'All right,' replied Noah, scratching his head. 'That's just what it was!' 'What did they say, about last Sunday?' 'About last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering. 'Why I told yer that before.' 'Again. Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips. 'They asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why she didn't come, last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't.' 'Why--why? Tell him that.' 'Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before,' replied Noah. 'What more of him?' cried Fagin. 'What more of the man she had told them of before? Tell him that, tell him that.' 'Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where she was going to,' said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to see the lady, she--ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did--she gave him a drink of laudanum.' 'Hell's fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew. 'Let me go!' Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly and furiously, up the stairs. 'Bill, Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily. 'A word. Only a word.' The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door: on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came panting up. 'Let me out,' said Sikes. 'Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I say!' 'Hear me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. 'You won't be--' 'Well,' replied the other. 'You won't be--too--violent, Bill?' The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. 'I mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt all
| 1 |
8 |
David Copperfield.txt
| 25 |
'I hope it wasn't the boat that -' 'That father was drownded in?' said Em'ly. 'No. Not that one, I never see that boat.' 'Nor him?' I asked her. Little Em'ly shook her head. 'Not to remember!' Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em'ly's orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before her father; and where her father's grave was no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea. 'Besides,' said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, 'your father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman's daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman.' 'Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?' said I. 'Uncle Dan - yonder,' answered Em'ly, nodding at the boat-house. 'Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?' 'Good?' said Em'ly. 'If I was ever to be a lady, I'd give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.' I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these sentiments to myself. Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles. 'You would like to be a lady?' I said. Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded 'yes'. 'I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind then, when there comes stormy weather. - Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fishermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with money when they come to any hurt.' This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory and therefore not at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of it, and little Em'ly was emboldened to say, shyly, 'Don't you think you are afraid of the sea, now?' It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels, with an awful
| 1 |
7 |
Casino Royale.txt
| 69 |
deep blue eyes were swimming with tears as she drew his head slowly towards her and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she let him go and turned off the light 'Good night, my dearest love,' she said. Bond bent and kissed her. He tasted the tears on her heck. He went to the door and looked back. 'Sleep well, my darling,' he said. 'Don't worry, everything's all right now.' He closed the door softly and walked to his room with a full heart. CHAPTER 27 - THE BLEEDING HEART The patron brought him the letter in the morning. He burst into Bond's room holding the envelope in front of him as if it was on fire. 'There has been a terrible accident. Madame . . .' Bond hurled himself out of bed and through the bathroom, but the communicating door was locked. He dashed back and through his room and down the corridor past a shrinking, terrified maid. Vesper's door was open. The sunlight through the shutters lit up the room. Only her black hair showed above the sheet and her body under the bedclothes was straight and moulded like a stone effigy on a tomb. Bond fell on his knees beside her and drew back the sheet. She was asleep. She must be. Her eyes were closed. There was no change in the dear face. She was just as she would look and yet, and yet she was so still, no movement, no pulse, no breath. That was it. There was no breath. Later the patron came and touched him on the shoulder. He pointed at the empty glass on the table beside her. There were white dregs in the bottom of it. It stood beside her book and her cigarettes and matches and the small pathetic litter of her mirror and lipstick and handkerchief. And on the floor the empty bottle of sleeping-pills, the pills Bond had seen in the bathroom that first evening. Bond rose to his feet and shook himself. The patron was holding out the letter towards him. He took it. 'Please notify the Commissaire,' said Bond. 'I will be in my room when he wants me.' He walked blindly away without a backward glance. He sat on the edge of his bed and gazed out of the window at the peaceful sea. Then he stared dully at the envelope. It was addressed simply in a large round hand 'Pour Lui'. The thought passed through Bond's mind that she must have left orders to be called early, so that it would not be he who found her. He turned the envelope over. Not long ago it was her warm tongue which had sealed the flap. He gave a sudden shrug and opened it. It was not long. After the first few words he read it quickly, the breath coming harshly through his nostrils. Then he threw it down on the bed as if it had been a scorpion. MY DARLING JAMES [the letter opened], I love you with all my heart and while you read
| 1 |
38 |
The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 79 |
red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the Museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again. "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about 'When shall we see his Face?' and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me. 'See 'em,' said one. 'See what?' said the other. 'Why--them footmarks--bare. Like what you makes in mud.' "I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. 'Thud, thud, thud, When, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud.' 'There's a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don't know nothing,' said one. 'And he ain't never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding.' "The thick of the crowd had already passed. 'Looky there, Ted,' quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed. "'Why, that's rum,' said the elder. 'Dashed rum! It's just like the ghost of a foot, ain't it?' He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall. "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement. 'What's up?' asked some one. 'Feet! Look! Feet running!' Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell
| 1 |
69 |
In the Lives of Puppets.txt
| 61 |
he’d done. She beeped softly as she scanned the foot. “Well?” he asked when she rolled back again. “I think it will work. Either that, or it did nothing at all and we have wasted half a day.” He scowled at her. “Hooray!” Rambo said. On a late afternoon—the fifth since the discovery of the android—they had successfully attached the replacement arm and Nurse Ratched began her testing to make sure all the wiring had proper connections. Vic watched as she sent low electrical currents through the android’s body, causing it to jerk slightly. “Good?” he asked. “Good,” she said. “Very good. Excellent, in fact.” At night, they came together as they usually did. Sometimes they listened to music. Sometimes they watched movies, though their collection was small, and they knew them all by heart. They read. They listened as Dad told stories about great machines that bored holes into mountains and underneath cities; machines called dirigibles, airships that took to the skies, hinting at a future that never came. When he trudged his way to his room, Vic was exhausted, but his thoughts never strayed far from his lab. Having finished the major repairs to the arm and foot, they moved on to the rest of the body. The holes and tears in the synthetic skin were left alone for now. They didn’t have the means to regrow skin, though Vic had a few ideas on how to cover the open wounds to make sure the delicate work underneath was protected. It wasn’t until they reached the android’s waist that Vic paused, unsure of how to move on. “Why did you stop?” Nurse Ratched asked. “Take off his pants.” Vic gnawed on his bottom lip. “Are you sure we have to…” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “We need to run a full diagnostic check. Why are you hesitating? Your heart rate is elevated. Your skin is flushed. Do you need a break?” He shook his head, struggling to find the words. “It’s just…” “Ohh,” Rambo said. “Are you scared of his penis?” Vic looked away, throat working. “Do not be silly,” Nurse Ratched said. “I doubt he has genitalia. He does not appear to be an android designed for sexual pleasure, and there would be no need for him to expel urine or fecal matter as you do. Gio does not have a penis or an anus.” Vic glared at her. “I don’t need to know that.” “Why? It is the truth. He does not. You are the only one here with genitalia. There is nothing to fear about them, or the lack of them. It is what it is.” “Do I have an anus?” Rambo asked. “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “But you are one, so.” Rambo beeped in confusion. “I thought I was a vacuum.” “You are. An anal vacuum.” “Huh,” Rambo said. “I like learning new things.” Vic looked down at the android. They had removed his shirt a couple of days before. The chest was smooth, the skin tight where it wasn’t damaged. Like Dad, he didn’t have nipples
| 0 |
61 |
Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt
| 17 |
fire, stoking the flames, and tossed the letter back in. It did not catch. The fire coughed smoke, as if the letter were an unpleasant obstacle lodged in its throat. “Damn you,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at the heavy stationery staring insouciantly back at me from the flames. “Am I supposed to keep the bloody thing under my pillow?” I should, I suppose, mention here that I am perhaps ninety-five percent certain that Wendell Bambleby is not human. This is not the product of mere professional disdain; Bambleby’s impossible letter is not my first piece of evidence regarding his true nature. My suspicions were aroused at our initial meeting some years ago, when I noticed the sundry ways in which he avoided the metal objects in the room, including by feigning righthandedness so as to avoid contact with wedding rings (the Folk are, to a one, left-handed). Yet he could not avoid metal entirely, the event including a dinner, which invariably involved cutlery, sauce boats, and the like, and he mastered the discomfort well enough, which indicated that either my suspicions were unfounded or that he is of royal ancestry—they are the only Folk able to bear the touch of such human workings. Lest I appear credulous, I can attest that this was not enough to convince me. Upon subsequent encounters, I noted sundry suspect qualities, among them his manner of speaking. Bambleby is supposedly born in County Leane and raised in Dublin, and while I am no scholar of the Irish accents, I am expert in the tongue of the Folk, which is but one with many dialects, yet possessing a certain resonance and timbre that is universal, and which I hear whispers of in Bambleby’s voice in occasional, unguarded moments. We have spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company. If he is Folk, he likely lives among us in exile, a not uncommon fate to befall the aristocracy of the Irish fae—their kind rarely goes without a murderous uncle or power-mad regent for long. There are plenty of tales of exiled Folk; their powers are sometimes said to be restricted by an enchantment cast by the exiling monarch, which would explain Bambleby’s need to resign himself to an existence among us lowly mortals. His choice of profession may be part of some fae design I cannot guess at, or it may be a natural expression of Bambleby’s nature, that he should set his sights upon acquiring external affirmations of self-expertise. It remains possible that I am wrong. A scholar must always be ready to admit this. None of my colleagues seem to share my suspicions, which gives me pause, not even the venerable Treharne, who has been doing fieldwork for so long he likes to joke that the common fae no longer hide themselves away when he comes, seeing little difference between him and some old, lumpen piece of furniture. And for all the stories of exiled Folk, it’s not as if any have been discovered in our midst. Which lends itself to one of two
| 0 |
67 |
How to Sell a Haunted House.txt
| 16 |
to do that. Mom has a lot of art and I’m going to preserve every single piece of it, as per her final wishes, as stated in the Beneficiary Designations of her will, which I’m sure you agree we should both respect. It might take me a year, and in the meantime, you can’t sell the house.” “Fuck you,” Mark said. “I’m calling Brody.” “Be my guest,” she told him. She knew he’d have to hear it from someone who wasn’t her. She watched Mark’s back as he stormed off to the edge of the front yard, pressing his phone to one ear. Louise worked in a tech-adjacent field, which made her hyperaware of power dynamics. Waiting around for Mark to finish his call looked weak. She executed her alpha move and got started on the house. She went around back and reached through the broken pane of glass to let herself into the garage. Then she slapped the doorbell button that raised the garage door, which made a hideous shriek as it rumbled up, letting in daylight. Cold morning air flowed in around her. The Mark and Louise dolls stared dumbly at her from the shelf. She listened, trying to hear the TV, but all she heard was silence from the house. Next to the dolls she saw a lampshade her mom had painted with starfish, a set of Mom-made clay bookends shaped like pink seahorses, and a white kitchen garbage bag holding the papier-mâché masks her mom had made during her mask phase. Without even looking hard she spotted a stack of unframed canvases and realized they were the oil portraits her mom had painted of the entire family that everyone had deemed too hideous to hang inside the house. Mark’s was the only one that didn’t make him look like a prematurely aged gnome baring its teeth and snarling. Louise looked behind the portraits and saw another white bag of her mom’s needlepoint throw pillows and five cardboard boxes labeled Christmas, which she knew was only one stockpile of handmade ornaments. Normally, a job like this would prompt Louise to start a list, but today she had to fight her urge to organize. Today she’d be inefficient. Today she felt grateful for the enormous amount of stuff filling every corner of their house. Step one: do a walk-through and count the art. Don’t touch it. Just count it. She stood on the steps to the kitchen door and braced herself, then walked inside for the first time since the day she arrived, walked past the hammer on the counter and made herself go into the living room. The easy chair sat empty. The TV was still off. She ignored the rows and rows of silent dolls and focused on the art: the crewelwork Tree of Life over the sofa, the nine framed cross-stitches on the far wall (four of flowers, three Charleston scenes, one elephant balancing on its front legs, one juggling clown), the three more framed cross-stitches beside the doll cabinet, the yarn art Mount Fuji next to
| 0 |
16 |
Great Expectations.txt
| 36 |
wildly to me. "Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all times, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call me mad, let her call me mad!" "Why should I call you mad," returned Estella, "I, of all people? Does any one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I do? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as well as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool that is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up into your face, when your face was strange and frightened me!" "Soon forgotten!" moaned Miss Havisham. "Times soon forgotten!" "No, not forgotten," retorted Estella. "Not forgotten, but treasured up in my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have you found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving admission here," she touched her bosom with her hand, "to anything that you excluded? Be just to me." "So proud, so proud!" moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair with both her hands. "Who taught me to be proud?" returned Estella. "Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?" "So hard, so hard!" moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action. "Who taught me to be hard?" returned Estella. "Who praised me when I learnt my lesson?" "But to be proud and hard to me!" Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as she stretched out her arms. "Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and hard to me!" Estella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was not otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at the fire again. "I cannot think," said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence "why you should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a separation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have never been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any weakness that I can charge myself with." "Would it be weakness to return my love?" exclaimed Miss Havisham. "But yes, yes, she would call it so!" "I begin to think," said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment of calm wonder, "that I almost understand how this comes about. If you had brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of these rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as the daylight by which she had never once seen your face - if you had done that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the daylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and angry?" Miss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning, and swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer. "Or," said Estella, " - which is a nearer case - if you had taught her, from the dawn
| 1 |
64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 71 |
four and a half hours in the cold, waiting to be found. It makes my heart ache. Not just the memory but the smell, the cedar and sawdust and that touch of something that’s all Wyn to me. “You don’t mind being out here?” I ask, walking along the table in-process, its top sanded down to be refinished. “I always loved it out here,” he says. “So after the accident, my parents were adamant about getting me back out before I started fixating. It worked, mostly.” I pause, fingers stilling on the table, and look back at him. “I like seeing you here.” He crosses toward me, gently takes my hips in his hands. “I like seeing you here,” he says, voice low, a little hoarse. “It makes me feel like this is real.” “Wyn.” I look up into his face, searching his stormy eyes, the rigid lines between his brows and framing his jaw. “Of course it’s real.” He folds his fingers through mine and brings my hands to the back of his neck, our foreheads resting together, our hearts whirring. “I mean,” he says, “like I can make you happy.” “This is me, happy,” I promise. On our last night in town, we sample more of Hank’s scotch and play a highly competitive game of dominoes, and then sit in front of the hearth and watch the fire crackle and pop. On a sigh, Hank says, “We’re gonna miss you, kiddos.” “We’ll come home again soon,” Wyn promises, lifting my hand, brushing the back of it absently across his lips. Home, I think. That’s new. But it’s not. It’s been growing there for a while, this new room in my heart, this space just for Wyn that I carry with me everywhere I go. 18 REAL LIFE Wednesday I TAKE MY time in the movie theater’s neon green bathroom. I wash my hands, then wipe down the sink area and wash my hands again. On my way back through the burgundy-carpeted arcade in which the bathrooms are tucked, I nearly collide with Wyn. “Sorry,” we both huff, stopping short. My eyes drop to the smorgasbord of paper cartons he’s carrying: Twizzlers, Nerds, Red Hots, Whoppers, and Milk Duds. “Going to a slumber party?” I ask. “I was thirsty,” he says. “Which explains the cup of water and nothing else,” I say. “You think shortbread’s too sweet.” “Thought you might want something,” he says. His eyes look more green than gray right now. I’m finding it hard to look at them, so I train my gaze on the candy. “It looks like you thought I might want everything.” His eyes flash. “Was I wrong?” “No,” I say, “but you didn’t have to do that.” “Trust me, it wasn’t intentional,” he says. “I walked up for the water, and next thing I know I’ve got a wagon filled with corn syrup.” “Well, that’s the Connor family thriftiness. If you buy a wagon, refills are free.” His laugh turns into a groan. He runs the back of his hand up his forehead. “I’m
| 0 |
48 |
Wuthering Heights.txt
| 17 |
"Black hair and eyes!" mused Linton. "I can't fancy him. Then I am not like him, am I?" "Not much," I answered; not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large languid eyes--- his mother's eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkiing spirit. "How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me" he murmured. "Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I remember not a single thing about him." "Why, Master Linton," said I, "three hundred miles is a great distance; and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient opportunity; and now it is too late. Don't trouble him with questions on the subject; it will disturb him for no good." The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden gate. I watched to catch his impres- sions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry bushes and crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head. His private feelings entirely dis- approved of the exterior of his new abode. But he had sense to postpone complaining. There might be com- pensation within. Before he dismounted I went and opened the door. It was half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast; the servant was clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master's chair, telling some tale concerning a lame horse, and Hareton was preparing for the hay-fleld. "Hullo, Nelly!" said Mr. Heathcliff when he saw me. "I feared I should have to come down and fetch my property myself. You've brought it, have you? Let us see what we can make of it. He got up and strode to the door. Hareton and Jo- seph followed in gaping curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the three. "Sure-ly," said Joseph, after a grave inspection, "he's swopped wi' ye, maister, an' yon's his lass!" Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of con- fusion, uttered a scornful laugh. "God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing" he exclaimed. "Haven't they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my soul! but that's worse than I expected, and the devil knows I was not sanguine!" I bade the trembling and bewildered child get down and enter. He did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father's speech, or whether it were in- tended for him; indeed, he was not yet certain that the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff's taking a seat and bidding him "come hither," he hid his face on my shoulder and wept. "Tut, tut!" said Heathcliff,
| 1 |
0 |
1984.txt
| 83 |
another in the crowd, but from the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. 'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean.' 'What?' 'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.' 'Why not?' 'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time.' For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different. The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity, something that he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they were a married couple of ten years' standing. He wished that he were walking through the streets with her just as they were doing now but openly and without fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the household. He wished above all that they had some place where they could be alone together without feeling the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not actually at that moment, but at some time on the following day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had occurred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened. At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly
| 1 |
52 |
A-Living-Remedy.txt
| 0 |
though I harbored a hope of one day retrieving my old dollhouse for my then-theoretical children to play with. When a friend asked if I minded that my parents were selling the home I’d grown up in, I scoffed. The last person to live in my childhood bedroom hadn’t even been me, but a friend of mine—my parents, with typical openhandedness, had let her stay with them rent-free for a year and a half after her own parents kicked her out. There were things about the house I’d been fond of: the sprawling, shady backyard that had once contained my rickety old swing set; my room with its blue walls and bursting bookshelves and my cat’s favorite scratching post; the minuscule spare bedroom that I was eventually permitted to turn into a writing space, nearly every square inch filled with our lumpy blue futon and the giant desk I had begged my mother to buy at a yard sale. But I was an adult now, and I couldn’t imagine being so attached to that childhood setting that I would fault my parents for moving. It was their home, not mine, and they had a right to sell it. They sounded upbeat about the change: they’d be closer to their church; they’d be in a quieter neighborhood; they’d have a much lower cost of living. Their house had tripled in value since they bought it in 1980, so they stood to make a nice profit. I was pleased for them, but did not entirely understand their decision. They had talked about relocating for as long as I could remember—first to a bigger city like Portland or Seattle, before they reversed course and said they’d like to live farther out in the country. Now they were finally moving, but not to own a patch of land, or to live in an area with more jobs; instead, they’d paid cash for a manufactured home in good condition in a fifty-five-and-over park fifteen minutes up the road. Why, I wondered, weren’t they purchasing a larger home with the windfall from the sale? Though their new house didn’t have the two-car garage or the back forty, it had higher ceilings and two full bathrooms instead of one, and the common spaces felt more comfortable and open. The first time Dan and I visited my parents after their move, my mother was almost giddy as she gave us a tour and pointed out the guest room we would be sleeping in. I knew how happy she was to see us, but there was something else in her smile, in the warmth in her voice, that took me a moment to recognize: it was pride. I’d never known her to feel that way about our old place, but she clearly liked this one; slightly cluttered and freshly cleaned for our visit, the house was arranged in a way that pleased her, and my parents owned it free and clear. * * * After my father died, I remember thinking it strange that I had so few objects to remember
| 0 |
67 |
How to Sell a Haunted House.txt
| 43 |
saw the woman sliding down a wall, sobbing, clutching her limp son to her chest, the two of them sitting in the cold air from the open front door, their eyes as empty as dolls’. When I woke up that time, something sticky had dried on my arms. I tasted it: orange juice. I had egg yolk dried in my scalp. My bare feet were dirty and covered in cuts and I knew who the woman was. I’d seen her before. She was Mrs. Marsten. I didn’t want to think about it. It wasn’t me, it was Pupkin. I pulled on my mask again and hid in Tickytoo Woods. But I had to come out eventually. The next time I did, I was in the basement, wearing greasy jeans, surrounded by Pupkin’s faces on the wall, and they were all laughing at me. He was stronger than we were. We’d given him too much. We’d never said no. He didn’t have any limits. Whatever came next would be really, really bad. I had to do something while I was still myself because right at that moment “myself” felt like chasing a slippery bar of soap around the tub and as much as I wanted to run away and hide, in that one moment, in that cold basement, I knew I might never be Mark again. I grabbed the lighter without thinking. I flicked its wheel and touched the flame to the chin of a big Pupkin mask hanging on the wall and held it there until my thumb burned. I was an idiot. Papier-mâché burns fast and the mask was by the wooden stairs and one second I was flicking the lighter, and the next there were flames racing across the wall, from mask to mask, Pupkin to Pupkin, and licking the bottom of the upstairs floor. I dragged on my T-shirt and limped to the back door. It already felt like there was an open oven at my back. I thought I could go around and warn Sadie and Richard and Clark. My feet were swollen and covered in infected cuts and by the time I’d limped to the front yard I knew I had fucked up bad. From the front yard, you couldn’t see the fire yet, just smoke coming out the broken back windows and orange demons dancing behind the windowpanes. I hobbled up the front steps, and they were hot beneath my feet. I yelled for Richard and Sadie. Maybe I shouted for Clark? I’d like to think I shouted for Clark. I had to do something but the fire was too hungry and I was too weak and I knew I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save any of them. I could barely save myself. I had tried to stop what we were doing, but I hadn’t thought it through. My solution was a Pupkin solution, all instinct and emotion. I had set my friends on fire. I knew that people were going to come and I couldn’t face what I’d done because I was a coward
| 0 |
59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 96 |
don’t concern you, Helen.” She bites her lip and says nothing. Menelaus watches his wife, then adds, “We were just speaking of Mycenae and of the gold we owe to Sparta. We made a pact with Tyndareus, and pacts must be respected.” Clytemnestra feels her body relaxing, her fear ebbing away. Odysseus’s words fade, and all that remains is a noise in her head, a faint note of warning. She feels the baby kick and takes a step back. Once, she would have walked into the room and shielded her sister. She would have protected Helen against anyone and anything. But now she can’t. She wanted this, she thinks bitterly. She chose this man out of spite, and now she must have him. * * * Penelope and Odysseus’s departure a few days later leaves Clytemnestra alone once more. That night for dinner, they are joined by Cynisca, her father, Lysimachos, and a few other Spartan nobles. To avoid the empty place next to Agamemnon, Clytemnestra sits beside Helen, who looks up at her, surprised. She smells her sister’s scent, honey, crocus, and almond from the trees that grow near the stables. They stare at each other for a moment. Then Menelaus takes her small white hand in his own, and Helen looks away. Clytemnestra feels colder where her sister’s eyes touched her. She wonders why they haven’t gone back to Mycenae yet. The servants are bringing platters of onions and cheese, the smell trailing behind them, while Tyndareus talks about his last hunt. Cynisca often intervenes, boasting about her own hunts, looking at Agamemnon with a longing that disgusts Clytemnestra. Helen barely touches her food. “So the son of Laertes is traveling with your niece?” Lysimachos asks Tyndareus. “He is,” Tyndareus answers. “That seems a good match,” Agamemnon says. “You like Odysseus?” Cynisca asks him, sipping her wine. Agamemnon doesn’t blink. “I don’t like him. I respect him. He is clever.” “Some say he is the cleverest man alive, a man of endless tricks,” Leda says. “Tricks don’t make heroes,” Menelaus says. Clytemnestra scoffs and turns to her cheese. She is ready to retort if anyone insults Odysseus again, but her father changes the subject. “What news from the East?” “Not much,” Agamemnon says. “The city of Troy still challenges the Greeks at sea, but no one will fight it.” “Many say the city is impenetrable,” Leda comments. “Where is Troy, Mother?” Philonoe asks, her voice shrill in the hall. It is Agamemnon who answers. “On the other side of the Aegean Sea. Farther north than Maeonia”—he turns to Clytemnestra quickly—“where your sister’s husband lives.” “Farther than Lesbos even,” Leda adds, and Philonoe nods, going back to her onions, which she selects one by one and savors like sweets. “No city is impenetrable,” Agamemnon says. “If the Greeks united their armies and fought together, Troy would fall.” Lysimachos scoffs. Spartans don’t fight others’ wars. “That seems unlikely.” Something flickers in Agamemnon’s eyes, but he speaks no more of it. When the moon appears in the sky, Tyndareus calls for entertainment. Wooden
| 0 |
42 |
The Silmarillion.txt
| 13 |
hill he made his dwelling and wrought there his sorcery, and all folk feared the Sorcerer of Dol Guldur, and yet they knew not at first how great was their peril. Even as the first shadows were felt in Mirkwood there appeared in the west of Middle-earth the Istari, whom Men called the Wizards. None knew at that time whence they were, save Crdan of the Havens, and only to Elrond and to Galadriel did he reveal that they came over the Sea. But afterwards it was said among the Elves that they were messengers sent by the Lords of the West to contest the power of Sauron, if he should arise again, and to move Elves and Men and all living things of good will to valiant deeds. In the likeness of Men they appeared, old but vigorous, and they changed little with the years, and aged but slowly, though great cares lay on them; great wisdom they had, and many powers of mind and hand. Long they journeyed far and wide among Elves and Men, and held converse also with beasts and with birds; and the peoples of Middle-earth gave to them many names, for their true names they did not reveal. Chief among them were those whom the Elves called Mithrandir and Curunr, but Men in the North named Gandalf and Saruman. Of these Curunr was the eldest and came first, and after him came Mithrandir and Radagast, and others of the Istari who went into the east of Middle-earth, and do not come into these tales. Radagast was the friend of all beasts and birds; but Curunr went most among Men, and he was subtle in speech and skilled in all the devices of smith-craft. Mithrandir was closest in counsel with Elrond and the Elves. He wandered far in the North and West and made never in any land any lasting abode; but Curunr journeyed into the East, and when he returned he dwelt at Orthanc in the Ring of Isengard, which the Nmenreans made in the days of their power. Ever most vigilant was Mithrandir, and he it was that most doubted the darkness in Mirkwood, for though many deemed that it was wrought by the Ringwraiths, he feared that it was indeed the first shadow of Sauron returning; and he went to Dol Guldur, and the Sorcerer fled from him, and there was a watchful peace for a long while. But at length the Shadow returned and its power increased; and in that time was first made the Council of the Wise that is called the White Council, and therein were Elrond and Galadriel and Crdan, and other lords of the Eldar, and with them were Mithrandir and Curunr. And Curunr (that was Saruman the White) was chosen to be their chief, for he had most studied the devices of Sauron of old. Galadriel indeed had wished that Mithrandir should be the Lead of the Council, and Saruman begrudged them that, for his pride and desire of mastery was grown great; but Mithrandir refused the office,
| 1 |
30 |
Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt
| 28 |
same time something seemed to move on the verge of the dip eastward--a mere dot. It was the head of a man approaching them from the hollow beyond the Sun-stone. Clare wished they had gone onward, but in the circumstances decided to remain quiet. The figure came straight towards the circle of pillars in which they were. He heard something behind him, the brush of feet. Turning, he saw over the prostrate columns another figure; then before he was aware, another was at hand on the right, under a trilithon, and another on the left. The dawn shone full on the front of the man westward, and Clare could discern from this that he was tall, and walked as if trained. They all closed in with evident purpose. Her story then was true! Springing to his feet, he looked around for a weapon, loose stone, means of escape, anything. By this time the nearest man was upon him. "It is no use, sir," he said. "There are sixteen of us on the Plain, and the whole country is reared." "Let her finish her sleep!" he implored in a whisper of the men as they gathered round. When they saw where she lay, which they had not done till then, they showed no objection, and stood watching her, as still as the pillars around. He went to the stone and bent over her, holding one poor little hand; her breathing now was quick and small, like that of a lesser creature than a woman. All waited in the growing light, their faces and hands as if they were silvered, the remainder of their figures dark, the stones glistening green-gray, the Plain still a mass of shade. Soon the light was strong, and a ray shone upon her unconscious form, peering under her eyelids and waking her. "What is it, Angel?" she said, starting up. "Have they come for me?" "Yes, dearest," he said. "They have come." "It is as it should be," she murmured. "Angel, I am almost glad--yes, glad! This happiness could not have lasted. It was too much. I have had enough; and now I shall not live for you to despise me!" She stood up, shook herself, and went forward, neither of the men having moved. "I am ready," she said quietly. LIX The city of Wintoncester, that fine old city, aforetime capital of Wessex, lay amidst its convex and concave downlands in all the brightness and warmth of a July morning. The gabled brick, tile, and freestone houses had almost dried off for the season their integument of lichen, the streams in the meadows were low, and in the sloping High Street, from the West Gateway to the mediaeval cross, and from the mediaeval cross to the bridge, that leisurely dusting and sweeping was in progress which usually ushers in an old-fashioned market-day. From the western gate aforesaid the highway, as every Wintoncestrian knows, ascends a long and regular incline of the exact length of a measured mile, leaving the houses gradually behind. Up this road from the precincts
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81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 16 |
sister did. Miss Hope was merely trying to please her.” Not knowing how to respond, I begin to smooth the skirt of my uniform. My tell. “What are you suggesting?” “That the culprit is you, dear,” Mrs. Baker says. “Why would I type this?” “Attention?” Jessie suggests while shooting a quick glance at Carter she probably doesn’t want me to notice. I glare at her. “I don’t need anyone’s attention.” “Then why are we all here?” Mrs. Baker tilts her head, staring directly at me, her blue eyes boring into me like the sunrise. “You’re the one who demanded we all come here so you could show us the words on that page and tell us Miss Hope claims it was her sister. Why go to all that trouble?” “Because I want whoever did it to stop,” I say. “Please. And stop sneaking into Miss Hope’s room at night.” Mrs. Baker’s body goes rigid. “Someone’s been doing that?” “Yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did,” I say. “The morning after my first night here. I told you I heard footsteps in Miss Hope’s bedroom and you said it was just the wind. But I heard it again the next night. And saw someone at that window. And watched a shadow pass the door between our rooms. That wasn’t the wind. So it was either one of you or it was Lenora.” I stare at Mrs. Baker, silently daring her to chastise me for not saying “Miss Hope.” She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Tell me immediately if it ever happens again.” Then she leaves, thereby bringing an end to this melodramatic—and ultimately fruitless—household meeting. Archie is the first to follow her out. Then Carter, who gives me a we-need-to-talk-later look before slipping out the door. Jessie, however, lingers. Remaining on the divan, she says, “Sorry about that. I don’t really think you did it for attention.” “Gee, thanks.” Jessie stands, steps closer, touches my arm. “What I mean is that I don’t think you did it at all.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lenora pretending she isn’t paying attention to every single word. Before Jessie can say anything else, I pull her into my room and shut the adjoining door behind us. “Did you do it?” I ask her. “Did you type it and get Lenora to tell me it was her sister?” Jessie drifts away from me, toward the bookshelf. “No way. How could you, like, even think that?” Because she’s done this kind of thing before. In the ballroom. With a Ouija board. Like we’re in a goddamn game of Clue. “If it was some kind of prank, I’d—” “I told you it wasn’t me,” Jessie snaps. “How do you know it wasn’t Lenora? She can type, right?” “Not like this.” I glance at the page in my hand, filled with proper capitalization and punctuation. “And not without help.” “Maybe she can do more than you think.” Kenny said the same thing last night. And I thought it myself before that, as I fiddled with the
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75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 14 |
Zhao gently moves my mother’s leg so it dangles off the side of the bed and places her foot in the water. My mother stirs but doesn’t waken. “Go to Respectful Lady’s dressing table and bring me her ointments and powders.” I do as I’m told. My father’s concubine shakes some of the same astringent Poppy uses on my feet into the water. It’s made from ground mulberry root, tannin, and frankincense. By the time the doctor arrives, Miss Zhao and I have patted dry my mother’s foot, sprinkled alum between the toes and over the injury, and set it on a pillow. My mother has stirred each time we’ve moved her, but she has yet to open her eyes. “You stay here,” Miss Zhao says. “I’ll talk to your father to see how he wants to proceed. A male doctor may not see or touch a female patient. A go-between is needed. Often the husband is chosen, but I will volunteer.” As soon as she’s gone, my mother’s eyes flutter open. “I do not want that woman in my room,” she says weakly. “Go out there. Tell your father that she cannot be the go-between.” I step into the corridor. It’s still raining, and I gulp in the fresh air. Even so, the smell of my mother’s rotting flesh clings to the back of my throat. My father and Miss Zhao speak to a man who must be the doctor. I have now seen my seventh male. He wears a long robe in dark blue fabric. His gray hair laps at the curve of his stooped shoulders. I’m afraid to approach, but I must. I walk up to my father, pull on his sleeve, and say, “Respectful Lady is awake, and she asks that I be the go-between.” The man I take to be the doctor says, “Prefect Tan, it would be proper for you to do this duty.” But when my father’s eyes brim with tears, the doctor turns to Miss Zhao. “I suspect you have some experience with the ailments that afflict women.” I am only a girl, but I must honor my mother’s wishes. “Respectful Lady wants—” My father slaps the back of his hand against his other palm to stop me from saying another word. Silently he weighs the possibilities. Then he speaks. “Doctor Ho, you will use my daughter.” Father looks down at me. “You repeat exactly what the doctor says to your mother and what your mother says back to the doctor. Do you understand?” I nod solemnly. His decision reflects his love for my mother. I’m sure of it. The adults exchange a few more words, and then my father is led away by Miss Zhao. The doctor asks me a series of questions, which I take to Respectful Lady. She answers, “No, I have not eaten spicy foods. You can tell him my sleep is fine. I am not suffering from excessive emotions.” I go back and forth between Doctor Ho in the colonnade and my mother in her bed. The questions—and the
| 0 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 98 |
going to sea at all if he had Smollett: “that you have a map of an island, that there’s crosses ground enough to say that. As for Mr. Arrow, I believe him on the map to show where treasure is, and that the island thoroughly honest; some of the men are the same; all may be lies—” And then he named the latitude and longitude ex- for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship’s safety actly. and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things Contents “I never told that,” cried the squire, “to a soul!” going, as I think, not quite right. And I ask you to take “The hands know it, sir,” returned the captain. certain precautions or let me resign my berth. And that’s all.” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 76 77 “Captain Smollett,” began the doctor with a smile, “did schooner had been overhauled; six berths had been made astern ever you hear the fable of the mountain and the mouse? You’ll out of what had been the after-part of the main hold; and excuse me, I dare say, but you remind me of that fable. When this set of cabins was only joined to the galley and forecastle you came in here, I’ll stake my wig, you meant more than by a sparred passage on the port side. It had been originally this.” meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the doctor, “Doctor,” said the captain, “you are smart. When I came and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth in here I meant to get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. and I were to get two of them and Mr. Arrow and the captain Trelawney would hear a word.” were to sleep on deck in the companion, which had been en- “No more I would,” cried the squire. “Had Livesey not larged on each side till you might almost have called it a round- been here I should have seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have house. Very low it was still, of course; but there was room to heard you. I will do as you desire, but I think the worse of swing two hammocks, and even the mate seemed pleased with you.” the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful as to “That’s as you please, sir,” said the captain. “You’ll find I the crew, but that is only guess, for as you shall hear, we had do my duty.” not long the benefit of his opinion. And with that he took his leave. We were all hard at work, changing the powder and the “Trelawney,” said the doctor, “contrary to all my notions, I berths, when the last man or two, and Long John along with believed you have managed to get two honest men on board them, came off in a shore-boat. with you—that man and John Silver.” The cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, “Silver, if you like,” cried the squire;
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18 |
Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt
| 67 |
reasons. Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived. The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards- somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the "Star Sprangled Banner", but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish. In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans. ================================================================= Chapter 24 Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points. The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all. Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour. He closed his eyes in terror. After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to
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Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 23 |
to say when she began, for she read disapproval in Mrs. Rachel's expression. "It's a great responsibility you've taken on yourself," said that lady gloomily, "especially when you've never had any experience with children. You don't know much about her or her real disposition, I suppose, and there's no guessing how a child like that will turn out. But I don't want to discourage you I'm sure, Marilla." "I'm not feeling discouraged," was Marilla's dry response. "when I make up my mind to do a thing it stays made up. I suppose you'd like to see Anne. I'll call her in." Anne came running in presently, her face sparkling with the delight of her orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding the delight herself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, she halted confusedly inside the door. She certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the short tight wincey dress she had worn from the asylum, below which her thin legs seemed ungracefully long. Her freckles were more numerous and obtrusive than ever; the wind had ruffled her hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked redder than at that moment. "Well, they didn't pick you for your looks, that's sure and certain," was Mrs. Rachel Lynde's emphatic comment. Mrs. Rachel was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favor. "She's terrible skinny and homely, Marilla. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did any one ever see such freckles? And hair as red as carrots! Come here, child, I say." Anne "came there," but not exactly as Mrs. Rachel expected. With one bound she crossed the kitchen floor and stood before Mrs. Rachel, her face scarlet with anger, her lips quivering, and her whole slender form trembling from head to foot. "I hate you," she cried in a choked voice, stamping her foot on the floor. "I hate you-I hate you-I hate you-" a louder stamp with each assertion of hatred. "How dare you call me skinny and ugly? Hew dare you say I'm freckled and redheaded? You are a rude, impolite, unfeeling woman!" "Anne!" exclaimed Marilla in consternation. But Anne continued to face Mrs. Rachel undauntedly, head up, eyes blazing, hands clenched, passionate indignation exhaling from her like an atmosphere. "How dare you say such things about me?" she repeated vehemently. "How would you like to have such things said about you? How would you like to be told that you are fat and clumsy and probably hadn't a spark of imagination in you? I don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll NEVER forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting
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64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 55 |
tired,” she says. “I always worry more when I’m tired.” I frown. I’ve been so self-absorbed (and/or drunk) that somehow I missed the way her face has thinned, and the faint purple blots beneath her eyes. “Hey,” I say. “Are you okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” That’s a weirdly evasive reply for Cleo. “Because you run a whole-ass farm,” I say. “And you are but one dainty five-foot-two-inch woman.” Her smile brightens her whole face. “Yes, but you forget: my girlfriend is a five-foot-ten-inch Scandinavian American goddess who can drink four barrels of moonshine and still win a grocery store race.” “Clee,” I say. She checks over her shoulder, then drops her voice. “Okay, yes, I’m stressed,” she says. “The truth is, Kimmy and I went back and forth about bowing out of this year’s trip for the last three weeks. When I told Sabrina we might have to miss it, it did not go well, so we decided we’d come for a couple of days. Only now we can’t head back early after all, so we’re scrambling to have neighbors go take care of things for us at home.” “I’m so sorry,” I say. “How can I help?” “It’s okay. It’s one week of stress. Well, and the full week it will take us to catch up on the time away.” “Hey!” For some reason—quite possibly all the subterfuge I’m currently engaged in—I jump when Sabrina pops her head in between us. Cleo does too. “Don’t sneak up on us.” “Um, I literally just walked up,” Sabrina says. “Did I catch you two in the middle of a drug deal or something?” She reaches between us to grab Cleo’s book, scrutinizing the cover. “Mushrooms? Again?” Cleo’s lips thin. “They’re fascinating.” “What about you, Sab?” I cut in. “Did you find anything?” “Oh my god, yeah,” she says. “This book is a fictional take on the Donner Party.” “How . . . nice,” I say. She cackles, grabs the book out of my hand. I didn’t realize I was holding one—I must’ve yanked it out when she surprised us. “Harry,” she says, reading the back of it. “This book is every bit as fucked as mine.” “I guarantee it’s not,” I say. “An interior designer finds a hand behind a wall,” she says. “Yes, but it’s cozy.” I take the book back. “How is that cozy,” she asks. “It’s a cozy mystery,” I say. “It’s hard to explain.” “Oh-kay.” Her voice wrenches up into a wordless yip of surprise as Kimmy appears at her shoulder. Beside me, Cleo grabs for the edge of the bookshelf, as if for support. “Why is everyone so jumpy?” Kim asks. “Sabrina’s reading about the Donners again,” Cleo says. “It’s fiction,” Sabrina says. Cleo asks, “Where are Parth and Wyn? Are they finished?” Kimmy shrugs. “I passed Parth by the fancy books.” “What are the fancy books?” I ask. “She means he’s looking for something the New York Times has described as ‘revelatory,’ ” Sabrina says. “Actually . . .” Parth walks up with a paper bag
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Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 87 |
trowsers we are much better entitled to st. george's decoration than they. Whether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long remained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that antique Crockett and Kit Carson --that brawny doer of rejoicing good deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from the inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I claim him for one of our clan. But, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of Hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more ancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versa; certainly they are very similar. If I claim the demigod then, why not the prophet? .. <p 362 > Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like royal kings of old times, we find the headwaters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental story is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord; --Vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman? Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there's a member-roll for you! What club but the whaleman's can head off like that? .. <p 362 > .. < chapter lxxxiii 26 JONAH HISTORICALLY REGARDED > Reference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in the preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this historical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some sceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans of their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale, and Arion and the dolphin; .. <p 363 > and yet their doubting those traditions did not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that. One old Sag-Harbor whaleman's chief reason for
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