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67 |
How to Sell a Haunted House.txt
| 82 |
Mark. “I like a big comfy man!” she enthused, throwing her arms around him and wriggling from side to side. “Look at your flipper!” Mark started to hug her back, but she pushed him away and ran back to Louise, bending over to face Poppy. “Look at this adorable doughnut!” she proclaimed to everyone. Then she poked Pupkin with one finger. “We’ll talk to you later, mister.” She rose to her full height and said, “We’re going to have a busy afternoon, y’all, and I am just full of praise and the Spirit.” Louise noticed that Barb dyed her bangs purple. “Barb is an expert on cursed dolls,” Aunt Gail explained. “Don’t worry!” Barb laughed, seeing Louise’s expression. “Dolls and puppets come under the same department as far as the Lord is concerned. I do dolls, I do puppets, I once even did a blow-up s-e-x doll. Now, that one was wild, let me tell you. Come on inside and let’s pray together.” She herded them into her trailer, but as Louise put her foot on its front step, Barb dropped a mighty paw onto her shoulder. “Mama needs to stay out here with baby so we can have a few minutes to compare notes.” “You’re not discussing anything without me,” Louise said. “Then Brother can hold on to her!” Barb decided. Mark lifted his stump and shrugged. “I’ve got her,” Mercy said. She took the limp pile of Poppy from Louise’s arms, and everyone else filed into Barb’s trailer and Barb closed the door. Louise felt like they’d burrowed into an enormous mountain of dolls. Shelf after shelf of them, up the walls, reaching the ceiling, a wall of tiny bonnets and straw hats and puckered red lips and shiny porcelain faces and clown faces and baby-doll faces, all staring straight ahead with empty, glass eyes. They were lined up along the base of the wall. They were piled up in corners. Fox News soundlessly played on the TV, its light flickering over old country dolls with dried-apple faces, sock monkeys, one-eyed teddy bears, grimy old dolls and crisp new dolls, and charred, burned, and scarred dolls. Their bodies absorbed all the sound, and they completely surrounded the handful of humans in the middle. Barb tiptoed nimbly between everyone, twisting like a ballerina, picking her way across the room, plucking an enormous thermal cup from beside an armchair and taking a long pull on its gnawed flexi-straw. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’ve got a storage unit where I keep the cursed ones. I’m not going to sleep in a house surrounded by cursed dolls. That’s crazy! Now, come on! Huddle up!” She reached out and gathered them into a loose circle, throwing her arms over their shoulders and pulling them in close. Louise could smell her perfume, something lush, like honeysuckle. “Listen, listen, listen,” Barb said. “Y’all are scared to bits, I get’cha, but you can relax because Big Barb is here.” She faced Louise. Her breath smelled like passion fruit. “You’re a very lucky lady. Cursed dolls
| 0 |
5 |
Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 56 |
were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too excited to eat. After breakfast the jaunty new cap and jacket were donned, and Anne hastened over the brook and up through the firs to Orchard Slope. Mr. Barry and Diana were waiting for her, and they were soon on the road. It was a long drive, but Anne and Diana enjoyed every minute of it. It was delightful to rattle along over the moist roads in the early red sunlight that was creeping across the shorn harvest fields. The air was fresh and crisp, and little smoke-blue mists curled through the valleys and floated off from the hills. Sometimes the road went through woods where maples were beginning to hang out scarlet banners; sometimes it crossed rivers on bridges that made Anne's flesh cringe with the old, half-delightful fear; sometimes it wound along a harbor shore and passed by a little cluster of weather-gray fishing huts; again it mounted to hills whence a far sweep of curving upland or misty-blue sky could be seen; but wherever it went there was much of interest to discuss. It was almost noon when they reached town and found their way to "Beechwood." It was quite a fine old mansion, set back from the street in a seclusion of green elms and branching beeches. Miss Barry met them at the door with a twinkle in her sharp black eyes. "So you've come to see me at last, you Anne-girl," she said. "Mercy, child, how you have grown! You're taller than I am, I declare. And you're ever so much better looking than you used to be, too. But I dare say you know that without being told." "Indeed I didn't," said Anne radiantly. "I know I'm not so freckled as I used to be, so I've much to be thankful for, but I really hadn't dared to hope there was any other improvement. I'm so glad you think there is, Miss Barry." Miss Barry's house was furnished with "great magnificence," as Anne told Marilla afterward. The two
| 1 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 6 |
bottom of the boat. Suddenly Queequeg started to his feet, hollowing his hand to his ear. We all heard a faint creaking, as of ropes and yards hitherto muffled by the storm. The sound came nearer and nearer; the thick mists were dimly parted by .. <p 225 > a huge, vague form. Affrighted, we all sprang into the sea as the ship at last loomed into view, bearing right down upon us within a distance of not much more than its length. Floating on the waves we saw the abandoned boat, as for one instant it tossed and gaped beneath the ship's bows like a chip at the base of a cataract; and then the vast hull rolled over it, and it was seen no more till it came up weltering astern. Again we swam for it, were dashed against it by the seas, and were at last taken up and safely landed on board. Ere the squall came close to, the other boats had cut loose from their fish and returned to the ship in good time. The ship had given us up, but was still cruising, if haply it might light upon some token of our perishing, --an oar or a lance pole. .. <p 225 > .. < chapter xlix 15 THE HYENA > There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation; it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part of the general .. <p 226 > joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White Whale its object. Queequeg, said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the water; Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen? Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he gave me to understand that such things did often happen. Mr. Stubb, said I, turning to that
| 1 |
14 |
Five On A Treasure Island.txt
| 35 |
away from the end of the rocky steps and explored the nearby dungeons. They were really only rocky cellars stretching under the castle. Maybe wretched prisoners had been kept there many, many years before, but mostly they had been used for storing things. "I wonder which dungeon was used for storing the ingots," said Julian. He stopped and took the map out of his pocket. He flashed his torch on to it. But although it showed him quite plainly the dungeon where INGOTS were marked, he had no idea at all of the right direction. "I say- look- there's a door here, shutting off the next dungeon!" suddenly cried Dick. "I bet this is the dungeon we're looking for! I bet there are ingots in here!" Chapter Thirteen DOWN IN THE DUNGEONS Contents- Prev/Next FOUR torches were flashed on to the wooden door. It was big and stout, studded with great iron nails. Julian gave a whoop of delight and rushed to it. He felt certain that behind it was the dungeon used for storing things. But the door was fast shut. No amount of pushing or pulling would open it. It had a great key-hole- but no key there! The four children stared in exasperation at the door. Bother it! Just as they really thought they were near the ingots, this door wouldn't open! "We'll fetch the axe," said Julian, suddenly. "We may be able to chop round the keyhole and smash the lock." "That's a good idea!" said George, delighted. "Come on back!" They left the big door, and tried to get back the way they had come. But the dungeons were so big and so rambling that they lost their way. They stumbled over old broken barrels, rotting wood, empty bottles and many other things as they tried to find their way back to the big flight of rock-steps. "This is sickening!" said Julian, at last. "I simply haven't any idea at all where the entrance is. We keep on going into one dungeon after another, and one passage after another, and they all seem to be exactly the same-dark and smelly and mysterious." "Suppose we have to stay here all the rest of our lives!" said Anne, gloomily. "Idiot!" said Dick, taking her hand. "We shall soon find the way out. Hallo!- what's this-" They all stopped. They had come to what looked like a chimney shaft of brick, stretching down from the roof of the dungeon to the floor. Julian flashed his torch on to it. He was puzzled. "I know what it is!" said George, suddenly. "It's the well, of course! You remember it was shown in the plan of the dungeons, as well as in the plan of the ground floor. Well, that's the shaft of the well going down and down. I wonder if there's any opening in it just here-so that water could be taken into the dungeons as well as up to the ground floor." They went to see. On the other side of the well-shaft was a small opening big enough
| 1 |
13 |
Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt
| 70 |
He starts to unbuckle the belt on my trench coat. “I’ll do it,” I mutter, making a halfhearted attempt to brush him off. “Let me.” I sigh. I had no idea I was this tired. “It’s the altitude. You’re not used to it. And the drinking, of course.” He smirks, divests me of my coat, and throws it on one of the bedroom chairs. Taking my hand, he leads me into the bathroom. Why are we going in here? “Sit,” he says. I sit on the chair and close my eyes. I hear him as he messes around with bottles on the vanity unit. I am too tired to open my eyes to find out what he’s do- ing. A moment later he tips my head back, and I open my eyes in surprise. “Eyes closed,” Christian says . Holy crap, he’s holding a cotton ball! Gently, he wipes it over my right eye. I sit stunned as he methodically removes my makeup. “Ah. There’s the woman I married,” he says after a few wipes. “You don’t like makeup?” “I like it well enough, but I prefer what’s beneath it.” He kisses my forehead. “Here. Take these.” He puts some Advil into my palm and hands me a glass of water. I look and pout. “Take them,” he orders. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. 295/551 “Good. Do you need a private moment?” he asks sardonically. I snort. “So coy, Mr. Grey. Yes, I need to pee.” He laughs. “You expect me to leave?” I giggle. “You want to stay?” He cocks his head to one side, his expression amused. “You are one kinky son of a bitch. Out. I don’t want you to watch me pee. That’s a step too far.” I stand and wave him out of the bathroom. When I emerge from the bathroom, he’s changed into his pajama bottoms. Hmm . . . Christian in PJs. Mesmerized, I gaze at his abdomen, his muscles, his happy trail. It’s distracting. He strides over to me. “Enjoying the view?” he asks wryly. “Always.” “I think you’re slightly drunk, Mrs. Grey.” “I think, for once, I have to agree with you, Mr. Grey.” “Let me help you out of what little there is of this dress. It really should come with a health warning.” He turns me around and undoes the single button at the neck. “You were so mad,” I murmur. “Yes. I was.” “At me?” “No. Not at you.” He kisses my shoulder. “For once.” I smile. Not mad at me. This is progress. “Makes a nice change.” “Yes. It does.” He kisses my other shoulder then tugs my dress down over my backside and onto the floor. He removes my panties at the same time, leaving me naked. Reaching up, he takes my hand. “Step,” he commands, and I step out of the dress, holding his hand for balance. He stands and tosses my dress and panties onto the chair with Mia’s trench coat. “Arms up,” he says softly. He slips his T-shirt over me
| 1 |
4 |
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt
| 50 |
Allow me to sell you a couple?' `You are old,' said the youth, `and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray how did you manage to do it?' `In my youth,' said his father, `I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.' `You are old,' said the youth, `one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?' `I have answered three questions, and that is enough,' Said his father; `don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!' `That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar. `Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; `some of the words have got altered.' `It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes. The Caterpillar was the first to speak. `What size do you want to be?' it asked. `Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied; `only one doesn't like changing so often, you know.' `I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar. Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper. `Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,' said Alice: `three inches is such a wretched height to be.' `It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high). `But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, `I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!' `You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again. This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, `One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.' `One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to herself. `Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight. Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off
| 1 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 36 |
mean. The captain is not We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass what he used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick gentleman—” into the palm of the captain’s, which closed upon it instantly. “Come, now, march,” interrupted he; and I never heard a “And now that’s done,” said the blind man; and at the voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man’s. It cowed words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accu- me more than the pain, and I began to obey him at once, racy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the walking straight in at the door and towards the parlour, where road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with rum. The blind go tap-tap-tapping into the distance. man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist and lean- It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to ing almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. “Lead gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same mo- me straight up to him, and when I’m in view, cry out, ‘Here’s ment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he a friend for you, Bill.’ If you don’t, I’ll do this,” and with that drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm. he gave me a twitch that I thought would have made me “Ten o’clock!” he cried. “Six hours. We’ll do them yet,” faint. Between this and that, I was so utterly terrified of the and he sprang to his feet. blind beggar that I forgot my terror of the captain, and as I Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, Contents in a trembling voice. fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor. The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 28 29 all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious thing to understand, for I had cer- tainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart. Chapter 4. The Sea-chest. I LOST no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once in a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man’s money—if he
| 1 |
5 |
Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 21 |
together, gave a piercing shriek, and then flung herself face downward on the bed, crying and writhing in an utter abandonment of disappointment and despair. "For the land's sake!" gasped Marilla, hastening from the room. "I believe the child is crazy. No child in her senses would behave as she does. If she isn't she's utterly bad. Oh dear, I'm afraid Rachel was right from the first. But I've put my hand to the plow and I won't look back." That was a dismal morning. Marilla worked fiercely and scrubbed the porch floor and the dairy shelves when she could find nothing else to do. Neither the shelves nor the porch needed it-but Marilla did. Then she went out and raked the yard. When dinner was ready she went to the stairs and called Anne. A tear-stained face appeared, looking tragically over the banisters. "Come down to your dinner, Anne." "I don't want any dinner, Marilla," said Anne, sobbingly. "I couldn't eat anything. My heart is broken. You'll feel remorse of conscience someday, I expect, for breaking it, Marilla, but I forgive you. Remember when the time comes that I forgive you. But please don't ask me to eat anything, especially boiled pork and greens. Boiled pork and greens are so unromantic when one is in affliction." Exasperated, Marilla returned to the kitchen and poured out her tale of woe to Matthew, who, between his sense of justice and his unlawful sympathy with Anne, was a miserable man. "Well now, she shouldn't have taken the brooch, Marilla, or told stories about it," he admitted, mournfuly surveying his plateful of unromantic pork and greens as if he, like Anne, thought it a food unsuited to crises of feeling, "but she's such a little thing-such an interesting little thing. Don't you think it's pretty rough not to let her go to the picnic when she's so set on it?" "Matthew Cuthbert, I'm amazed at you. I think I've let her off entirely too easy. And she doesn't appear to realize how wicked she's been at all-that's what worries me most. If she'd really felt sorry it wouldn't be so bad. And you don't seem to realize it, neither; you're making excuses for her all the time to yourself-I can see that." "Well now, she's such a little thing," feebly reiterated Matthew. "And there should be allowances made, Marilla. You know she's never had any bringing up." "Well, she's having it now" retorted Marilla. The retort silenced Matthew if it did not convince him. That dinner was a very dismal meal. The only cheerful thing about it was Jerry Buote, the hired boy, and Marilla resented his cheerfulness as a personal insult. When her dishes were washed and her bread sponge set and her hens fed Marilla remembered that she had noticed a small rent in her best black lace shawl when she had taken it off on Monday afternoon on returning from the Ladies' Aid. She would go and mend it. The shawl was in a box in her trunk. As Marilla lifted it
| 1 |
80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 59 |
half cast in shadow. He has never once doubted me, not even during that first meeting with his manager. “Okay. I—I think I’m okay. Let’s do this.” I make a move to reach for my laptop. “And—thank you.” Finn’s gaze doesn’t leave mine for a few more seconds. With the fire crackling next to us and the storm raging outside, there’s something almost . . . romantic about this moment, an adjective I regret as soon as it enters my mind. If we were two other people, it would be so easy to abandon my laptop, crawl onto his lap, and turn this into some idyllic winter escape. But we’re Chandler and Finn, and we’re here to work. It’s as though Finn blinks out of a daze at the same time I do. I force my eyes back to my laptop screen while he takes the other chair, clearing his throat and stretching out his legs. We work through the evening as quickly as we can, with Finn reading sections as soon as I finish drafting them, offering notes and corrections. Around seven thirty, Maude from the front desk knocks on the door with a tray of food. “Dinner,” she says sweetly. “Thought you two could use a hot meal.” We thank her profusely. “How about this?” I ask an hour later, stomach full of mushroom risotto, turning the laptop to him. It’s a section about his first day on set for Dad in Training. The show was seemingly made solely to enforce gender roles, plotlines revolving around questions like, How on earth will this blue-collar father watch his own kids for a full weekend while his wife’s away? Can he really handle making brownies for his daughter’s bake sale while helping his son with his science fair project? Not to mention the baby—and we all know he can barely change a diaper! Cue laugh track. Finn reads what I’ve written, about how he was so nervous, he read the stage directions, not just his lines, and how his character, who was initially supposed to skateboard on and off set, much to the annoyance of his TV parents, couldn’t manage to stay upright, so they changed it to a scooter. “This is perfect. You manage to perfectly capture what the show was about without insulting anyone too much. Although I’m not sure I’d mind—Bob Gaffney was an asshole.” “I watched a couple episodes and I was frankly appalled, if I’m being honest.” A grimace. “Yeah, if I’d been smarter, I never would have done it. But some part of me craved that nuclear family that I didn’t have. And I guess it led to The Nocturnals, so . . .” He keeps reading, pointing to one paragraph. “I don’t think I’d use the word ‘ostentatious,’ but aside from that—I love it. And you sound just like me.” His eyes leap to mine. “It’s kind of unfair that you don’t get to have your name on it, after all of this.” I shrug, swapping out ostentatious for extravagant, forcing myself not to linger
| 0 |
97 |
What-Dreams-May-Come.txt
| 33 |
and rightly so, and she should have been forced to apologize profusely and then probably would have confessed everything at the same time because the secrets were weighing on her heart to a painful degree. And he shouldn’t have been so exceptionally handsome when he smiled at her like that. “He must be tired,” Miss Calloway said, wrapping her arm around Lucy’s waist as she frowned at the door. “He’s rarely in a bad mood like that.” Lucy had seen men in bad moods, and that was not a bad mood. In fact, she rather liked how honest he had been throughout the whole conversation, no matter how short it had been. She sincerely hoped William was similar to his brother. Not that she would be in the man’s life once she told the truth. She merely hoped there were more good men in the world, like her father. “Come,” Miss Calloway said, tugging Lucy toward the door. “You look exhausted, and I would imagine another nap would do you a world of good.” Lucy didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to tell the family who she really was, and she wanted to get out of their lives as quickly as possible. But she was tired, and she wasn’t sure she had the heart to speak out just yet. Or if she even could. Perhaps she would after she slept, when she had figured out exactly how to explain everything. Chapter Six When Lucy woke, the sky outside was dark. She must have slept right through dinner. She felt entirely disoriented, and not just because she had slept most of the day away. Somehow she had become a man’s betrothed in the course of a day. And not just any man! The brother of a baron. A wealthy baron at that. The kind of man who could ruin what little life Lucy had, no matter how warm his smiles. This was such a mess. Though she would eventually have to find one of the Calloway family—preferably Lady Calloway or her daughter—Lucy decided that for now she would simply see how Mr. Calloway fared. Perhaps he was awake and recovering by now so she could ask him for advice and he would still be the kind and thoughtful man she had met at the inn yesterday. Had it been only yesterday? The day had felt like an eternity. Slipping from beneath the covers, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and crept toward the door. The house was quiet around her, making her think perhaps it was later than she’d realized, and she hoped that meant everyone was asleep. She would be able to slip into Mr. Calloway’s room and ensure he was improving, and then she would try to find something to wear so she could get to the nearest town, Downingham, and find a conveyance to Lowbury. If she did everything under the cover of night, perhaps she could avoid the risk of running into Granger again. She had just about reached the door when she tripped over something and landed
| 0 |
6 |
Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt
| 52 |
general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may
| 1 |
5 |
Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 40 |
to glance out and beheld Diana down by the Dryad's Bubble beckoning mysteriously. In a trice Anne was out of the house and flying down to the hollow, astonishment and hope struggling in her expressive eyes. But the hope faded when she saw Diana's dejected countenance. "Your mother hasn't relented?" she gasped. Diana shook her head mournfully. "No; and oh, Anne, she says I'm never to play with you again. I've cried and cried and I told her it wasn't your fault, but it wasn't any use. I had ever such a time coaxing her to let me come down and say good-bye to you. She said I was only to stay ten minutes and she's timing me by the clock." "Ten minutes isn't very long to say an eternal farewell in," said Anne tearfully. "Oh, Diana, will you promise faithfully never to forget me, the friend of your youth, no matter what dearer friends may caress thee?" "Indeed I will," sobbed Diana, "and I'll never have another bosom friend-I don't want to have. I couldn't love anybody as I love you." "Oh, Diana," cried Anne, clasping her hands, "do you LOVE me?" "Why, of course I do. Didn't you know that?" "No." Anne drew a long breath. "I thought you LIKED me of course but I never hoped you LOVED me. Why, Diana, I didn't think anybody could love me. Nobody ever has loved me since I can remember. Oh, this is wonderful! It's a ray of light which will forever shine on the darkness of a path severed from thee, Diana. Oh, just say it once again." "I love you devotedly, Anne," said Diana stanchly, "and I always will, you may be sure of that." "And I will always love thee, Diana," said Anne, solemnly extending her hand. "In the years to come thy memory will shine like a star over my lonely life, as that last story we read together says. Diana, wilt thou give me a lock of thy jet-black tresses in parting to treasure forevermore?" "Have you got anything to cut it with?" queried Diana, wiping away the tears which Anne's affecting accents had caused to flow afresh, and returning to practicalities. "Yes. I've got my patchwork scissors in my apron pocket fortunately," said Anne. She solemnly clipped one of Diana's curls. "Fare thee well, my beloved friend. Henceforth we must be as strangers though living side by side. But my heart will ever be faithful to thee." Anne stood and watched Diana out of sight, mournfully waving her hand to the latter whenever she turned to look back. Then she returned to the house, not a little consoled for the time being by this romantic parting. "It is all over," she informed Marilla. "I shall never have another friend. I'm really worse off than ever before, for I haven't Katie Maurice and Violetta now. And even if I had it wouldn't be the same. Somehow, little dream girls are not satisfying after a real friend. Diana and I had such an affecting farewell down by the
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A Spell of Good Things.txt
| 89 |
him. Then he ran. He was afraid of many things. He was terrified of bushes and forests, even knee-high grass. Whenever he was in the stretch before and after the brook, covered as they were with blades of elephant grass that fluttered above his head, he could never shake the feeling that the greenery concealed one of the iwins his mother had threatened him with when he was younger. Of course, he knew now that those stories were meant to keep him from playing near bushes, but still. Still, he felt a presence bearing down on him whenever he was alone in a thicket like this one. It would be possible later to think of how this presence was nothing but his own fear, grown beyond what his body could contain, spilling out of him to form a second shadow that stalked him in the grass. For now, every time his feet touched the ground, he imagined a snake, green enough to blend in with foliage, curling itself around his ankle, sinking poisonous fangs into his skin. He ran faster and faster, stopping only when he emerged on the other side, where he stood for a long moment, gripping his knees and panting. He lifted his gaze towards the balcony of the top floor and could see that lines of students had formed there. The morning assembly was under way. He was late but not late enough to be punished. Or so he hoped as he began to walk towards the building as fast as he could manage with the cramping pain he now had in his left ankle. There was a staircase on the side of the building that had been tacked on after the ground floor became marshy during the rains. He dashed up the staircase, encountering no other student on his way, until he burst onto the third floor’s balcony. He tried to join the assembled students without attracting any teacher’s gaze and slid into the end of the closest line, not bothering to make sure that he was filing in behind his own classmates. Mr. Bísádé, the school’s only math teacher, who doubled as its principal, was addressing students. He gripped a tasselled trophy with one hand and held a whip in the other. Hakeem, the boy who had outscored everyone in Ẹniọlá’s class since they were in JSS1, stood next to the principal. Grinning as he lifted the trophy above his head, the principal droned on and on about how Hakeem had won another trophy for the school in yet another interschool quiz. Hakeem, with his deep-set eyes and a forehead that protruded as though someone had slapped it on as an afterthought, was not just the only student in Ẹniọlá’s class to have won a prize in any interschool quiz or debate; he was the only one in the whole school who had ever returned from a competition with any kind of commendation. “We are very proud of you,” Mr. Bísádé said, handing over the trophy to Hakeem. Hakeem bowed as though to prostrate, but Mr.
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24 |
Of Human Bondage.txt
| 76 |
her that afternoon, when his day's work at the hospital was over. When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him. "May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour." It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile. "Yes, do," he said. He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly. "Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched." "It was meant seriously," he answered gravely. "Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again. After all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to." She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands. "Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended you." He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at her. "I'm afraid it's too late," he said. She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees. "Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can understand that I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. What's the good of making us both unhappy? It's been so jolly, our friendship." She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "I love you, Philip." He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the room. "I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's over." "D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?" "I'm afraid so." "You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took that one?" He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away. "I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't love you." She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him.
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61 |
Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt
| 22 |
a face peeped out at me. It was so white that I thought it must have been painted, topped with a dark thatch of hair. Child-sized it was, and while I could not make out any features, I sensed it was smiling. It pressed a hand to the glass as if in greeting, and I started. The hand was covered in blood. The figure was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving the bloody handprint behind. Habit made me disregard my thundering heart and look away, and I counted to ten. When I looked back, there was no sign at all of blood. “Hm,” I grunted aloud. I would have to make inquiries regarding the owners of the farmstead. I wondered if they were aware they had a faerie living within their walls. My inquiries would have to be discreet, as I did not like the looks of the creature.[*] I was interrupted by the appearance of Groa, the shopkeeper. Plump and smiling, she issued a great quantity of apologies as she admitted me into the shop. Her English was not fluent, but with my smattering of Ljoslander we managed to cobble together an understanding. The shop was cheery and warm, cluttered with an impressive assemblage of goods, from food to farming and fishing implements. I nearly tripped over a sewing machine on my way to the counter. I requested flour, milk, butter, smoked fish, and tea, and Groa also encouraged me to take a few mutton sausages and a box of fresh carrots, leeks, and cabbage. Humming to herself, she wrapped my requests in paper. I felt warmed just being in her presence, and though I have not much talent for small talk, I found myself compelled to ask her a few questions about herself. She was older than I had first guessed, and had run the shop alone for twenty years since the death of her husband. She informed me that the blue house belonged to a young couple named Aslaug and Mord, who lived with their son, Ari. Her cheer dimmed a little when I broached this topic, and I did not press her. “How much?” I enquired, and she cheerily named an exorbitant sum ten times what such supplies would cost in Cambridge. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She did so, just as cheerily, seeming not to notice my consternation. She bustled about the shop, chattering absently about the buns she left outside for the wee ones—I should have pressed her on this score, but I was too flustered. I emptied my pockets—quite literally. At this rate, I would run through the entirety of my funds in less than a month. “Wait!” Groa said. She placed one of her small glazed cakes, wrapped in cloth, atop the bundle in my arms, and tapped her lips. “Aud says you do not wish to be treated as a guest, but to pay foreigners’ rates for everything. But I cannot resist. My mother’s svortkag is for everyone, and it is priceless. Please accept.” I nodded, a grimness
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49 |
treasure island.txt
| 77 |
lost, but now redou- Contents among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bling my efforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase. bows and a dash of foam in my face. I was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 198 199 again in a clap; she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow. My first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy. Round she came, till she was broadside on to me—round still till she had covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the distance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot. Im- mensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle. And then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to think—scarce time to act and save myself. I Chapter 25. was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stoop- I Strike the Jolly Roger. ing over the next. The bowsprit was over my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under water. With I HAD scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a re- between the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there port like a gun. The schooner trembled to her keel under the panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged reverse, but next moment, the other sails still drawing, the jib down upon and struck the coracle and that I was left without flapped back again and hung idle. retreat on the HISPANIOLA. This had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now I lost no time, crawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck. I was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the main- sail, which was still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion Contents of the after-deck. Not a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since the mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by the neck, Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 200 201 tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers. wards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid Suddenly the HISPANIOLA came right into the wind. from me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and The jibs behind me cracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the frayed ringlet of one whisker. the whole ship gave a sickening heave and shudder, and at the At the same time, I observed, around both of them, splashes same moment the main-boom swung inboard, the sheet groan- of dark blood upon the planks and began to feel sure that ing in the blocks, and showed
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To Kill a Mockingbird.txt
| 8 |
with me. It tasted like cotton. We went to the livingroom. I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of Dixie Howell, showed it to Jem and said, "This looks like you." That was the nicest thing I could think to say to him, but it was no help. He sat by the windows, hunched down in a rocking chair, scowling, waiting. Daylight faded. Two geological ages later, we heard the soles of Atticus's shoes scrape the front steps. The screen door slammed, there was a pause- Atticus was at the hat rack in the hall- and we heard him call, "Jem!" His voice was like the winter wind. Atticus switched on the ceiling light in the livingroom and found us there, frozen still. He carried my baton in one hand; its filthy yellow tassel trailed on the rug. He held out his other hand; it contained fat camellia buds. "Jem," he said, "are you responsible for this?" "Yes sir." "Why'd you do it?" Jem said softly, "She said you lawed for niggers and trash." "You did this because she said that?" Jem's lips moved, but his, "Yes sir," was inaudible. "Son, I have no doubt that you've been annoyed by your contemporaries about me lawing for niggers, as you say, but to do something like this to a sick old lady is inexcusable. I strongly advise you to go down and have a talk with Mrs. Dubose," said Atticus. "Come straight home afterward." Jem did not move. "Go on, I said." I followed Jem out of the livingroom. "Come back here," Atticus said to me. I came back. Atticus picked up the Mobile Press and sat down in the rocking chair Jem had vacated. For the life of me, I did not understand how he could sit there in cold blood and read a newspaper when his only son stood an excellent chance of being murdered with a Confederate Army relic. Of course Jem antagonized me sometimes until I could kill him, but when it came down to it he was all I had. Atticus did not seem to realize this, or if he did he didn't care. I hated him for that, but when you are in trouble you become easily tired: soon I was hiding in his lap and his arms were around me. "You're mighty big to be rocked," he said. "You don't care what happens to him," I said. "You just send him on to get shot at when all he was doin' was standin' up for you." Atticus pushed my head under his chin. "It's not time to worry yet," he said. "I never thought Jem'd be the one to lose his head over this- thought I'd have more trouble with you." I said I didn't see why we had to keep our heads anyway, that nobody I knew at school had to keep his head about anything. "Scout," said Atticus, "when summer comes you'll have to keep your head about far worse things... it's not fair for you and Jem, I know that, but
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A Game of Thrones.txt
| 79 |
the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal's way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame . . . yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the 340 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column. "Where is the city?" she asked as they passed beneath the bronze arch. There were no buildings to be seen, no people, only the grass and the road, lined with ancient monuments from all the lands the Dothraki had sacked over the centuries. "Ahead," Ser Jorah answered. "Under the mountain." Beyond the horse gate, plundered gods and stolen heroes loomed to either side of them. The forgotten deities of dead cities brandished their broken thunderbolts at the sky as Dany rode her silver past their feet. Stone kings looked down on her from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained, even their names lost in the mists of time. Lithe young maidens danced on marble plinths, draped only in flowers, or poured air from shattered jars. Monsters stood in the grass beside the road; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with their barbed tails poised to strike, and other beasts she could not name. Some of the statues were so lovely they took her breath away, others so misshapen and terrible that Dany could scarcely bear to look at them. Those, Ser Jorah said, had likely come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. "So many," she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, "and from so many lands." Viserys was less impressed. "The trash of dead cities," he sneered. He was careful to speak in the Common Tongue, which few Dothraki could understand, yet even so Dany found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain he had not been overheard. He went on blithely. "All these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built . . . and kill." He laughed. "They do know how to kill. Otherwise I'd have no use for them at all." "They are my people now," Dany said. "You should not call them savages, brother." "The dragon speaks as he likes," Viserys said . . . in the Common Tongue. He glanced over his shoulder at Aggo and Rakharo, riding behind them, and favored them with a
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Anne of Green Gables.txt
| 39 |
you meant to in Avonlea." "I think perhaps I will if you will come over and talk to me occasionally," said Miss Barry. That evening Miss Barry gave Diana a silver bangle bracelet and told the senior members of the household that she had unpacked her valise. "I've made up my mind to stay simply for the sake of getting better acquainted with that Anne-girl," she said frankly. "She amuses me, and at my time of life an amusing person is a rarity." Marilla's only comment when she heard the story was, "I told you so." This was for Matthew's benefit. Miss Barry stayed her month out and over. She was a more agreeable guest than usual, for Anne kept her in good humor. They became firm friends. When Miss Barry went away she said: "Remember, you Anne-girl, when you come to town you're to visit me and I'll put you in my very sparest spareroom bed to sleep." "Miss Barry was a kindred spirit, after all," Anne confided to Marilla. "You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she is. You don't find it right out at first, as in Matthew's case, but after a while you come to see it. Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world." 20. A Good Imagination Gone Wrong Spring had come once more to Green Gables-the beautiful capricious, reluctant Canadian spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. The maples in Lover's Lane were red budded and little curly ferns pushed up around the Dryad's Bubble. Away up in the barrens, behind Mr. Silas Sloane's place, the Mayflowers blossomed out, pink and white stars of sweetness under their brown leaves. All the school girls and boys had one golden afternoon gathering them, coming home in the clear, echoing twilight with arms and baskets full of flowery spoil. "I'm so sorry for people who live in lands where there are no Mayflowers," said Anne. "Diana says perhaps they have something better, but there couldn't be anything better than Mayflowers, could there, Marilla? And Diana says if they don't know what they are like they don't miss them. But I think that is the saddest thing of all. I think it would be TRAGIC, Marilla, not to know what Mayflowers are like and not to miss them. Do you know what I think Mayflowers are, Marilla? I think they must be the souls of the flowers that died last summer and this is their heaven. But we had a splendid time today, Marilla. We had our lunch down in a big mossy hollow by an old well-such a ROMANTIC spot. Charlie Sloane dared Arty Gillis to jump over it, and Arty did because he wouldn't take a dare. Nobody would in school. It is very FASHIONABLE to dare. Mr. Phillips gave all the Mayflowers he found to Prissy Andrews and I heard
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Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 75 |
mocking tone. They wait in silence as Leon brings Aileen to the megaron, staring at each other. The stranger’s hair is jagged, as if roughly cut with a kitchen blade. It barely hides the scars on his face: one on the bridge of the nose, the other on his cheekbone, close to the eye. He looks at her with his head slightly bent, as if afraid. She wonders what he is noticing of her. “We are ready for the cleansing, my queen.” Leon stands aside and Aileen enters, a cloth in her hands, her red hair tied back in a long plait. She takes a few steps forward, smiling at Clytemnestra, then notices the stranger and freezes. She knows him. “Wash this man’s feet, Aileen,” Clytemnestra orders. Aileen hurries forward and kneels in front of the stranger. As she unties his sandals and cleans him in the footbath, Clytemnestra studies his face for any hint of recognition, but the man seems not to remember Aileen. Still, Aileen has changed since Clytemnestra came to the palace. Whoever this stranger is, he hasn’t been to Mycenae in years, or Clytemnestra would know him too. And then she understands who he reminds her of. Aileen wipes the man’s feet with a dry cloth and ties on his sandals. Then she hurries back into the shadows of the anteroom. The stranger turns to Clytemnestra. “I will tell you my name now, since you have sworn to offer me shelter.” “There is no need,” she says, smiling coldly. “You are Aegisthus, son of Thyestes and cousin of my husband.” He starts. His jaw moves, as though he is biting his tongue. Behind him, Aileen stares at the scene, gaping. “You are clever,” he says. “And you are a fool for coming here thinking to hide your identity.” “I have lived in the shadows of forests and palaces for years. Men never recognize me.” “Well, I am no man,” she says, smiling again. He smiles back, unable to contain himself. The expression is jarring on his face, as though he hasn’t done it for years. It shows a different side of him, more childish, less alert. “You are welcome in this palace, Lord Aegisthus,” she says. “No one shall harm you. Now go. I will see you at dinner.” “My queen,” he says, bending his head slightly. Then he turns abruptly and walks away. She stares at his back as he passes the frescoes and the columns. There is a feeling in her she can’t recognize, as if a flame has been suddenly lit, burning her from within. After nine years of pain and plotting, this is unexpected. Whether good or bad, she will find out soon enough. In both cases, she holds the sword, and she is not afraid to strike. * * * By the time she has received all the petitioners for the day, dinner is almost ready. The smells of onions and spices come from the corridors, making her stomach twist. She orders the doors of the megaron closed and lets everyone out except
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Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt
| 77 |
should have been the one to raise you. And I am so deeply sorry. I was in such a dark place.” Just the mention of that terrible time filled me with dread. “I’ll be honest: For a few years, I carried some resentment that you didn’t try to win custody. But when I found out I was pregnant with Henry, I was so terrified that I couldn’t be a good parent because of all the loss I had experienced. And I realized that you must have felt that way too. I always knew on some level, even at thirteen, that you would have taken care of me full-time if you could. But you couldn’t. And that’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “That is precisely, exactly how I felt. I was afraid I would hurt you worse by being in your life, especially when I was at such a low point myself.” “I know,” she whispered. “And, really, even then, I didn’t want anything between us to change. Even during the worst times, I always knew that I had you and summer to look forward to. I always knew that in a few more months I would be at camp. If you had gotten custody of me, all that would have changed. I would have had to switch schools. You probably would have sold this place.” She paused. “Paula and John took care of me. Their house was happy, even when I was sad. I needed that to survive.” I leaned over to hug her. I wanted to say more. To fight for my absolution. But it seemed it had already been granted. Just like that. “You are so generous with your forgiveness, Daphne. I am so grateful for you.” “I’m grateful for you too. I’m grateful that you were always my safe place, my getaway.” She smiled. “And I am always ready and willing to be yours.” It brought tears to my eyes. “Speaking of getaways,” Daphne said. “I came here to tell you that I think we should sell Great-Aunt Gracie’s house. We could use the money to save Holly Springs.” I surprised myself at how vehemently and quickly my “No!” burst out. I hadn’t wanted to tell Daphne my plan yet because I wanted to be really sure. But this seemed like the right time. “I know I sort of mentioned this, but I’ve been thinking that maybe you are right.” “I so often am,” she joked. “But what am I right about?” “I think it’s high time I got away in the off-season; it’s high time I spent more time with you and Henry and hopefully a new baby or two. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to move to Aunt Gracie’s from September through late March or so.” Daphne squealed and clapped her hands. “Nothing could make me happier, June.” “Well, that makes me happy.” I smiled. “Facing the possibility of losing camp has made me consider what a different life could look like. I can have hope. But I also need a plan B.” Daphne sighed.
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A Spell of Good Things.txt
| 32 |
smiled at her whenever they caught her eye. Even Aunty Bíọ́lá, whom Wúràọlá had expected to hold a grudge over the disagreement about supervising the cooks during the night. The difference was there in the way her parents had danced in when they finally decided to show up, ecstatic beyond what a fiftieth birthday party called for, revelling already in all the ceremonies that would lead to Wúràọlá’s wedding. It was in how she overheard Yèyé whispering about the engagement to everyone who greeted her, Thank you, thank you. You know you’ll be back soon to celebrate with us again, our first daughter is getting married. It was her father introducing Wúràọlá and Kúnlé to his friends as the intending couple. As though they had both been reborn and needed to be reintroduced to the family friends who had known them since they were little. Wúràọlá was surprised at how pleased she was with all the attention. She had assumed it would only feel like a different kind of pressure, the flipside of being asked when she would get married at gatherings that preceded this one. Instead, her father was grinning the way he had at her first prize-giving day in secondary school when she’d won all the prizes available in her class. Tacking Most Punctual and Best-Behaved awards to prizes for mathematics and integrated science. She would never repeat the feat again, even though she continued to win prizes every year. And she would never forget the pleasure she’d felt from her parents’ pride, like light trapped beneath her skin, radiating outward and bathing everyone else in joy. What she felt now at her mother’s fiftieth birthday party was even more intense. The smiles that greeted her spread wider than they had for anything else she’d ever accomplished. The hugs lasted longer, pats on the back transitioned into rubs as though no one wanted to let go of her. The whole Mákinwá family is proud of you, her father’s brother, the retired colonel, had said to her when he arrived. You have not let your brains prevent you from being homey, we are so proud. What did it feel like to be engaged? At this party, it was like being a celebrity. Everyone wanted to touch her or talk to her. Wúràọlá did not have time to explain all of this to Grace and Tifẹ́. She would have had to shout over the music, and her voice was already getting hoarse. She’d decided to speak in whispers or via the Post-it notes she carried in her clutch for the rest of the day. It would be silly to arrive at the hospital on Monday unable to communicate with her patients. She smiled and moved to another table. This one was occupied by three of her father’s siblings. Before she’d finished scribbling her question on a Post-it, the colonel asked her to get another round of drinks for the table. She zigzagged her way towards the exit, dodging servers who were ferrying trays laden with plates of food to the guests. When
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Confidence_-a-Novel.txt
| 80 |
yes it’s legal. i don’t trust you. you have to. i’m paying for your kids’ college. The bubbles percolated once more and then disappeared for good. I opened my contacts list and scrolled to Karl’s name, my thumb hovering over the call button. I pressed it. He picked up on the second ring. “You always text,” he said. “You never call.” “I felt like calling.” He made a soft, shapeless noise that sounded like purring. “What’s wrong, Ez?” “Nothing’s wrong.” “Okay, well, there’s something in your voice that’s telling me otherwise.” I cleared my throat. “You don’t have to pretend to be unfeeling and macho,” he said. “You’re the least macho person I know.” There were still tears dripping into my ears. I wondered if he could tell over the phone. “I’m in Urmau,” I managed, stupidly. “And I’m bored.” “Bored in Urmau?” “They worship Orson down here.” “I’m sure they do.” I sighed. I wanted to be desired again, and to be desired I’d have to lie. “I miss you.” There was a pause, a consideration. “Say it again,” he said. “I miss you.” “Do you really?” “Yes.” “What do you want? Do you want me to turn my phone camera on?” “I don’t know.” He laughed, not unkindly. “Should I fly down from New York?” I hesitated, then remembered how Orson had battered me. “Yeah.” “When?” “As soon as you can,” I said. “We can get a hotel.” Another pause for consideration. “I have a meeting with a major investor in two days. But I could push it back.” I waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, I said: “You can do anything you want.” “To you?” “Yeah.” I could hear him smiling. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I like to hear.” * * * Karl was strange in shorts and a floral button-down, looking entirely out of place and pale among the massive succulents that lined the streets of Rezopol. He met me at the steps of the hotel, watching me behind his sunglasses as I squinted to see him through the midday brightness. The blind pinpricks at the corners of my vision throbbed as though electricity were attempting and failing to pass through them, exposed spots in my eyesight’s drywall where loose wires had burned themselves dim. He carried his leather suitcase past me and into the lobby. “Are you checked in?” he asked. I nodded. “Let’s go upstairs.” On the bed, he massaged my shoulders, his voice in my ear. “I know what you’re doing here,” he said. “Do you?” “I know it’s bad.” “Then why did you come?” He nestled his chin in the pocket between my neck and collarbone. “Because you’re a sweet little twink with big eyes and soft hands and you look even cuter when I mess up your hair.” I tilted my head forward, sighed with pleasure in spite of myself. “You run a criminal operation,” he said. “You falsify documents and hide money and cheat people out of their investments.” “I don’t do any of that.” “Yes,
| 0 |
92 |
The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt
| 73 |
Nizahl guardsmen stripping my clothes while I slept made me grit my teeth. I cast an assessing glance over the room once more, searching for anything I could use as a weapon. Because your last endeavor to kill the Heir was so exceedingly successful, Hanim bit out. Who said anything about trying to kill him again? My intentions began and ended with getting out of this room. I turned on the cot, setting my feet on the ground. They settled over a bulbous, springy surface. I frowned. Odd, why would the vines be— I looked down and screamed. My legs violently recoiled, knocking my knees against my chin. Stretched on the ground beside my bed was the soldier I killed. A bone of his snapped neck protruded from the waxen glaze of his skin. Insects skittered in the open gash under his belly. My stomach turned as his lips pulsed, parting briefly as a roach escaped onto his cheek. I had seen many corpses, but never quite this far into death. Yuck. He must have been a nightmare for the guards to carry. I stretched my leg to hop over him when something much more unsettling caught my eye. On the soldier’s chest lay a wrapped sesame-seed candy. The door opened. Jeru and Vaun entered, moving to opposite sides of the frame. They stood at attention. Arin strode past them. With his hair swept tidily from his face and his vest meticulously laced beneath his coat, it was hard to imagine someone with such self-possession had nearly strangled me to death. His attention found my face and settled, eradicating the small hope I had indulged that perhaps the soldier’s body had been in this room before I arrived. Arin wanted a reaction. I had a split second to decide which one I should give. I could give him innocence, feign shock and horror at the mutilated corpse and maybe break into tears. I could offer the Heir subdued distress and ask him what happened. Every option I considered fell flat, because they all inevitably led to the same consequence: my death. He had declared as much in the war room. I bent down and plucked the candy from the soldier’s chest. I studied it between two fingers, bringing it to my nose for a sniff. Filth and sugar. “I think you misplaced this,” I said, casual. No response. I may as well have spoken to a stone. He wanted a reaction? Well, that made two of us. I flicked the candy. It fell against his boot. “I do not care much for sweets, myself.” Vaun stepped forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Jeru grasped his elbow. “Out.” Arin did not raise his voice or move his eyes from mine. A sour-faced Vaun wrenched his elbow away and stormed out. Jeru followed, closing the door behind him. We were alone. I bit my lip. The urge to break the silence battered me, an unfortunate relic from my time with Hanim. Silence was danger. The more still he was, the more
| 0 |
2 |
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt
| 9 |
handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for? --For our freedom, said Davin. --No honourable and sincere man, said Stephen, has given up to you his life and his youth and his affections from the days of Tone to those of Parnell, but you sold him to the enemy or failed him in need or reviled him and left him for another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first. --They died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin. Our day will come yet, believe me. Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant. --The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe. --Too deep for me, Stevie, he said. But a man's country comes first. Ireland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after. --Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold violence. Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow. Davin rose from his box and went towards the players, shaking his head sadly. But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud: --Your soul! Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying: --Let us eke go, as Cranly has it. Stephen smiled at this side-thrust. They passed back through the garden and out through the hall where the doddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot of the steps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to his companion. --I know you are poor, he said. --Damn your yellow insolence, answered Lynch. This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again. --It was a great day for European culture, he said, when you made up your mind to swear in yellow. They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause Stephen began: --Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say-- Lynch halted and said bluntly: --Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins. Stephen went on: --Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the
| 1 |
62 |
Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt
| 64 |
told you yesterday, I’m going to try being a Rockette. I hope you can support me in this.” “For God’s sake, you are going to ruin your life with your hardheadedness. You’re making a terrible mistake.” “I disagree.” “Well, then, I suppose we have nothing more to discuss. When you’ve come to your senses, let me know. I simply do not have time for your histrionics.” Then he hung up. Marion sat there, stunned. A girl from across the room let out a screech and fell to the floor, and it took a moment before Marion realized she was acting. She hadn’t expected much from the call with Simon; his stubbornness was not a surprise. Judy’s concern was, though. It was as if a chink had appeared in the wall of resentments and estrangement that divided them. But there was no time to process the exchange further; she had to get to rehearsal. They were to dance in full makeup and costume in the rehearsal hall for the producer, Mr. Leonidoff. After that, there were only three more days until they performed the cowboy number in front of an audience. Marion was terrified at the thought, but the other new girls were as well, which made her feel a little better. Bunny had insisted Marion take the empty place next to her in the dressing room, and as soon as Marion arrived, she carefully pulled on the fringed bolero jacket and matching short skirt in a palomino pattern that had been sewn to her specific measurements. Even though Bunny was a couple of inches shorter than Marion, their hemlines had been tailored to form a straight line when they stood side by side—a trick that added to the illusion the dancers were exactly the same height. The outfits were finished off with cowboy hats—also custom fit so they wouldn’t fall off—and a holster holding a plastic gun, which sat low on her hips. After she and Bunny finished dressing, they took the elevator up to the rehearsal hall, where Russell and Emily stood waiting along with Mr. Leonidoff, who sat in a chair against the mirrored wall. During the first run-through, with Simon’s harsh words still echoing in Marion’s mind, she missed a step and got left behind as the girls made their way to the front of the stage for the kick line. Russell called out for Beulah to stop playing. “Miss Brooks, if we were onstage right now, tell me what would happen?” “I-I’d miss the kick line?” Marion stammered. Russell shook his head. “No. You’d be lying facedown on the floor. Can you tell me why?” Of course, the stage elevators. Tape had been used to mark the edges of the three motorized hydraulic elevators that rose into place as they danced, forming three separate levels. If she missed her mark, she’d fall off the elevated section of the stage and, as Russell said, land on her face. “I’m sorry. The elevators, yes. I won’t make that mistake again.” “I should hope not,” Mr. Leonidoff said, glaring at Marion.
| 0 |
61 |
Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt
| 10 |
“Are you cold, Mr. Samson?” He glanced down at himself. He had removed his coat, revealing another beneath it. “Aslaug and I are always cold. It never leaves us, not even in midsummer.” I had my notebook out, and was scribbling my initial observations. Part of me was aware of how hard-hearted I must have seemed, but I was too caught up in my scientific interest to worry over it, and in any case, Mord did not appear offended by me. I took a step towards the stairs. Immediately, they transformed. Each stair became a gaping mouth, glittering with teeth and furred with a wolf’s dense pelt. A bitter wind funnelled into the room, smelling of snow and pines. The wolves snarled and snapped at the hem of my coat. I turned to Mord. He had started back in horror, but there was a dullness to it, and he did not cower long. “You see such visions often?” I said. He blinked. Annoyance came into his eyes, and he frowned at me as if expecting pity. His face softened when he encountered only dispassionate interest. “I know they aren’t real,” he said. “I see.” I thought about living in such a place, beset by such violent illusions. I thought about days following days, and years following years. “Mr. Samson,” I said, “would you bring me an iron nail and a little salt?” He blinked but went to fetch what I had requested. When he returned, I asked him if the small coat I had spied hanging on a hook on the door was his son’s. He nodded. “Thank you,” I said, and I placed the coat in my backpack. “I’ll return it, I promise.” I mounted the stairs. Mord drew in a sharp breath. He did not follow me, which was just as well. I would have stopped him. Shadow padded alongside me as wolves champed at my ankles. I could see the stairs through the illusion, and Shadow could not see the illusion at all —at least, I think he cannot see fae illusions. I suppose it is possible that he sees them but is indifferent. In the attic I found a little bed and a cosy rug of undyed wool. Upon the bed sat a boy, pale as moonlight on new snow. I stopped short, for the creature was nothing like the changelings I have encountered before—ugly, spindly things to a one, with the brains of animals. The boy’s long hair was bluish and translucent, and upon his skin was a glimmer like frost. He was beautiful, with an uncanny grace, his eyes sharp with intelligence. A distant part of me was struck by how much he reminded me of Bambleby. Though they looked nothing alike, there was a kinship that I could not put my finger on, which was perhaps more absence than feature, a lack of something coarse and mundane that characterizes all mortals. My stomach twisted at the realization that this creature was the first of the courtly fae I had ever questioned. I was uncertain if
| 0 |
48 |
Wuthering Heights.txt
| 27 |
for; what he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad. The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and house- less, and as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there, because he was determined be would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children. Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with look- ing and listening till peace was restored; then both be- gan searching their father's pockets for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the greatcoat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing, earning for her pains a sound blow from her father to teach her cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hop- ing it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earn- shaw's door, and there he found it on quitting his cham- ber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there. I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my coward- ice and inhumanity was sent out of the house. This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual) I found they had christened him "Heathcliff." It was the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated him, and, to say the truth, I did the same; and we plagued and went on with him shamefully, for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged. He seemed a sullen, patient child, hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment. He would stand Hindley's blows with- out winking or shedding a tear, and my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he had hurt himself by accident and nobody was to blame. This endurance made old Earnshaw furious when he discovered his son persecuting the
| 1 |
95 |
USS-Lincoln.txt
| 96 |
since Lincoln traversed this rocky maze almost a decade ago. I’ll try to use rail guns sparingly.” A sudden burst of rail spikes eviscerated an asteroid the size of the Hub Gunther, clearing their slow, methodical progression deeper into the field. Seeing Akari’s profile, I glimpsed a smile—at least someone still loved her job here. Bosun Polk joined me at the captain’s mount. “Sitrep, Bosun?” “The crew is … begrudgingly making preparations to abandon ship. Only what someone can carry with them on their person goes onboard Lincoln.” “Let’s dedicate extra resources to HealthBay … kid gloves when it comes to moving the patients—” “Met with Doc Viv an hour ago; we’ll be using hovercarts to move the patients. They’ll hardly know they’re being moved.” I looked over to Polk. “Wait, she didn’t have a problem with moving them?” Polk hitched a shoulder. “I guess, but no more than anyone else has a problem with the move.” Viv’s vehement reaction earlier … What was all that about? “Just make sure anything she wants to take with her, MediBots, specialized equipment, her medication stores; hell, if she wants the deck plates—make sure it’s moved over.” “Don’t worry, Cap … We’ll take care of your … um, Doc Viv.” Polk’s cheeks flushed, catching herself misspeaking. Another burst of rail spikes shattered an even larger asteroid, Adams’ shields coming alive as an influx of gravel pieces peppered the protective barrier. I let Polk’s comment go unanswered but was curious as to what she’d almost said. My what? My main squeeze? My girlfriend? Perhaps that was the problem. Hell, if I didn’t know … Chen said, “I have confirmation both Portent and Wrath have entered the asteroid field behind us.” The halo display segmented, Hardy’s form now prominent. “My sensors are tingling.” “Okay, not sure what we’re supposed to do with that bit of news?” I said. “Liquilids are on the move. Not slow and unhurried like before. They’re making a mad dash for us.” Akari stole a quick look back at me. “He’s not wrong. Sir Calvin just pinged an alert … realizing the same thing.” “That’s all we need, to come under attack just as we’re jumping ship.” “The good news is those red ships are way too big to navigate this field,” Akari said, firing another burst of rail spikes. “Frigates are another story, though,” Hardy said. “Our timetable just narrowed. Substantially.” I looked over to the helm station. “Mr. Grimes, any possibility we can kick up our speed?” He looked to Akari; her ability to clear the way dictated much of Adams’ progress. She nodded. “Pedal to the metal. I can handle it.” I turned my attention back to Hardy. “What’s the situation with the quantum flux reverser?” “Coogong thinks he’ll have it operational within the hour. Seems Lincoln’s crew had it close but made a few miscalculations with integration with the ship’s shields.” The display segmented again, now bringing up Sonya sitting within Lincoln’s bridge. “I’ve been assessing the condition of this ship’s weapons.” I raised my brows for her to
| 0 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 89 |
can bet that with all she’s heard, she’s already made up her mind about you. With or without those photos.” The attorney waves his hand in the air. “All right, we’re done here.” Ethan stands from his chair, keeping his eyes trained on Carr. “The next guy she’s with should thank you. You’ve made him look like a saint.” The attorney looks at Jonah. “Get him out of here.” Jonah grabs Ethan’s arm. Ethan pulls out of his reach. He presses his palms onto the ridiculously large desk as Carr’s smug grin morphs into a frown. “A very screwable saint.” “Get out!” the attorney shouts as Jonah gives another tug on Ethan’s arm. “Let’s go,” Jonah barks in his ear. Ethan turns, shaking out of his partner’s hold as he follows him out of the office. “What was that?” Jonah asks once they’re inside the elevator. “It seemed…personal.” Ethan presses the button for the underground parking garage. “I just don’t like that guy.” Jonah studies him as they descend the thirty floors to the parking garage. “Okay. You don’t want to tell me? Fine,” he finally says. The elevator doors open. Jonah turns after stepping into the parking garage. “The caretaker of Carr’s San Juan Island home called on my way here. He said that Carr requested to be alone on the property last weekend, so he didn’t see who Carr was with. There are three security cameras outside the home, so I’m going to see if we can get a warrant for the footage from last weekend.” Ethan follows after him, trying to think of a reason to keep his partner from requesting the warrant. He could insist on being the one to check the footage, but if he lies about the contents and is found out, he’ll be looking at prison time. Jonah turns. “What if he told this woman about his plan to murder his wife? We’ll never know if we don’t ask her. Who knows, maybe she even helped him plot it.” Ethan stops. “I know,” Jonah adds. “I just hope he wasn’t preying on some teenager up there.” “That seems like something that happens down in Los Angeles, Jonah. Not the San Juans.” Jonah turns around. “Maybe. Maybe not. You coming back to homicide now?” “Actually, I wanted to interview the firefighters who responded to Carr’s 911 call. See if they noticed anything unusual about his behavior.” Jonah stops after unlocking his Ford. “I’ll join you.” “The medic’s report said they were dispatched from Fire Station 29.” “Meet you there.” Ethan pulls out his phone after getting behind the wheel. He attaches the three recovered photos from Chelsea’s phone in an email to the FBI agent he spoke to earlier that week. After sending the email, he opens the message from the local crime reporter. Hey Ethan, Got any updates for me about your investigation into Chelsea Carr’s death? Ethan hits Reply and then Attach File. His finger hovers over the last image sent by TESU, with the girl on Carr’s lap, facing away from the camera.
| 0 |
79 |
Quietly-Hostile.txt
| 71 |
in Memphis, and had a different mother I had never met, so they loomed large as mythical figures in my mind, characters in bedtime stories from times I couldn’t remember. I was nervous about being rejected, for how I looked or how I talked or what I was interested in. I worried it might be weird between us because of how differently we’d been brought up. My brothers, my sisters, and I were all raised by a loose network of the same overlapping people, but each circumstance turned out to be wildly different. My mom was in high school when my two oldest sisters were born and forty when she had me, the lady who birthed us looked the same, but she was two different people. My dad is not my sisters’ dad, but he came into their lives when they were in elementary school, shortly after he’d split from my brothers’ mother. And the man who was a glowering, erratic figure in 1968 was both different, yet somehow better, than the one who made me get out of a car in the middle of the road to teach me a lesson in 1992. What was I gonna say? “How much of a psycho was Daddy when you knew him? Want to compare our parallel traumas?” I let many, many weeks go by. I mean, when was even a good time to call a person whose schedule you don’t have access to? What if they worked on the weekends and had random days off during the week? What if they worked the night shift and are asleep during the day? What if they worked the day shift and went to bed unusually early at night? What if they hate talking during their commute? Or they like to talk first thing in the morning? More important than that, people hate talking on the fucking phone! I love it, of course, but I am a monster. Is it appropriate to text someone saying, “hey idk if this is u but hi im ur sister”? I could spin out and ask a hundred more completely plausible questions like these. The longer I stalled, the more I psyched myself out. What if this was a joke? The internet is weird, man. People do fucked-up shit like this all the time, and I’m not so arrogant that I’d think it could never happen to me or that I’m so smart I’d be able to sniff out a scam. But I’m trying to be less fucking cynical all the time. I decided I would call, just to see. I told people I was gonna call, so they’d hold me accountable and follow up. I even sat on a couch next to my friend Megan and spent an hour working out a plan for what to say when I did call, like two girls hanging out after school plotting what to say when they prank call the house of the boy they think is cute. It became bigger than a catch-up phone call; suddenly, in my mind, it was
| 0 |
75 |
Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt
| 34 |
to come to my chambers.” “Please stay. We would all like to hear what you have to say.” Lady Kuo sounds solicitous, but our guests are not fooled. “Your room sounds lovely,” the widow says. “Let us retire there.” We walk slowly through the covered colonnades, stopping here and there so the visitors can enjoy the scent of jasmine and admire the plumes of a caged bird, while Poppy runs ahead to prepare. When we arrive, we settle, and Poppy pours tea. “Please tell me about your daughter,” I begin. “How old is she? What are her symptoms?” Tears well in the widow’s eyes, so Lady Liu speaks on her behalf. “My sister-in-law is thirty-five years old. When she hears people speaking, she becomes dizzy.” It’s an odd symptom, no question, but it doesn’t sound all that worrisome to me. However, we’ve reached the fifth month, when the growing heat and humidity can bring sickness and disease. “Does she have a rash?” I ask. “No cases of smallpox have been reported in Nanjing,” Lady Liu answers. Which is a relief. “You asked for me because I’m a woman,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask some intimate questions.” When both women nod, I go on. “Tell me about her stools and urine.” “She has fainted multiple times when sitting on the honeypot,” Lady Liu states. “What does her doctor say?” I inquire. “He says she’s Blood and qi deficient,” Lady Liu answers. “Now she coughs up blood.” They might have mentioned this symptom first, but hearing it, I say, “It sounds as though he’s made the correct diagnosis.” “Is she dying?” Widow Bao asks, her voice quavering. “She’s my daughter…” “I can’t do the Four Examinations from afar.” I try to sound reassuring when I add, “Tell me more. Perhaps her doctor missed something.” “Ask us anything.” “Can you describe her disposition?” “Until now, she’s always been quick-tempered and impatient,” the widow answers. “Now she stays in bed, weeping day and night.” This is another important symptom, but what is the cause? I remain silent, waiting for one of the women to tell me what brought about such sorrow. We each take sips of tea. Widow Bao’s eyes fill again; Lady Liu gives one of those sighs known through the ages to convey loss of heart. “My sister-in-law’s daughter died ten months ago,” she confides at last. “This is when she began to cry. Four months later, bandits killed her son.” Widow Bao openly weeps. When Lady Liu puts a comforting hand over her mother-in-law’s, I wish I could have a relationship like this with Lady Kuo, but she has no interest and my desires are not what matter here. “Widow Bao, I believe your daughter is suffering from a type of qi deficiency we call damage from weeping. You tell me your daughter was once quick-tempered. This is caused by qi constraint, which leads to Heat in the Liver, which, in turn, fires up Blood, which must be expelled by coughing. I don’t have a full pharmacy here,
| 0 |
29 |
Tarzan of the Apes.txt
| 33 |
of a man tilling the fields or performing any of the homely duties of the village. Finally his eyes rested upon a woman directly beneath him. Before her was a small cauldron standing over a low fire and in it bubbled a thick, reddish, tarry mass. On one side of her lay a quantity of wooden arrows the points of which she dipped into the seething substance, then laying them upon a narrow rack of boughs which stood upon her other side. Tarzan of the Apes was fascinated. Here was the secret of the terrible destructiveness of The Archer's tiny missiles. He noted the extreme care which the woman took that none of the matter should touch her hands, and once when a particle spattered upon one of her fingers he saw her plunge the member into a vessel of water and quickly rub the tiny stain away with a handful of leaves. Tarzan knew nothing of poison, but his shrewd reasoning told him that it was this deadly stuff that killed, and not the little arrow, which was merely the messenger that carried it into the body of its victim. How he should like to have more of those little death-dealing slivers. If the woman would only leave her work for an instant he could drop down, gather up a handful, and be back in the tree again before she drew three breaths. Chapter 10 As he was trying to think out some plan to distract her attention he heard a wild cry from across the clearing. He looked and saw a black warrior standing beneath the very tree in which he had killed the murderer of Kala an hour before. The fellow was shouting and waving his spear above his head. Now and again he would point to something on the ground before him. The village was in an uproar instantly. Armed men rushed from the interior of many a hut and raced madly across the clearing toward the excited sentry. After them trooped the old men, and the women and children until, in a moment, the village was deserted. Tarzan of the Apes knew that they had found the body of his victim, but that interested him far less than the fact that no one remained in the village to prevent his taking a supply of the arrows which lay below him. Quickly and noiselessly he dropped to the ground beside the cauldron of poison. For a moment he stood motionless, his quick, bright eyes scanning the interior of the palisade. No one was in sight. His eyes rested upon the open doorway of a nearby hut. He would take a look within, thought Tarzan, and so, cautiously, he approached the low thatched building. For a moment he stood without, listening intently. There was no sound, and he glided into the semi-darkness of the interior. Weapons hung against the walls--long spears, strangely shaped knives, a couple of narrow shields. In the center of the room was a cooking pot, and at the far end a litter of dry grasses
| 1 |
98 |
Yellowface.txt
| 99 |
versus “Hayward.” No one says explicitly that “Song” might be mistaken for a Chinese name, when really it’s the middle name my mother came up with during her hippie phase in the eighties and I was very nearly named Juniper Serenity Hayward. Emily helps me pitch an article about authorial identities and pen names to Electric Lit, where I explain that I’ve chosen to rebrand myself as Juniper Song to honor my background and my mother’s influence in my life. “My debut, Over the Sycamore, written as June Hayward, was rooted in my grief over my father’s death,” I write. “The Last Front, written as Juniper Song, symbolizes a step forward in my creative journey. This is what I love most about writing—it offers us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, and the stories we tell about ourselves. It lets us acknowledge every aspect of our heritage and history.” I never lied. That’s important. I never pretended to be Chinese, or made up life experiences that I didn’t have. It’s not fraud, what we’re doing. We’re just suggesting the right credentials, so that readers take me and my story seriously, so that nobody refuses to pick up my work because of some outdated preconceptions about who can write what. And if anyone makes assumptions, or connects the dots the wrong way, doesn’t that say far more about them than me? THINGS RUN MORE SMOOTHLY ON THE EDITORIAL SIDE. DANIELLA loves what I’ve done in the revisions. All she requests in her third pass are some light line edits, and a suggestion that I add a dramatis personae, which is a fancy term for a list of all the characters accompanied by short descriptions so that readers don’t forget who they are. Then it’s off to a copyeditor, who from my experience are these superhuman, eagle-eyed monsters that catch continuity errors unseen to the naked eye. We only run into one wrinkle, a week before my copyedit pass is due. Daniella emails me out of the blue: Hey June. Hope you’ve been well. Can you believe we’re already six months out from publication? Wanted to bring up something to get your opinion—Candice suggested that we get a Chinese or Chinese diaspora sensitivity reader, and I know it’s late in the process, but do you want us to look into things for you? Sensitivity readers are readers who provide cultural consulting and critiques on manuscripts for a fee. Say, for example, a white author writes a book that involves a Black character. The publisher might then hire a Black sensitivity reader to check whether the textual representations are consciously, or unconsciously, racist. They’ve gotten more and more popular in the past few years, as more and more white authors have been criticized for employing racist tropes and stereotypes. It’s a nice way to avoid getting dragged on Twitter, though sometimes it backfires—I’ve heard horror stories of at least two writers who were forced to withdraw their books from publication because of a single subjective opinion. I don’t see why, I write back. I’m pretty comfortable
| 0 |
85 |
Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt
| 80 |
experimental enrichment program in the woods, but there’s a scholarship and career connections on offer, and only the best are chosen, so here I am: proving once again that I’m the best. I bear that in mind as I sink—and sink, and sink—into the saggy bed I’ve just been assigned at Sherwood Forest’s Visitor Cabin. This place is basically an old and underfunded dorm with dingy shared bathrooms and decorative logs stuck to the exterior. Across the room, a girl whose name might be Laura, or Aura, or possibly Rory (to say she mumbles would be an understatement) flicks blue eyes at me from beneath her shaggy hair, then looks away. “Be careful,” Mum is saying on the phone. “Behave yourself. And stick with Brad.” Oh, yeah. Bradley got in too. I don’t groan at the reminder because I am very mature, but I do wrinkle my nose down at the dingy brown carpet. “I know what you’re thinking”—Mum laughs like she can see my expression—“but he’s a good boy, and he’s more cautious than you. Take care of each other. Especially while your wrist is still healing!” Yeah…about that “wearing a cast for six to eight weeks” thing? Apparently, it’s eight weeks for me. I’ll be free next Monday, a week after this expedition. Bradley’s fault. Obviously. “I mean it, Celine,” Mum says, turning stern. “I guarantee Maria is telling him the same thing.” Not bloody likely. When we stepped off the coach twenty minutes ago, Bradley was already surrounded by people as always, grinning and relaxed, because he managed to make friends during the coach ride while I sat on my own listening to Frank Ocean’s Blonde and texting Michaela. I bet he’s chatting away to his little ginger roommate right now. My roommate is glued to her phone with an expression that suggests she’s either Googling How to kill your BEP roomie and get away with it or reading really great fanfic. “I’ll be good, Mummy.” By which I mean: I’ll try my best not to get killed in the night. “I have to go now, okay?” “Okay, baby. I love you.” “Love you too.” Laura/Aura/Rory glances up as I put the phone down and mumbles, “Five minutes till we meet outside.” I blink. “Are you watching the time for us?” She shrinks into her gray hoodie. “Um…” So she’s not a murderer; she’s just shy. Now I feel bad. “That’s…nice,” I clarify awkwardly. Her smile has a lot in common with a wince. The BEP has been a whirlwind so far. We hopped on a coach this morning, it took us basically up the road to Sherwood Forest, we were introduced to our supervisors (Zion is an Energizer Bunny with locs, and Holly is basically Kourtney Kardashian), and then we were told to pair off and given fifteen minutes to stow our stuff in our bedrooms and report for duty. I’m not sure how I ended up with Laura/Aura/Rory, but it probably has something to do with her being shy and me being…mutinously silent. In a very confident
| 0 |
70 |
Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt
| 14 |
face scrunches up. “What?” I ask. “You okay?” “Yeah, I just—You have fake blood all over you, and your skin is sticky as hell.” I look down at myself, and I’m a complete mess. I have a tendency to forget about anything else in Bezi’s presence. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just a little corn syrup.” I kiss her again. “Well, maybe it’s not such a big deal,” she says against my neck. I wrap my arms around her, kissing her, running my hands along the slopes and curves of her frame, and then there’s a knock at the door. Bezi huffs as I pull away and yank the door open. Paige is standing there, arms crossed, an angry scowl drawing down the corners of her mouth. “This heffa Tasha booted me out of our cabin so that she and Javier can be alone,” she says through gritted teeth. I stick my head out the door to see Tasha staring back at me from the porch of Cabin #1. “Don’t be mad,” she yells. “I won’t be long.” “The hell?” Javier’s voice echoes from inside. “Whatever,” Paige says, turning back to me. “Can I bunk up with you two? I was gonna ask Porter and Kyle, but I don’t really know them like that.” I usher her inside and close the door, making sure it’s locked. Bezi kisses me on the cheek. “Later.” “I know I’m messing up y’all’s plans,” Paige says. “I’m sorry, but I’ll be damned if I sleep in a cabin alone tonight.” I squeeze her arm. “You’re not messing up anything. Tasha is acting real foolish right now. Not judging, but Javi does not discriminate. He runs through random hookups like serial killers run through camp counselors.” Bezi and Paige both grimace. I put my hands up. “Like I said, not judging. I don’t think either of them is really serious about the other. They’re just having fun.” “They put me out like I was supposed to just sleep outside,” Paige says. “They having fun and I’m in the woods. That’s nice.” She rolls her eyes and shoves her hand down on her hip. “We have a more important issue right now,” I say. “We literally only have one bed in here.” Paige’s gaze flits to the bed, then back to me. “I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s not a big deal.” “No,” Bezi says. “Nobody’s sleeping on the floor. Just curl up at the bottom of the bed. I think we’ll all fit.” She smiles wide. “It’ll be like when we were little. Remember how we used to all sleep on that stank-ass futon in my dad’s basement?” “Oh, man,” Paige says. “I’m pretty sure that mutt y’all used to have pissed on that thing.” “Aye,” Bezi says, shaking her head. “Don’t talk like that about Geneva. She was, like, twenty years old, and she couldn’t control her bladder.” “I’m joking,” Paige says. “Rest in peace, Geneva!” “Those were the best sleepovers,” I say. “Just endless pizza and soda and scary movies. We should not have been watching
| 0 |
16 |
Great Expectations.txt
| 80 |
She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree confounded. I said "Good-bye, Miss Pocket;" but she merely stared, and did not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the house, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook's, took off my new clothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress, carrying it - to speak the truth - much more at my ease too, though I had the bundle to carry. And now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run out fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more steadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled away, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more appreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I dressed my self out in my new clothes, for their delight, and sat in my splendour until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion, graced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish with. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in spirits. I was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little hand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all alone. I am afraid - sore afraid - that this purpose originated in my sense of the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the coach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of this taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on this last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had an impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in the morning. I did not. All night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places instead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now pigs, now men - never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me until the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and partly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in taking it fell asleep. Biddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not sleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when I started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the afternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking of the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go down stairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and unstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again, until Biddy called to me that I was late. It was a hurried breakfast with no taste
| 1 |
20 |
Jane Eyre.txt
| 96 |
o n t h e b l a n k w a l l o p p o s i t e , e x p r e s s e d t h e s u r p r i s e o f a q u i e t m i n d , s t i r r e d b y u n w o n t e d t i d i n g s . S e e i n g m e s h e r o u s e d h e r s e l f ; s h e m a d e a s o r t o f e f f o r t t o s m i l e , a n d f r a m e d a f e w w o r d s o f c o n g r a t u l a t i o n ; b u t t h e s m i l e e x p i r e d a n d t h e s e n t e n c e w a s a b a n d o n e d u n f i n i s h e d . S h e p u t u p h e r s p e c t a c l e s , s h u t t h e B i b l e , a n d p u s h e d h e r c h a i r b a c k f r o m t h e t a b l e . " I f e e l s o a s t o n i s h e d , " s h e b e g a n , " I h a r d l y k n o w w h a t t o s a y t o y o u , M i s s E y r e . I h a v e s u r e l y n o t b e e n d r e a m i n g , h a v e I ? S o m e t i m e s I h a l f - f a l l a s l e e p w h e n I a m s i t t i n g a l o n e a n d f a n c y t h i n g s t h a t h a v e n e v e r h a p p e n e d . I t h a s s e e m e d t o m e m o r e t h a n o n c e w h e n I h a v e b e e n i n a d o z e t h a t m y d e a r h u s b a n d , w h o d i e d f i f t e e n y e a r s s i n c e , h a s c o m e i n a n d s a t d o w n b e s i d e m e ; a n d t h a t I h a v e e v e n h e a r d h i m c a l l m e b y m y n a m e , A l i c e , a s h e u s e d t o d o . N o w , c a n y o u t e l l m e w h e t h e r i t i s a c t u a l l y t r u e t h a t M r . R o c h e s t e r h a s a s k e d y o u t o m a r r y h i m ? D o n ' t l a u g h a t m e . B u t I r e a l l y t h o u g h t h e c a m e i n h e r e f i v e m i n u t e s a g o a n d s a i d t h a t i n a m o n t h y o u w o u l d b e h i s w i f e . " " H e h a s s a i d t h e s a m e t h i n g t o m e , " I r e p l i e d . " H e h a s ! D o y o u b e l i e v e h i m ? H a v e y o u a c c e p t e d h i m ? " " Y e s . " S h e l o o k e d a t m e b e w i l d e r e d . " I c o u l d n e v e r h a v e t h o u g h t i t . H e i s a p r o u d m a n : a l l t h e R o c h e s t e r s w e r e p r o u d ; a n d h i s f a t h e r , a t l e a s t , l i k e d m o n e y . H e , t o o , h a s a l w a y s b e e n c a l l e d c a r e f u l . H e m e a n s t o m a r r y y o u ? " " H e t e l l s m e s o . " S h e s u r v e y e d m y w h o l e p e r s o n . I n h e r e y e s I r e a d t h a t t h e y h a d t h e r e f o u n d n o c h a r m p o w e r f u l e n o u g h t o s o l v e t h e e n i g m a . " I t p a s s e s m e ! " s h e c o n t i n u e d ; " b u t n o d o u b t i t i s t r u e s i n c e y o u s a y s o . H o w i t w i l l a n s w e r I c a n n o t t e l l ; I r e a l l y d o n ' t k n o w . E q u a l i t y o f p o s i t i o n a n d f o r t u n e i s o f t e n a d v i s a b l e i n s u c h c a s e s ; a n d t h e r e a r e t w e n t y y e a r s o f d i f f e r e n c e i n y o u r a g e s . H e m i g h t a l m o s t b e y o u r f a t h e r . " " N o , i n d e e d , M r s . F a i r f a x ! " e x c l a i m e d I , n e t t l e d ; " h e i s n o t h i n g l i k e m y f a t h e r ! N o o n e w h o s a w u s t o g e t h e r w o u l d s u p p o s e i t f o r a n i n s t a n t . M r . R o c h e s t e r l o o k s a s y o u n g , a n d i s a s y o u n g , a s s o m e m e n a t f i v e - a n d - t w e n t y . " " I s i t r e a l l y f o r l o v e h e i s g o i n g t o m a r r y y o u ? " s h e a s k e d . I w a s s o h u r t b y h e r c o l d n e s s a n d s k e p t i c i s m t h a t t h e t e a r s r o s e t o m y e y e s . " I a m s o r r y t o g r i e v e y o u , " p u r s u e d t h e w i d o w ; " b u t y o u a r e s o y o u n g a n d s o l i t t l e a c q u a i n t e d w i t h m e n I w i s h e d t o p u t y o u o n y o u r g u a r d . I t i s a n o l d s a y i n g t h a t ' a l l i s n o t g o l d t h a t g l i t t e r s ; ' a n d i n t h i s c a s e I d o f e a r t h e r e w i l l b e s o m e t h i n g f o u n d t o b e
| 1 |
47 |
Ulysses.txt
| 54 |
of the various positions of clockwise moveable indicators on an unmoving dial, the exactitude of the recurrence per hour of an instant in each hour when the longer and the shorter indicator were at the same angle of inclination, VIDELICET, 5 5/11 minutes past each hour per hour in arithmetical progression. In what manners did she reciprocate? She remembered: on the 27th anniversary of his birth she presented to him a breakfast moustachecup of imitation Crown Derby porcelain ware. She provided: at quarter day or thereabouts if or when purchases had been made by him not for her she showed herself attentive to his necessities, anticipating his desires. She admired: a natural phenomenon having been explained by him to her she expressed the immediate desire to possess without gradual acquisition a fraction of his science, the moiety, the quarter, a thousandth part. What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of Milly, somnambulist, make to Stephen, noctambulist? To pass in repose the hours intervening between Thursday (proper) and Friday (normal) on an extemporised cubicle in the apartment immediately above the kitchen and immediately adjacent to the sleeping apartment of his host and hostess. What various advantages would or might have resulted from a prolongation of such an extemporisation? For the guest: security of domicile and seclusion of study. For the host: rejuvenation of intelligence, vicarious satisfaction. For the hostess: disintegration of obsession, acquisition of correct Italian pronunciation. Why might these several provisional contingencies between a guest and a hostess not necessarily preclude or be precluded by a permanent eventuality of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew's daughter? Because the way to daughter led through mother, the way to mother through daughter. To what inconsequent polysyllabic question of his host did the guest return a monosyllabic negative answer? If he had known the late Mrs Emily Sinico, accidentally killed at Sydney Parade railway station, 14 October 1903. What inchoate corollary statement was consequently suppressed by the host? A statement explanatory of his absence on the occasion of the interment of Mrs Mary Dedalus (born Goulding), 26 June 1903, vigil of the anniversary of the decease of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag). Was the proposal of asylum accepted? Promptly, inexplicably, with amicability, gratefully it was declined. What exchange of money took place between host and guest? The former returned to the latter, without interest, a sum of money (1-7-0), one pound seven shillings sterling, advanced by the latter to the former. What counterproposals were alternately advanced, accepted, modified, declined, restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed? To inaugurate a prearranged course of Italian instruction, place the residence of the instructed. To inaugurate a course of vocal instruction, place the residence of the instructress. To inaugurate a series of static semistatic and peripatetic intellectual dialogues, places the residence of both speakers (if both speakers were resident in the same place), the Ship hotel and tavern, 6 Lower Abbey street (W. and E. Connery, proprietors), the National Library of Ireland, 10 Kildare street, the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31 Holles street, a public garden, the
| 1 |
33 |
The Age of Innocence.txt
| 39 |
soon; since Granny approves and understands, and has arranged to make her independent of her husband--" She broke off, and Archer, grasping the corner of the mantelpiece in one convulsed hand, and steadying himself against it, made a vain effort to extend the same control to his reeling thoughts. "I supposed," he heard his wife's even voice go on, "that you had been kept at the office this evening about the business arrangements. It was settled this morning, I believe." She lowered her eyes under his unseeing stare, and another fugitive flush passed over her face. He understood that his own eyes must be unbearable, and turning away, rested his elbows on the mantel- shelf and covered his face. Something drummed and clanged furiously in his ears; he could not tell if it were the blood in his veins, or the tick of the clock on the mantel. May sat without moving or speaking while the clock slowly measured out five minutes. A lump of coal fell forward in the grate, and hearing her rise to push it back, Archer at length turned and faced her. "It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Impossible--?" "How do you know--what you've just told me?" "I saw Ellen yesterday--I told you I'd seen her at Granny's." "It wasn't then that she told you?" "No; I had a note from her this afternoon.--Do you want to see it?" He could not find his voice, and she went out of the room, and came back almost immediately. "I thought you knew," she said simply. She laid a sheet of paper on the table, and Archer put out his hand and took it up. The letter contained only a few lines. "May dear, I have at last made Granny understand that my visit to her could be no more than a visit; and she has been as kind and generous as ever. She sees now that if I return to Europe I must live by myself, or rather with poor Aunt Medora, who is coming with me. I am hurrying back to Washington to pack up, and we sail next week. You must be very good to Granny when I'm gone--as good as you've always been to me. Ellen. "If any of my friends wish to urge me to change my mind, please tell them it would be utterly useless." Archer read the letter over two or three times; then he flung it down and burst out laughing. The sound of his laugh startled him. It recalled Janey's midnight fright when she had caught him rocking with incomprehensible mirth over May's telegram announcing that the date of their marriage had been advanced. "Why did she write this?" he asked, checking his laugh with a supreme effort. May met the question with her unshaken candour. "I suppose because we talked things over yesterday--" "What things?" "I told her I was afraid I hadn't been fair to her-- hadn't always understood how hard it must have been for her here, alone among so many people who were relations and yet strangers; who felt
| 1 |
57 |
Cold People.txt
| 88 |
never been tested.’ ‘Why do you say it would be hard for you to have a child?’ ‘I spend all my time here.’ ‘Do you have a partner?’ ‘Not at the moment, no.’ ‘Your partner would be a man?’ ‘A man, yes.’ He thought on this for some time. ‘The two of you would adopt a child.’ ‘We would.’ ‘Would you adopt an ordinary-born child or an ice-adapted one?’ ‘Either, both.’ ‘You are uncomfortable with these questions?’ ‘No. My hesitation is only because they’re difficult questions.’ ‘You live alone?’ ‘I do.’ ‘I live alone, too. But not like you, I think.’ ‘No, not like me.’ ‘You feel something is missing from your life?’ ‘Many things are missing from my life.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Warmth.’ ‘Is that a joke?’ ‘Yes, a joke. But it’s true, too.’ ‘Why have you not found someone to live with?’ ‘It’s not easy.’ ‘You struggle with life in this place.’ ‘I struggled with life before this place.’ Yotam tried to maintain constant eye contact even when inside the circle of intimate personal space. Eitan never looked away, never closed his eyes, never blinked, never broke eye contact. With growing certainty Yotam was confident that integration would not only be a success but that it should take place as soon as possible. Eitan was ready and eager to play his part in rebuilding their civilization. He’d spent six years in captivity doing little else but study, able to read dense pages of text with a single glance, absorbing as much literature as he could be provided with. Despite having spent his entire existence in solitary confinement, he showed no signs of hostility, no indication of disturbed behavioural patterns. Judging from their interaction there was no question that they should move to a trial integration period where he’d be released like a prisoner on bail, tagged, monitored, allowed to take part in life above the ice. ‘Yotam?’ ‘Yes, Eitan?’ ‘We’re being watched.’ Yotam turned to see scientists, support staff and security officers lined up at the observation tunnels, looking down at them. FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY AS YOTAM SAID GOODBYE, EITAN asked: ‘Are you in trouble?’ ‘For what? Talking to you? No. This is my job.’ ‘They’re looking at us strangely.’ ‘How are they looking at us?’ ‘Like we’ve done something wrong.’ Yotam was impressed with his level of perception. ‘I didn’t run it past them, that’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll do something new.’ ‘I am looking forward to it, Yotam.’ ‘Me, too.’ Yotam left the cage, shutting it behind him. He climbed up the ladder, returning to the office floor of the ice chambers. Leaving Eitan behind and re-entering the world of ordinary-born people, he felt no sense of relief; he didn’t feel safer or less afraid. The truth was that with each step closer to regular people he felt less at ease. In the observation tunnels he stood before his team, separate from them, under the scrutiny of their uncomprehending gaze. ‘What were you doing?’ ‘Testing him.’ ‘You were inside his enclosure.’ ‘That was
| 0 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 76 |
would have killed her.” “Literally?” Montoya asked. “Financially,” she said. “And as much as she hated the old man, she sure did love his money.” “So she gave you no clues as to whom she was seeing.” “How many times do I have to tell you? No. We each have our own place, right? We just use the studio for, you know, entertaining clients. We keep to a schedule and don’t interfere with each other.” “But you saw her some of the time.” “Once in a while. We’d catch up for coffee or a drink, but it didn’t happen often. We each have, had, our own lives.” “Did she ever mention a priest?” Bentz asked. “What? A priest? What the hell are you talking about? Oh.” She stopped short. Snapped her glossy-tipped fingers. “I know about this. Saw it on the Internet. A fake priest, right? That’s what you’re talking about. Not a real one. A guy who committed a lot of murders way back when. Oh, Lord.” Her head swiveled, her gaze moving from Montoya to Bentz. “That’s it. You think he killed Helene.” “We don’t know,” Bentz said. “Holy Mother of God.” She blanched. Montoya said, “So it’s important, if you know anything—” “But I don’t. What’s with you two that you don’t understand common English. I don’t know anything about her clients. And that was intentional. We had a deal, Helene and I. No pimps. And we never talked business.” Her eyes were round and she actually looked scared. “I have no idea who she was seeing.” Unfortunately, Bentz believed her. He glanced at Montoya, who had gotten more intense during the interview. It seemed like his partner was finally starting to understand that Father John, the Rosary Killer, was back in New Orleans. And he was back with a vengeance. * * * Try as she might, Kristi couldn’t concentrate on the sequel to her book about Father John, nor could she get her head into her new book, and it wasn’t because Lenore was batting at her bare toes with a tiny paw while hiding under the desk. No. Her agent’s suggestion that she drop everything and concentrate on delving deep into the sequel was still too new of an idea to even think about writing. For God’s sake, the investigation was just starting. However the real problem was that she was too caught up in her own life, the fact that she was now a widow. She’d told herself that she just needed to bury herself in the work to get through the too-long days and harrowing nights that she spent, sleepless, the claw hammer now under her pillow, the kitten usually under the covers with her. She’d checked with the neighbors, several vets and rescue groups, along with posting online. No one yet had laid claim to the cat and, with each day that passed, Kristi hoped more and more that no one did. She eyed her desk where notes, books, newspaper clippings, and magazine articles were scattered. She was still in the research phase
| 0 |
41 |
The Secret Garden.txt
| 47 |
have been asleep," said Colin. "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to get out afore th' collection." He was not quite awake yet. "You're not in church," said Colin. "Not me," said Ben, straightening himself. "Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics." The Rajah waved his hand. "That was the wrong Magic," he said. "You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work. But come back tomorrow." "I'd like to see thee walk round the garden," grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then Colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time and he looked very grand. "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magic is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!" It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden. When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant. "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is my first scientific discovery.". "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometime when he comes back to Misselthwaite
| 1 |
80 |
Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt
| 9 |
stroller, a young Portland mom with an undercut and two sleeves of tattoos. Her gaze lingers on Finn before she abruptly looks away, either embarrassed to be caught staring or convincing herself that he’s not who she thinks he is. Maybe she’ll google him later, wonder if she really did spot him. “It’s not that I don’t love discussing the merits of various Northwest cities,” I say. “But if you’re going to fire me, could you just get it over with?” Finn stops walking. “Fire you? Why would I do that?” He glances around us, making sure we’re alone, and I wonder if this is something he’s gotten used to doing over the years. If he’s simply accustomed to not having privacy, even with his relative low level of fame. Back when the show was on, though, it must have been relentless. It strikes me that I’m deeply curious to hear what he’d have to say about that. “The thing is,” he says, voice low. “I’m actually kind of glad you told me the truth.” I’m too stunned to respond, certain I’ve misheard him. “I mean, am I completely fucking embarrassed? Did I want to crawl into a hole last night? Yes, absolutely. But the honesty was . . . I don’t know. Refreshing.” Huh. That was not at all what I expected. “We really can forget about it,” I say, still unsure how to navigate this. “Like we said, it was just a onetime thing between semi-coworkers, and I didn’t want to upset you—” “I’m not upset,” he says calmly. He lets out a long sigh. “After I got back to my room, I did something I’m not proud of. I . . . called one of my exes.” “I don’t need to hear the graphic details of your booty call.” His eyes grow wide. “I called her to talk,” he says, sounding horrified. “We’re still close—we talk all the time. So I swallowed down whatever meager amount of pride I had left and asked her about it. What it had been like, when we were together. And Hallie”—he breaks off with a cough—“hadn’t ever been one hundred percent happy in that department, either.” I’m speechless. He called his ex-girlfriend, Hallie Hendricks, who played his love interest on The Nocturnals, to ask if she was satisfied in bed. And she told him no. “That’s—that’s just two people,” I manage, unsure why he’s sharing this with me. We’ve crossed yet another boundary. “And she’s an actor, in all fairness. She probably made it sound, um, more realistic than most.” “I may have texted a couple others, too.” He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “There also may have been alcohol involved. Not my finest hour, I’m sorry to say. And, well, it only got worse.” He moves his eyes from the sidewalk up to me, that blush back on his cheeks. “The consensus seems to be that no matter who my partner is, I’ve never been able to make it . . . mind-blowing.” It must be intentional, the way
| 0 |
45 |
Things Fall Apart.txt
| 63 |
three-year-old sister, and he had moments of sadness and depression But he and Nwoye had become so deeply attached to each other that such moments became less frequent and less poignant. Ikemefuna had an endless stock of folk tales. Even those which Nwoye knew already were told with a new freshness and the local flavour of a different clan. Nwoye remembered this period very vividly till the end of his life. He even remembered how he had laughed when Ikemefuna told him that the proper name for a corn cob with only a few scattered grains was eze-agadi-nwayi, or the teeth of an old woman. Nwoye's mind had gone immediately to Nwayieke, who lived near the udala tree. She had about three teeth and was always smoking her pipe. Gradually the rains became lighter and less frequent, and earth and sky once again became separate. The rain fell in thin, slanting showers through sunshine and quiet breeze. Children no longer stayed indoors but ran about singing: "The rain is falling, the sun is shining, Alone Nnadi is cooking and eating." Nwoye always wondered who Nnadi was and why he should live all by himself, cooking and eating. In the end he decided that Nnadi must live in that land of Ikemefuna's favourite story where the ant holds his court in splendour and the sands dance forever. CHAPTER FIVE The Feast of the New Yam was approaching and Umuofia was in a festival mood. It was an occasion for giving thanks to Ani, the earth goddess and the source of all fertility. Ani played a greater part in the life of the people than any other deity. She was the ultimate judge of morality and conduct. And what was more, she was in close communion with the departed fathers of the clan whose bodies had been committed to earth. The Feast of the New Yam was held every year before the harvest began, to honour the earth goddess and the ancestral spirits of the clan. New yams could not be eaten until some had first been offered to these powers. Men and women, young and old, looked forward to the New Yam Festival because it began the season of plenty--the new year. On the last night before the festival, yams of the old year were all disposed of by those who still had them. The new year must begin with tasty, fresh yams and not the shrivelled and fibrous crop of the previous year. All cooking pots, calabashes and wooden bowls were thoroughly washed, especially the wooden mortar in which yam was pounded. Yam foo-foo and vegetable soup was the chief food in the celebration. So much of it was cooked that, no matter how heavily the family ate or how many friends and relatives they invited from neighbouring villages, there was always a large quantity of food left over at the end of the day. The story was always told of a wealthy man who set before his guests a mound of foo-foo so high that those who sat on one side
| 1 |
86 |
Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt
| 55 |
not too much saliva was visible or if it was weird to be moaning while giving someone oral. As if the pleasure was hers. Wasn’t it, though? With him? Whoa. Easy, girl. “Call me babe,” she whispered, gently tracing her teeth from root to tip and whirling her tongue around his swollen head. “But only if you want to finish.” “Babe, baby, princess, love of my life, I’ll do and say anything you want. Just don’t stop. Don’t stop for me. I’m so close.” Okay, he did not mean the whole love of my life part, obviously. He was just lost in the moment. So why did it make her nearly swallow him whole, her pulse tapping wildly in her temples? Her lips stretched around his ample length and when the tip of him brushed the back of her throat, his knees jerked up, the hand that had been cupping her cheek sinking in her hair now, ruining her updo in a split second. “Fuck,” he ground out through his teeth. “Natalie. Fuck!” Her fist moved up and down in rapid strokes, sensing the beginning of his peak. Was she still moaning? Get a grip on yourself. He didn’t taste that good. Liar. His taste was singularly incredible. The scent of that grapefruit soap clung to his pubic hair and wires must be getting crossed in her brain, because smelling the fruit while taking him in her mouth made him almost taste like it, and somehow she knew she’d never pass up grapefruit again at the supermarket. “If you don’t want to swallow,” he panted, throat muscles strained, “now would be a good time to stop, but please don’t stop. Please. Babe. But if you have to, please let me roll you over and come on your tits. I’m asking as an upstanding citizen and service member.” There was simply no way she could stop now. Not when he made her smile during a blow job. That had to deserve some kind of award—and she was in the position to give him one. Continuing to rapidly fist him up and down, her mouth followed her hand a little lower each time and she heard his breathing stutter, the groan building in his chest. He alternated between squeezing his eyes shut and watching her mouth bring him deep, skate back to the tip, then go deep again. And finally, the veins on his abdomen turned blunt and . . . he . . . roared. Her name. His spend hit the back of her throat so fast and in such abundance, she had to struggle through swallowing it quickly enough, her hand still busy. Still working his slick shaft. His grip was twisted in her hair, but she could feel him resisting the urge to push her mouth down and hold her in place. And considering the animal state he was in, she found that oddly touching. Was she losing her actual mind? August deflated, his arms falling to his sides. His sex remained at half-mast, sticky and smooth. Somehow still appealing. “I
| 0 |
59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 88 |
the light of the sun. Chrysothemis stares at her, clutching the stones, shaking her little head with the rhythm. It has been a while now since she started modeling herself on her sister. When the boy stops playing the lyre and the dance ends, Iphigenia looks around as if waking from a trance. She sees her mother and flings herself at her. “Mother!” she shrieks, throwing her arms around her. “I didn’t know you were coming back so soon! How was Sparta? How is Aunt Helen?” Clytemnestra cups her hands around her daughter’s cheeks, searching her face for any trace of bruises or sadness. But Iphigenia glows like a freshly painted fresco. Behind them, the girls are resting under the trees, pouring water on their sweaty arms. “Everyone is well,” Clytemnestra says. “I saw your cousin Hermione, who is as big as your sister.” “And your brothers? Did they talk about Colchis? Did they say anything about Jason and Medea?” “They did,” Clytemnestra replies, and the light sparkles in her daughter’s eyes. “But now is not the time. I must see your father first.” Chrysothemis looks down at her feet, suddenly sad. “Father spent all his time in the great hall with those soldiers from Crete and Argos. We saw him only at dinner. Now the soldiers are gone, but Father is always with the elders.” “He is discussing the war,” Iphigenia says. “Every city fears Troy, it seems, but no one wants to fight.” Clytemnestra leads her daughters up the steps to the entrance of the palace. Behind them, Aileen follows, her arms filled with tunics and sandals. When they step over the threshold, the air is suddenly fresher. “I will see your father now,” Clytemnestra says. “Find Electra and prepare for dinner.” * * * The courtyard that leads to the megaron is cool and quiet. Clytemnestra half expects to see Electra there, eavesdropping on her father, but there is no one under the shadowy colonnades except the frescoed griffins, sitting proudly by every column. She can hear the whispers coming from the hall in the anteroom, with its bare walls and stone floor. The air there is moist, the light scarce. An older servant approaches to wash her feet. She stands still as the woman unties her sandals and cleans her in the footbath. When her feet have been wiped with a dry cloth, she steps forward into the bright light of the megaron. The hall is richly adorned. Its walls are decorated with frescoes of warriors and lions fighting, their spears flying, chasing the fleeing beasts. The first time she saw the frightened lions, Clytemnestra laughed—no one who ever hunted lions saw the animals in such a state. “This speaks of the power of our city,” Agamemnon had said. “It is a lie,” she replied. “It is a story. Stories draw people together; they lead armies and form alliances.” As much as she hated him, she knew he was right. Four guards stand with their backs to the walls, holding spears and shields. Clytemnestra waits by the columned
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39 |
The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt
| 93 |
The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled. As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave. The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, and heightened
| 1 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 95 |
prep for a full resus and a needle aspiration?” She puts a hand on Sloane’s arm after slipping the phone back into her pocket. “I better get out there, but I’m glad you and Ethan are doing great. And who knows…?” She spins around when she reaches the door. “Maybe we’ll even be pregnant together!” “Yes,” Sloane says to the empty room. “I think we will.” Chapter 9 Ethan leans toward his computer screen at his cubicle at Seattle Homicide, staring at a satellite photo of the waterfront mansion Sloane visited last night. He forces himself not to think about what she did in the hour she was there. He’s still furious that she lied to him about it. Even so, he wishes he could take back his response to her in the kitchen, knowing he was only pushing her farther away. But he can’t understand how she could be so aloof. He felt so sick after sleeping with Rachel—even after he told her it would never happen again—that he knew he had to come clean. He had never been so scared in his life. Until now. He opens a new window and searches the King County Assessor website for the address. The fifteen-thousand-square-foot home was purchased for twenty-six million dollars four months ago by Pacific Estate Management, LLC. Ethan leaves the assessor website and runs an Internet search for the company. His heart drops in his chest when he reads the headline at the top of the search. BRODY CARR’S MYSTERIOUS NEW COMPANY: PACIFIC ESTATE MANAGEMENT, LLC Sloane’s words on the phone replay in his mind. Thanks, Brody. I’ll let you know how it goes. Ethan skims the first sentence beneath the headline. Pacific Estate Management oversees many of Brody and Chelsea Carr’s personal matters, including the power couple’s real estate holdings. Their names sound familiar, and he drums his fingers against his desk before typing Brody Carr into his Internet search bar. A headshot of a guy around Ethan’s age tops the search. Beside the photo, in bold letters: Brody Carr, entrepreneur and founder of The One. His net worth is listed as 1.4 billion dollars. Ethan has never used the dating app, which had been around for over a decade, but everyone knew what it was. He recalls Sloane mentioning once that the app’s founder had been her chemistry lab partner in college. Beneath Brody’s headshot are several photos of him and a stunning blonde. Ethan’s eyes travel to his biography on the right side of the screen. Brody Carr married Australian model Chelsea Nesbitt in 2016. He sits back in his chair. He wouldn’t have thought it would matter who his wife was having an affair with. But learning he was a billionaire dating app founder somehow made it sting worse. How could this be happening? Ethan examines the photo of Brody, smiling with his arm around his wife. Behind him, his partner’s phone rings as Ethan runs a new search for Chelsea Carr. A headline from last week appears at the top. EX-MODEL CHELSEA CARR STEPS OUT
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59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 78 |
lips. Polydamas holds his ground. “I follow the orders of the king, not yours.” “That is unfortunate, because the guards do. And even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because I will kill you myself.” Lycomedes starts sobbing. It is a pitiful sight. Cadmus reaches out and clasps his hunched shoulder, forcing him upward. “You don’t have to do this,” Polydamas says. His voice scratches the air, like nails against stone. She wishes he would beg for mercy, not Lycomedes. But that isn’t Polydamas’s way. “My father always said that a ruler has to effect the punishment himself, or his people won’t respect him.” “Your father was a wise man, I am sure,” he says. “He would have listened to his elders, not killed them.” She scoffs. “You didn’t know Tyndareus. He never listened to the elders. I have listened to you, to your insults and treachery, for nine years. I am tired of listening now.” * * * She has them dragged to the Lion Gate under the cold sun. People are gathered in the streets, watching and whispering, mothers’ hands on their children’s shoulders, men’s eyes on Polydamas and Lycomedes, like a herd looking at its weakest members. She sees an old woman with a chicken under her arm, two boys pushing through the crowd to get a better view. Dogs bark, men yell, women sigh. Outside the Lion Gate, her guards make space, pushing the two prisoners to the middle of the path. People are also coming from the villages at the foot of the mountain, baskets and rags in hand, their heads cocked with curiosity. Clytemnestra stands in front of Polydamas and Lycomedes, Leon on her right, Orestes on her left. Dust from the alleys has clung to Lycomedes’s tunic and he brushes it away. She thinks of Iphigenia, who couldn’t brush sand from her dress before she was murdered. She clears her throat and turns to the people around her. “These men stand accused of treason and conspiracy.” The crowd is quiet, and a hundred eyes watch her, as big as eggs. “They walked around the citadel to spread the word that their queen wasn’t the rightful ruler of this city. They called me a plague upon Mycenae and conspired to make my son king while my husband fights in Troy.” Lycomedes is mumbling, his pale forehead sweating despite the cold. The wind cuts across their cheeks like ice. Polydamas stares at her, his tunic rich and clean. His wife and daughters must be somewhere in the crowd. Still, no one pleads for him. “I believe mercy can be shown to those who repent, but these men had many chances to do so and never took them. Their disrespect shan’t go unpunished.” Polydamas’s face is like stone. She can hear the silence around her and Orestes’s breathing next to her as if it were her own. She is glad Electra and Chrysothemis aren’t here. Her hand goes to her mother’s jeweled dagger as she turns to the elders. “Your treacherous words have caused your own death.” Lycomedes’s
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79 |
Quietly-Hostile.txt
| 13 |
and projectile-vomited all over the intake lady. This whole part of the story, save my idiotic waiting around, took three, maybe four minutes! At the end of an impossibly long hallway, Ashley turned the corner into a shockingly bright room: three surgical lights were mounted above a table with oxygen tanks and a crash cart pushed next to it, plus six people in the middle of doing…I don’t know what, but they all seemed very busy. I’m a loser, so my first thought was “Wow, all this for me?!” and when I stood up to get on the table, I was sheepishly like, “Hi, guys,” as if I was the last person to arrive for a dinner reservation they couldn’t get seated for without me and not a person who was about to lose consciousness. They all turned at once and bum-rushed me, stripping me out of my clothes in less than a second and throwing a gown over me as I climbed up on the table. On my right side, I heard a woman’s voice say, “BIG POKE,” as she stuck me to put an IV port into the crook of my arm, and then a woman next to her said, “ANOTHER POKE,” as she jammed an EpiPen into my thigh. A nurse behind my head was reaching over me to affix a bunch of heart-monitoring electrodes to my chest. On my left side was a doctor in black scrubs (fancy!) who was trying to look in my eyes with a penlight and a doctor in green scrubs with a clipboard who kept repeating, “What did you take? What did you take? What did you take?” while I tried to choke out the word “Zyrtec” in a way he could understand around my enormous tongue. Black Scrubs instructed me to “scooch [my] butt down and open [my] mouth as wide as possible,” and I tried to make a joke like “(HEE HAW) sure but (gasp) you gotta take me (HEE HAW) to dinner first (gasp),” and Black Scrubs looked at me with such kind pity that it broke my heart. He very solemnly said, “Samantha, you are funny, but you are also in anaphylactic shock. I am trying to clear your airway, please stop joking and tilt your head back.” That was not my first time being booed offstage, but it was certainly the most jarring, especially since he didn’t even give me a chance to workshop the one about how my throat was tighter than new leather shoes, so he should use his meat tube to intubate me. “Clear my airway”? “Anaphylactic shock”? Those are death sentences! I think the most upsetting realization I had that night was that when faced with imminent doom, these-could-be-the-last-few-snorting-breaths-you-ever-take kind of doom, I naturally defaulted to joking. I will die, eventually, being a fucking clown. A clown who is desperate to coax even a hint of a smile from the very serious people tasked with making sure she lives to honk her big red nose another day. I think about dying all the time;
| 0 |
21 |
Little Women.txt
| 80 |
her sisters, example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put `Mother' on them instead of `M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of
| 1 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 98 |
men? Both, says I; and let's have a couple of smoked herring by way of variety. .. <p 67 > .. < chapter xvi 2 THE SHIP > In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo --the name of his black little god --and Yojo had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg. I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great confidence in the excellence of Yojo's judgment and surprising forecast of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs. Now, this plan of Queequeg's, or rather Yojo's, touching the selection of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little relied on Queequeg's sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up with Yojo in our little bedroom --for it seemed that it was some sort of Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with Queequeg and Yojo that .. <p 68 > day; how it was I never could find out, for, though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles --leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged sauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three ships up for three-years' voyages --The Devil-Dam the Tit-bit, and the pequod. devil- dam, i do not know the origin of; tit-bit is obvious; Pequod, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians, now extinct as the ancient Medes. I peered and pryed about the Devil-Dam; from her, hopped over to the Tit-bit; and, finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us. You may have seen many a quaint craft
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83 |
Romantic-Comedy.txt
| 52 |
Anyway, you shouldn’t look to me as an arbiter of what’s appropriate. And I’m actually in (steel yourself for glamour ahead) Kansas City, Missouri. In my childhood bedroom. Living with my 81-year-old stepdad and his beagle Sugar. The glamour never stops! I’m sheepish about being one of those people who fled New York, but after everything shut down, I started to feel like I was losing my mind (like kind of for real, not as a hyperbolic expression). How’s LA? Noodles made out of cheese would be fantastic. You could fry them and dip them in marinara sauce and—oh shit, I think I just invented mozzarella sticks! Btw do random strangers ever write to you after guessing your surprisingly obvious email address? from: Noah Brewster <[email protected]> to: Sally Milz <[email protected]> date: Jul 22, 2020, 10:36 PM subject: Actually I turn 39 even sooner than you, on 9/5. I’m not sure how someone celebrates a birthday during a “deadly global shitshow” but maybe by using a metal straw and eating noodles made of cheese in the same meal? So many possibilities! OK, speaking of the pandemic…in all seriousness, this brings me to why I first emailed you. Did you wonder? If you did, it was nice of you to act like it wasn’t weird and out of the blue. So…I had Covid in February. First, I will insert a disclaimer about how I shouldn’t complain because of how privileged I am…then I will say it was fucking awful. For almost 3 weeks, I couldn’t catch my breath, had the worst cough of my life, was exhausted, sore all over, constant headache. In addition to feeling like hell, I was terrified that I might never be able to sing again, or at least not like before. I’m lucky that this didn’t prove to be the case, but for someone like me, anything that messes with voice and breath is very scary. As I type this all out, it occurs to me maybe you’ve also had it and are saying to yourself, what a baby! I hope you haven’t had it. But being sick gave me time to think about…to be honest…a lot of things. One was my week at TNO in 2018, specifically working with you, and how things took a kinda bad turn between us at the end. I regret that, and I want to officially say I’m sorry. I think you’re cool and smart and I could have imagined us hanging out after that week and then…well, obviously that didn’t happen. But maybe it should have, you know? To answer your questions: - I did attend a BLM protest. I went back and forth beforehand because I didn’t want to do it in a performative way, but I decided it was more important to just go and let the chips fall in terms of potentially having my motives questioned…it wouldn’t be the first or last time. I told the people that handle my socials not to post about it, although I think some pics did end up online. Did you attend any?
| 0 |
43 |
The Turn of the Screw.txt
| 83 |
remonstrance at the time you speak of-- was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another." Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: "And you forgave him that?" "Wouldn't YOU?" "Oh, yes!" And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on: "At all events, while he was with the man--" "Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!" It suited me, too, I felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose. "His having lied and been impudent are, I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still," I mused, "They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch." It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. "Surely you don't accuse HIM--" "Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody." Then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, "I must just wait," I wound up. IX I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield. Stranger than I can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful. I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that I thought strange things about them; and the circumstances that these things only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark. I trembled lest they should see that they WERE so immensely more interesting. Putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation I so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only be-- blameless and foredoomed as they were--a reason the more for taking risks. There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse,
| 1 |
63 |
Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt
| 4 |
would lead me to raising the army, all to make the pieces of your vision fall into place. Stringing August along, too, until he decided he wanted a war.” Anton nodded, smooth and unruffled. So used to being used, all of them. “And you?” Tears blurred her vision still; when she looked at Gabe, all she saw was a tall shadow, a shock of red-gold. “Staying with me, being with—being my friend?” She caught herself before she said something else, something more heated. “Was it all an act?” “Gabriel was as unaware as you were,” Anton said. “When he came to me yesterday and told me your plan, he expected me to stop you. He was very reluctant to let you roam the catacombs.” Lore dropped her eyes and concentrated very, very hard on the floor between her feet. “I told him, then, what we needed to happen. What we’d been working toward. Our necromancer raising the dead, and my nephew’s powers being sharpened by yours, so he could step into his rightful place. Now, unfortunately, there is still the matter of the eclipse. Of your Consecration, Lore.” “My Consecration?” “Your power over Mortem will reach its height on your twenty-fourth birthday. Which happens to coincide with the eclipse.” Anton crossed his arms. “August plans to kill you both and take your power at the ball.” “But how would he do that?” She directed her question to the floor; her head felt too heavy to lift. “Steal our power?” The Priest Exalted’s scarred face was nearly pitying. “Killing you at the moment of totality, when the moon fully covers the sun. When the powers of life and death can be wielded together.” His eye glinted. “When chosen vessels are made manifest.” “No.” Bastian and Gabe said it at the same time, their voices harmonizing against the marble walls. Lore’s head came up; the two men looked at each other with naked hatred, all that complicated feeling finally alchemized into something blade-sharp. “He won’t kill Lore.” Gabe tore his gaze away from Bastian to look at Anton instead. “You said—” “Peace, son.” Calm words, but Anton’s voice snapped. Gabe flinched. “Lore will be perfectly safe.” “It still seems like the best course of action would be to hide her until the eclipse is over.” Gabe stepped up, a determined tilt to his chin; he expected another reason to flinch, and wanted to keep it from happening this time. He said nothing about Bastian’s safety. “Keep her here, or send her to her mothers.” Mari and Val. Calling them her mothers, even now that he knew her true origins, felt like some kind of absolution. But Anton shook his head before Gabe finished speaking. “It won’t work. We need things to continue as if we have no idea what August is planning, to keep him from getting suspicious.” “So we go to this damn ball as if nothing has happened,” Bastian said, looking at Lore, “and we trust that you’ll keep my father from killing us and starting a war.” Skepticism ran deep furrows
| 0 |
73 |
Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt
| 26 |
insidious city, this harbor of violence, this scum of the world, Alante. Faced with the entire world’s anger, the surviving gang leaders, headed by none other than the woman standing now in front of Io, convened and reached an agreement: no one would snitch and provide the identity of the rogue gang to the police. Their names would be lost to history. No retribution sought, no investigations and arrests, no new vendettas born. No leeches, ever. The Silts needed to rebuild. And so they made a vow of Roosters’ Silence. “Yes, I know the term,” said Io. “Do you know what happens to those who break it?” “Yes,” Io whispered. Their larynx carved out of their throats, left to hang from their chin like a chicken’s wattle. “Everyone who works for me knows to keep the Silence. You want to break into the Plaza? Fine. You’ve got old friends in the police? Fine. But if you breathe even a word of me and mine to the leeches, consider yourself a crowing rooster. Do you get what I’m saying, cutter?” Io’s hand clenched into a fist. The clock answered for her: Tick-tock. Tick. Tock. CHAPTER X A CAUTIONARY TALE IO CALLED FORTH the Quilt the moment Bianca left the rooftop, leafing through her bundle of threads. They slipped through her fingers like gossamer hairs, the touch of each wholly distinctive. She knew upon contact what each thread led to: one reminded her of Ava’s voice, the other of the taste of Amos’s coffee, the next of her favorite mosaic in the Artisti District of a beach strewn with beckoning sirens. And there—Rosa’s smirk, the smell of her tobacco, the weight of her arm slung across Io’s shoulders. The thread stretched eastward, which Io hadn’t expected; it was neither the direction of the Plaza, nor of her and Ava’s apartment. She threw back her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Time for some more sleuthing. Trolleys grunted past her as she took to the roofs, crossing the Silts at a swift pace. Every few minutes she double-checked the direction of Rosa’s thread in the Quilt. Her steps slowed when she neared the giant apartment complex where Rosa and her extended family rented flats. How many times had she walked this same path, to drop Rosa off after school, or pick her up for a night of dancing? She had met Rosa at school, a few blocks away. How exactly, neither of them remembered, though they often tried to coax it out of their brains. “First day, seated next to each other?” Io would guess. “Too corny.” Rosa would shake her head. “Jumping rope during recess?” “Too banal. What about the girls’ bathroom, hiding from the prefect?” “Bah. Too on the nose.” However it had happened, the point was that within a few weeks, they were two inseparable eight-year-old scoundrels devising insidious pranks on the teachers they didn’t like. Throughout the years, they shared everything: homework, clothes, fears, secrets, and dreams. They loved playing make-believe as the Order of the Furies, which later turned
| 0 |
88 |
The-Housekeepers.txt
| 26 |
“Then we’ll set them up,” said Mrs. King, not allowing her smile to waver. “We can get messages out to the big buyers in no time. You can pave the way for us. Let everybody know there’s a big seller in town.” “I’m not using my name! I can spread the word, get my men lined up for anything I want, but I need deniability, right up until things kick off. That’s my rules, for you.” “We’ll use a code name, then,” said Mrs. King. “Leave it to me.” Jane-one raised her pencil. “How many rooms in the house, please?” Mrs. King approved of practical questions. “Winnie, bring me the soup tureen.” Winnie nodded and drew out a vast silver bowl from behind the sofa. Mrs. King opened the lid, showed it around the room with a flourish, the light reflecting in their eyes. “Schematics, ladies. Floor plans of the cellar, ground floor, saloon floor, bedroom floor, old nursery and guest chambers, servants’ quarters and attics.” She saw Hephzibah leaning forward, incredulous. There were delicate etchings on the underside of the tureen lid, carved in minute detail. “If you’re lost, make for the dining room. These will set you straight. Winnie has made paper copies, but you’ll need to burn those after reading.” “That’s clever,” said Jane-one, taking her pencil out of her mouth, examining the tureen. Mrs. King nodded. “And necessary. Now, Winnie, tell us about the doors.” Winnie straightened. “There are four entrances to the property.” She looked around, checked they could hear her. “Front door. Tradesmen’s door. Mews door. Garden door. These doors are all double or triple locked. The front door is double bolted, too.” “And who’s got the key, Mrs. King?” said Jane-two. “I had it, once,” said Mrs. King. “But I surrendered my set the day I left. Now the butler holds them. Mr. Shepherd. Until they recruit a new housekeeper, that is.” She glanced at Alice. “We are going to do our level best to impede that, of course.” Hephzibah’s glass clinked on the table. “Shepherd? I’m not going anywhere near him. Repulsive, odious man.” Mrs. King saw Winnie place a hand on Hephzibah’s arm, whether to soothe or silence her she couldn’t say. “Does someone need to charm the butler?” said Mrs. Bone. “Get him onside?” “There’s no use recruiting Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. King. “He was Mr. de Vries’s man, utterly loyal.” Mrs. Bone scratched her nose. “But if somebody were to use a little persuasion...” Mrs. King shook her head. “No knuckle-dusting, Mrs. Bone, but thank you for asking. You’ve brought us nicely to a central point. We will not use violence, nor any incapacitating force, on any person, in that house. We will not break or damage any lock, window, entrance, or door frame of any kind.” “It’s a question of insurance, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie when Mrs. Bone scowled. “The house of de Vries holds a large policy against any act of burglary or theft. The terms of the contract are quite clear. A crime, if it has been committed,
| 0 |
18 |
Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt
| 9 |
his eyes. He was trying to marshal his arguments for proving that he did not now constitute a mental health hazard himself. He was far from certain about this - his mind seemed to be full of noise, horses, smoke, and the stench of blood. This always happened when he felt miserable and put upon, and he had never been able to explain it to himself. In a high dimension of which we know nothing the mighty Khan bellowed with rage, but Mr Prosser only trembled slightly and whimpered. He began to fell little pricks of water behind the eyelids. Bureaucratic cock-ups, angry men lying in the mud, indecipherable strangers handing out inexplicable humiliations and an unidentified army of horsemen laughing at him in his head - what a day. What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn't matter a pair of dingo's kidneys whether Arthur's house got knocked down or not now. Arthur remained very worried. "But can we trust him?" he said. "Myself I'd trust him to the end of the Earth," said Ford. "Oh yes," said Arthur, "and how far's that?" "About twelve minutes away," said Ford, "come on, I need a drink." ================================================================= Chapter 2 Here's what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colourless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterwards. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of that Ol' Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V - Oh that Santraginean sea water, it says. Oh those Santraginean fish!!! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four litres of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy Hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odours of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink ... but ... very carefully ... The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica. "Six pints of bitter," said Ford Prefect to the barman
| 1 |
77 |
Maame.txt
| 28 |
is full of delicious, home-cooked Middle Eastern meals. I know she’s not on our list, but she is affiliated via her husband and might be open if we approach her, rather than asking her to submit. She doesn’t have an agent or any professional cooking experience, I don’t think, but she might be worth looking into.” Penny walks over to the table and looks at the recipes and screenshots of Afra’s Instagram I’ve laid out on the table. “Hmm,” she says. “Perhaps.” She gives me a friendly smile, then leaves the papers and returns to her desk. She’s back to tapping away in no time. Ouch. Maybe I should have gone to Kris; some management don’t take ideas seriously if it doesn’t come from a peer. I stand up and start gathering the papers. “No, you can leave them there, Maddie,” Penny says. “I’ll take a look later.” I look at her in consternation. “Oh, okay, great.” I leave the room triumphant. Chapter Sixteen Ben Still on for Friday night? Maddie Of course! Ben Look at us. You went from taking a week to reply to under a minute and now we’re going on our third date Maddie ♥ But something about his message jars me. It’s the mention of our third date. Google: Does a third date mean sex? That Dating Life The three-date rule is more of an American invention, so does it apply to those of us across the pond? Well, if it’s a rule you want to follow, it really means that if you don’t want to be considered a whore/slut/fuck buddy, then you need to wait at least three paid dates (so a walk in the park doesn’t count) before having sex. Of course, this rule applies strictly to women. The Girl Next Door There’s only a wrong way to have sex when dating and that’s being pressured into it. The only “rule” you need to stick to is having sex when you want to. Google: How do I know if I’m ready to have sex? Carmen: You just know Tiffany: Unfortunately you tend to find out after you have sex I think I’m ready to have sex. I’m officially closer to thirty than twenty, so I should be ready. I must be almost a decade behind most women. But we’re going to the cinema; we won’t have sex in the cinema. Maybe I should casually suggest going back to his place after. What’s the code word: nightcap? Is it weird there’s a part of me that wants this over with? Probably, but best to save further ruminations on that for when I can afford a therapist. Maybe it’s not that weird. Maybe that time in my life—the rose petals on the bed and lit candles on the floor—is over, or just not me. Will I regret it, though? Ben knows I’m a virgin, so if it is going to happen on our third date, does he have something special planned? How will I feel if he doesn’t? * * * Ben So sorry. I’m running late.
| 0 |
13 |
Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt
| 54 |
skin,” he murmurs appreciatively and folds me in his arms again. He kisses my shoulder and runs his nose up to my ear. “You smell like heaven, Mrs. Grey.” “So do you, Mr. Grey.” I nuzzle him again and inhale his Christian smell, which is now mixed with the heady scent of sex. I could stay wrapped in his arms like this, sated and happy, forever. It’s just what I need after a full day of back-to-work, arguing, and bitch slapping. This is where I want to be, and in spite of his control freakery, his megalomania, this is where I belong. Christian buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. I let out a contented sigh, and I feel his smile. And we sit, arms clasped around each other, saying nothing. Eventually reality intrudes. “It’s late,” Christian says, his fingers methodically stroking my back. “Your hair still needs cutting.” He chuckles. “That it does, Mrs. Grey. Do you have the energy to finish the job you started?” “For you, Mr. Grey, anything.” I kiss his chest once more and reluctantly stand. “Don’t go.” Grabbing my hips, he turns me around. He straightens then un- does my skirt, letting it drop to the floor. He holds his hand out to me. I take it and step out of my skirt. Now I am dressed solely in stockings and garter belt. “You are a mighty fine sight, Mrs. Grey.” He sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, giving me a full and frank appraisal. I hold out my hands and twirl for him. “God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he says admiringly. “Yes, you are.” He grins. “Put my shirt on and you can cut my hair. Like this, you’ll distract me, and we’ll never get to bed.” 177/551 I can’t help my answering smile. Knowing that he’s watching my every move, I sashay over to where we left my shoes and his shirt. Bending slowly, I reach down, pick up his shirt, smell it— hmm—then shrug it on. Christian’s eyes are round. He’s redone his fly and is watching me intently. “That’s quite a floor show, Mrs. Grey.” “Do we have any scissors?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes. “My study,” he croaks. “I’ll go search.” Leaving him, I walk into our bedroom and grab my comb from the dressing table before heading to his study. As I enter the main corridor, I notice the door to Taylor’s office is open. Mrs. Jones is standing just beyond the door. I stop, rooted to the spot. Taylor is running his fingers down her face and smiling sweetly at her. Then he leans down and kisses her. Holy shit! Taylor and Mrs. Jones? I gape in astonishment—I mean, I thought . . . well, I kind of suspected. But obviously they are together! I flush, feeling like a voyeur, and manage to get my feet to move. I scamper across the great room and into Christian’s study. Switching on the light, I walk to his desk. Taylor and Mrs.
| 1 |
27 |
Silas Marner.txt
| 56 |
liar, but he isn't honest enough to come out with the whole truth. He says he gave the money to Dunstan because of "young men's fooleries." This triggers the Squire's prejudices and distracts him. NOTE: FATHERHOOD The Squire seems to relate to his sons only through their need for money or their hope of inheriting his property. In a rage, he threatens to disinherit them and start a new family. He reminds Godfrey that the property isn't entailed (under British law, entailed property had to be passed down to the owner's eldest male successor). He warns Godfrey that Godfrey would benefit from helping the property be run better. The Squire's an insecure father--he compares himself constantly to what "some fathers" do, and he speaks of how his grandfather ran things. In the end, he blames Godfrey's faults on Godfrey's mother, as if disclaiming all fatherhood. Silas, in contrast to Godfrey, seems to have no father. As you read on, look for other examples of good and bad fathers. Often, Eliot doesn't describe her characters physically, because she wants to focus on their inner moral workings. This scene is dramatized to focus on Godfrey. You see the Squire's gestures and expressions, but you feel Godfrey's reactions. What is your opinion of Godfrey here? Some readers point out that he does tell the first half of his story honestly. But his father's reaction is so violent, he loses courage. The more you see of Squire Cass, these readers feel, the more you pity Godfrey. In the midst of this scene, he wishes his father had disciplined him more. Other readers, however, think Godfrey has no excuse. The Squire hasn't even punished him for losing the money, yet as soon as his father comes close to guessing his deeper secret--his marriage--Godfrey turns coward. These readers say it's easy for Godfrey to blame his father for indulging him, just as it's easy for Squire Cass to blame his dead wife for his son's weakness, but people should accept responsibility for their own mistakes. Ironically, the Squire mentions Nancy Lammeter, not knowing how closely she relates to Godfrey's other problems. In this dialogue, you learn more about Godfrey's courtship of Nancy--there's been an understanding between them for a while, and Nancy has already turned down a proposal from her cousin. You learn that she's pretty, and her home is probably more refined than the Casses'. Read this scene twice--from the Squire's point of view and then from Godfrey's. In the Squire's eyes, Godfrey isn't acting like a man. But feel the pressure Godfrey is under, from his father and from his own desire for Nancy, while he can only evade the issue. The Squire ends this discussion abruptly, ordering Godfrey around like a servant. Casually, he disowns Dunstan--for the time being, at least. Godfrey escapes from the room, but is his position improved? He hasn't been punished, but he hasn't cleared his conscience, either. What's more, he has a new fear--that the Squire will speak to Mr. Lammeter about Nancy. He hopes, however, that good fortune will
| 1 |
79 |
Quietly-Hostile.txt
| 43 |
eighteen-year-old son/man FUCKS within the first five minutes of the first episode. She can wear whatever kind of pants she pleases! DEATH THREATS!!!!! OVER THE TUTU LADY!!!!!!!!! Is this a real thing? Do people really feel this strongly about their imaginary television friends? I mean, on the one hand I get it, I have watched every episode of every season dozens and dozens of times and feel a kinship with each of these women, but on the other hand they are not people. I would not kill on their behalf, mostly because they exist only on paper and inside of my TV. Although I’m not sure that I’d consider homicide for any of my actual homies, the ones who can breathe my same air and talk to me, but maybe that’s just supporting evidence that I’m a shitty friend. Anyway, if I had access to a time machine, here are some ways I would teleport back to my knees’ best years and ruin that would-be assassin’s favorite show. SEASON ONE Episode 1: “Sex and the City” What if “Mister Big” was just “John the Bank Guy”? You know what I mean? Half of this dude’s allure was the fact that he was all smoldering and mysterious and we had no idea what his name was. Also, he was rich and had a driver, which definitely fills the hole where a personality was supposed to be. And, yes, Big had luxurious hair and a gorgeous jaw, but what if he’s just some regular asshole withholding his attention and Carrie moves on by the middle of the season and we never think about his ass ever again? Episode 3: “Bay of Married Pigs” Instead of pretending to be gay for one dinner party in order to make partner at her law firm, Miranda instead dives headfirst into a full-fledged lesbian relationship with Syd, adopting several needy shelter dogs and moving into an exposed-brick apartment together two weeks after they learn each other’s last names. Every episode of every future season, they get into a fight about a different lesbo one or both of them may or may not have fooled around with but never break up, ever. Episode 5: “The Power of Female Sex” Remember when homeboy left that envelope stuffed full of cash on that five-star-hotel nightstand for Carrie? What if she actually becomes a sex worker because having sex for free to write two-dollars-a-word newspaper columns is a fucking drag, especially when she could just get a sick apartment and all her Manolos paid for by a stream of monied, faceless businessmen who her glamorous madam Amalita sets her up with and whose names and quirks she never has to learn??? Episode 6: “Secret Sex” Is it so bad not to meet your man’s stupid-ass friends? Like, have you ever met a man’s friends and felt enriched by that experience? “Oh, thank you so much for introducing me to Tony, babe. Love putting a face to the name of the dude calling me a bird in the group chat!” Who are Big’s
| 0 |
95 |
USS-Lincoln.txt
| 69 |
another. Who was I to stand in the way of young love, if that was what this was? Hell, my own love life was nonexistent. I said, “Visitors aren’t allowed back here, Sonya.” “You’re here … And so is Hardy.” “Yeah, well, I’m the captain.” Hardy said, “Nurses did put up a good effort trying to keep me out. But I’m a thousand-pound ChronoBot.” The door suddenly slid open. Doc Viv stood on the threshold. “What’s going on here?” Hardy said, “Captain said it was all right for me to visit.” I ignored the robot, “I was concerned … Heard Sonya was out of surgery.” Looking exasperated, Viv held up a palm, displaying her Jadoo ring. “That’s what these are for, right? You could have called.” As she moved farther into the compartment, Sonya’s holographic health avatar popped into view above her bed. Viv leaned forward, her legs making contact with my own. “Want me to move?” “Uh … No, that’s okay.” She proceeded to review various meta-tag-like readouts, most of which were stemming from Sonya’s surgery site. Just then, oblivious to Viv, with wings fluttering, a tiny Symbio-Poth jetted into the small compartment. Sonya, Hardy, and I all took notice of it—the fairy now circling high above Doc’s head. I glanced over to Hardy. This was a complicated situation. I knew this particular fairy was named Tina, a Symbio-Poth that had been one of a number of fairies on board Adams. Truth was, I couldn’t keep them all straight. They were small, but each looked distinctively different. Hardy had had a budding relationship with the Symbio fairy called Iris. They had been inseparable. In fact, she had taken up residence in his front pocket, back when Hardy wore a too-small-for-his-size biker-style leather vest. Unfortunately, Iris was no more—had died while heroically fighting the Ziu. And while this Tina fairy had relentlessly tried to tell Hardy that she was actually Iris, inhabiting the Tina fairy form, Hardy had yet to accept her as … well, Iris. I told you it was a complicated situation. What can I say? At the moment, Hardy was refusing to look up at the still-circling Symbio fairy. Viv looked down at Sonya, offering up a crooked smile. “You seem to be doing fine. Slightly elevated temperature, but that’s to be expected.” “Good, then can I get out of here?” “Ha ha, no. Ask me again in a week.” “A week! Seriously? I have to stay in this closet of a room for a week?” “How about if we move you out to the general patient compartment sometime tomorrow? But only if you get some rest. And no more visitors.” Viv gave me a disapproving sideways glance. Sonya nodded, her eyes heavy-lidded. “I am getting a little tired.” “You heard her. Both of you, out!” Viv said, making a two-handed scoot gesture toward the exit. I stood and gave Sonya’s leg a couple of pats. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.” But the teenager was already asleep. I said to Hardy, “Head back to the bridge. I’ll be along
| 0 |
23 |
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt
| 61 |
for the voyage is up. From the ship's bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead .. <p 565 > smote the ship's starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume. The ship! The hearse! --the second hearse! cried ahab from the boat; its wood could only be American! Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab's boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent. I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! Let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole-pointed prow, --death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear! The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove; --ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope's final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths. For an instant, the tranced boat's crew stood still; then turned. The ship? Great God, where is the ship? Soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, .. <p 566 > as in the gaseous Fata Morgana; only the uppermost masts
| 1 |
68 |
I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt
| 3 |
was a vegetarian, thanks to him. I said, “I’d buy you a drink, but I wouldn’t know who to pay.” A sweet and flamboyant young English teacher named Ian convinced me to read more Shirley Jackson, but even after I was thoroughly convinced, he kept right on convincing me, splashing gin and tonic on my sweater. I typed my email into his phone so he could check in a month that I’d done my homework. A basketball game was ending—some purple blurs versus some yellow blurs—and the party crowd seemed split in their fandom. More people gathered, more drunkenly, around the TV as the clock ticked down. Two women whose names I’d missed—one was a lawyer, so I assumed they were faculty spouses—were onto the news story again. Mr. Levin joined them, and so did a man with a baby in his arms. The man said, “Did you see they have him on suicide watch?” Mr. Levin said, “Well, sure. They’d better make sure no one murders him, either. Before they can get his testimony.” The lawyer said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing him murdered. Sorry, but we’re talking about decades of—did you see how he controlled her credit cards?” The second woman said, “You know when they cover the body like that it’s personal; they’re showing shame.” Priscilla Mancio sidled into the conversation. She said, “It’s a miracle she survived.” Ian, the English teacher, said, “That thing with the sign language? On the security camera? Like, she’s sitting there spelling out the letters of the dude’s name. That’s—she knows she’s gonna die, and she has the wits to do that?” The lawyer said, “It’s always the husband.” “DC is like that,” Mr. Levin said. “They go through interns like tissues.” “And the children! I wonder what will happen to the children.” “I just can’t stop thinking about the mother. She locks the daughter out of the house, and how on earth would she know there was a predator? The world is usually safe. We can’t forget that.” “Those VHS tapes were in the floorboards for what, twenty years?” Priscilla Mancio said, “I just don’t understand how the girlfriend went along with it. She’s as bad as him, if you ask me.” “The thing about Hollywood,” Mr. Levin said, “is they’ll cover up anything in the name of money. Well, Bodie, you would know. Have you been following the case?” I didn’t manage an answer. The basketball fans were getting loud; and here came someone with, improbably, a tray of pudding shots, and we needed to help clear the counter. The second woman turned out not to be a faculty spouse but an art history teacher. On impulse, I asked, “Did you see that thing about Jerome Wager?” She said, “Who?” “The guy who did the Obama mural in West Hollywood, the one—” “Oh!” she said. “Yeah! I love him. Wait, what’s the thing?” “Nothing.” Utter relief. There was Twitter, and then there was the real world. Mr. Levin said, “Who made the pimiento cheese dip? This is delicious.” I agreed. I needed
| 0 |
89 |
The-Last-Sinner.txt
| 60 |
took off on foot. Shaking, her brain unable to focus clearly, she was aware enough to know that couldn’t be right. What was his plan? To leave her in the car? Alone? Surely not. She’d recover and break out. He would be back. And soon. The only reason he hadn’t killed her was that he wanted to take his time, to torture her, she was sure of it. In the darkness, she heard crickets and frogs, smelled the deep, dank odor of the swamp. He’d brought her to the bayou, but where? And why? To kill you slowly. To extract his own, sadistic punishment. Don’t let him, Sam. With all her concentration, she tried to set her jaw to steady herself, to get her hands to work, to take control. But her teeth rattled. Her muscles convulsed. Her eyes seemed to wiggle in their sockets. You can do it. You can. You have to. For yourself. For Ty. For the boys. Her heart wrenched at the thought of her sons. She couldn’t imagine not ruffling their hair, or teasing them, or holding them close when they were hurting. And Ty . . . oh, God, she wouldn’t think of not seeing him again, not kissing him or touching him. Tears filled her eyes, but she wouldn’t break down. She couldn’t. She had to find a way to get free, to save herself, to see her family again. She forced back her fear. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. How long had he been gone? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? She had no way to tell time, but slowly her control was returning. She stretched her fingers and most of them complied. Come on. Come on! Her legs, still twitching, were heavy. Awkward, but she could move them slightly. And her arms . . . yes, they were responding! Sweating from the effort, she fought to steady herself and reach for the rosary. The car beeped. Interior lights flashed on, nearly blinding her. She started, pretended that there were still some tremors in her body. He cast a glance her way, but slammed the door shut, started the car, and hit the gas, rapidly backing up, hitting the brakes, then switching gears, punching the accelerator. Sam was thrown backward and forward and in that moment, her fingers scraped the back of the driver’s seat. The cross caught between her fingers. As the car bumped and shimmied onto the smooth pavement of the parish road, she tugged. Like a snake sliding out of its den, the rosary finally slithered from the pocket to twine through her waiting fingers. CHAPTER 37 I pace. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over again as the television glows, mocking me. I feel the old anxiety building with every passing moment. I’ve been patient, but my patience has worn razor thin. I know it’s risky, but I can’t wait any longer. I click off the television after watching the segment of Bonjour, New Orleans! with Kristi Bentz over and over again. I can nearly recite the personal, provocative questions
| 0 |
91 |
The-One.txt
| 37 |
shore. There’s a big shelf there that drops to about a hundred feet or so.” Ethan withdraws a pen from his pocket and marks the map after Carr slides it back toward him. “Again, he’s guessing.” Ethan ignores the attorney’s remark. “Did she not have a knife of her own?” “She did.” Carr keeps his eyes on his hands. “But I noticed it wasn’t in her holster at the hospital. She must’ve dropped it trying to free herself.” Ethan casts a sideways glance at his partner. They would need to send divers down from the Harbor Unit to see if they could recover it. Jonah leans forward in his chair. “How much time passed, do you think, between when you last saw her and found her unconscious?” He sighs. When he looks up at the detectives there are tears in his eyes. “I don’t know…. Less than ten minutes. I think. I pulled her to shore as quickly as I could. There was no one on the beach, so I sprinted to my car to get my phone to call 911. I ran back to where I’d left Chelsea as I made the call.” “And you gave her CPR until the medics arrived?” Jonah asks. They’d requested Chelsea’s medical reports from the first responders and Bayside Hospital but hadn’t yet received them when they left to interview Carr. They’d have to check when they returned to the department if the records matched his story. “When I checked, she still had a weak pulse. So, I gave her mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance got there. By the time they got her breathing tube in, her pulse was gone, though.” Carr’s chin quivers, and Ethan admires his acting skills as the billionaire stares out the windows at the lake. “You never stated why you’re opening an investigation into Chelsea’s death,” Carr’s attorney says. Jonah focuses his attention on Carr as he answers. “Chelsea’s parents have come forward saying that Chelsea was planning to file for divorce this week, and that she had photographic evidence of you with Mason Hachette and two underage girls. You had quite the reasons to want her dead.” “That’s enough.” The attorney raises a hand in the air. “My client agreed to be cooperative. Not harassed. I won’t have him respond to wild, unsubstantiated rumors based on hearsay.” Carr scoffs. “Oh, come on! Yeah, I knew Hachette. So did practically everyone in those circles of LA. That doesn’t make me guilty of anything. I wasn’t aware of any underage girls at Hachette’s parties. But maybe you should ask the governor of California? He went to a lot more than I—” “Stop talking!” Carr gapes at his attorney’s outburst, and Ethan wastes no time asking the next question while Carr is seemingly in the mood to share. “How does a former competitive freediver, who could once hold her breath for seven minutes, swim through a thick patch of bull kelp without considering the risks of entanglement, then panic, only to further entangle herself until she passes out?” While he and Jonah waited
| 0 |
49 |
treasure island.txt
| 76 |
another, till the but the patience of the singer. I had heard it on the voyage vessel swung only by two. Then I lay quiet, waiting to sever more than once and remembered these words: these last when the strain should be once more lightened by a breath of wind. “But one man of her crew alive, All this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from What put to sea with seventy-five.” the cabin, but to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts that I had scarcely given ear. And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appro- Now, however, when I had nothing else to do, I began to pay priate for a company that had met such cruel losses in the more heed. morning. But, indeed, from what I saw, all these buccaneers One I recognized for the coxswain’s, Israel Hands, that were as callous as the sea they sailed on. had been Flint’s gunner in former days. The other was, of At last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer course, my friend of the red night-cap. Both men were plainly in the dark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a the worse of drink, and they were still drinking, for even while good, tough effort, cut the last fibres through. I was listening, one of them, with a drunken cry, opened the The breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was stern window and threw out something, which I divined to almost instantly swept against the bows of the be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain HISPANIOLA. At the same time, the schooner began to that they were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end, across the and every now and then there came forth such an explosion current. as I thought was sure to end in blows. But each time the I wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be quarrel passed off and the voices grumbled lower for a while, swamped; and since I found I could not push the coracle until the next crisis came and in its turn passed away without directly off, I now shoved straight astern. At length I was result. clear of my dangerous neighbour, and just as I gave the last On shore, I could see the glow of the great camp-fire burn- impulsion, my hands came across a light cord that was trail- Contents ing warmly through the shore-side trees. Someone was sing- ing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I grasped ing, a dull, old, droning sailor’s song, with a droop and a qua- it. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 188 189 Why I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere instinct, but once I had it in my hands and found “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest— it fast, curiosity began to get the
| 1 |
58 |
Confidence_-a-Novel.txt
| 99 |
to say something stupid but I couldn’t stop. “I need you to help me shake him up a little.” “Sorry, um—what do you mean?” “We have too many people trying to fuck us,” I said. “It’s getting annoying. We need to, like, send a message that this kind of thing can’t keep happening. We’ve already lost money on the 3.0, we’ve lost Ellhorn, and now we have the risk of this guy going public.” “We lost Ellhorn?” “Yes,” I said, watching his frown deepen. “Don’t take it personally. It’s his fault, not ours.” Delpy nodded obediently. “I need you to just do a little fact-finding, okay? Figure out where in the world Mack Wang-Orsi is right now.” “I can do that. I can definitely do that.” He shifted into a blind spot and I tilted my head to see his expression, which was thoughtful but nervous, the face of someone who was weighing pros and cons. “Don’t think too hard about it,” I said. “Just find out where he is and tell me.” * * * Delpy hired a guy named Jimmy Palugas who worked for a moving company in Queens by day and dealt in something called “locational and loan services” by night. Palugas, who was wide-shouldered and red-haired with an acne-pocked beard, would find people who owed other people money and remind the debtors of their debt. He was very good at his job, and it took him only two days to locate Mack at a Newark Holiday Inn. Mack had been traveling from there to spy on Elaine and Renhauser, both of whom owned homes in New Jersey. Around 2:00 a.m., Palugas posed as a pizza deliveryman and was let up to Mack’s room. Mack screamed like a madman as Palugas led him out the fire exit and into a company SUV. Everyone was too busy dealing with the fire alarm to notice or care. The parking lot was deserted of onlookers. And even if there had been onlookers, who would have rushed to help Mack? He was clearly drunk. Any passersby would have simply assumed he was being led off by a plainclothes policeman. Palugas drove the screaming Mack to a clearing in the Pine Barrens where Delpy and I were waiting in Delpy’s gifted air taxi, helicopter-large but faster, more efficient, and environmentally friendly. When Mack saw me, his eyes went wide. “You fucker,” he breathed, causing the cab to reek of cheap scotch. Palugas shoved him into the air taxi and closed the hatch behind them. I turned from Mack to the shaky Delpy, who was manning the control: a push button and joystick setup designed for the most clueless of pilots. “We need to talk,” I said, sighing. “You’ve been bothering us.” “I’m going to the police!” Mack screamed. Delpy pressed the button, maneuvered the joystick. We broke free from the ground. “The police?” I asked over the buzz of the propellers. “You’re inside a drone.” “You fucked me. You cut me out,” he slurred. “You really are just a bunch of thugs and criminals.
| 0 |
64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 46 |
protest, he herds me into the largest bedroom, like he’s a cattle dog and I’m a particularly difficult sheep. The second the door snicks shut, I whirl on him, prepared to attack, only to be hit with the full force of his closeness, the strange intensity of being behind a closed door together. I can feel my heart beating in the back of my throat. We’re close enough that I can see his pupils dilating. His body has decided I’m a threat he needs to analyze as quickly as possible. The feeling is mutual. It was easy to be angry when we were downstairs, surrounded by our friends. Now I feel like I’m standing naked on a spotlighted platform for his inspection. He finds his voice first, a low rasp. “I know this isn’t ideal.” The ludicrousness of the statement jump-starts my brain. “Yes, Wyn. Spending a week locked in a bedroom with my ex-boyfriend is not ideal.” “Ex-fiancé,” he says. I stare at him. He looks away, scratching his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do.” His eyes come back to mine, too soft now, too familiar. “She called me with a speech. About how this was the end of an era. About how she’d never asked me for anything and she never would again. I tried calling you. It only rang once, but I left a voicemail.” There was a very good reason I hadn’t gotten the message. “I blocked your number,” I say. I got tired of lying awake late into the night with my thumb hovering over his contact number, practically aching from wishing he’d call, tell me the whole thing had been a mistake. I needed to take the possibility away, to free myself from waiting for it. His eyes go stormy. His lips part. He looks toward the balcony, grooves rising between his eyebrows. He just has one of those vaguely tortured faces, I remind myself. He can’t help it, and he certainly doesn’t need my comfort. He’s the one who derailed our life together in a four-minute phone call. His jaw muscles leap as his pale-fog eyes retrain on me. “What should I have done, Harriet?” Found an excuse. Simply told her no. Not have broken my heart like it was a last-minute dinner plan. Not have made me love you in the first place. I shake my head. He steps closer until he’s a question mark, hanging over me. “I’m really asking.” On a sigh, I drop my eyes and massage my temples. “I don’t know. But now there’s nothing we can do. You can’t break up at a wedding. Especially when the guest list is four people.” “Maybe we give them tonight,” he says. “Celebrate everything, tell them tomorrow.” I look up at the ceiling, buying some time. Maybe in the next four seconds the world will end, and I’ll be spared making this decision. “Harriet,” he presses. “Fine,” I bite out. “I’m sure we can stomach each other for one more night.” His gaze narrows, limiting the intake
| 0 |
36 |
The House of the Seven Gables.txt
| 33 |
towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it the shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her feet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now), but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical chill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he plunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their inexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain it, and was, moreover, incapable of making one. As they proceeded on their strange expedition, she now and then cast a look sidelong at Clifford, and could not but observe that he was possessed and swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, indeed, that gave him the control which he had at once, and so irresistibly, established over his movements. It not a little resembled the exhilaration of wine. Or, it might more fancifully be compared to a joyous piece of music, played with wild vivacity, but upon a disordered instrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be heard, and as it jarred loudest amidst the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was there a continual quake through Clifford, causing him most to quiver while he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed almost under a necessity to skip in his gait. They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired neighborhood of the House of the Seven Gables into what was ordinarily the more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening sidewalks, with little pools of rain, here and there, along their unequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the shop-windows, as if the life of trade had concentrated itself in that one article; wet leaves of the, horse-chestnut or elm-trees, torn off untimely by the blast and scattered along the public way; an unsightly, accumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew the more unclean for its long and laborious washing,--these were the more definable points of a very sombre picture. In the way of movement and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its driver protected by a waterproof cap over his head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some subterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the wet rubbish with
| 1 |
77 |
Maame.txt
| 20 |
watch hits the light as much as the yellow dress’s headpiece does. “It really was, if not too ostentatious. I’m Ben, by the way.” He holds out his hand. Oh fuck. I’ve been keeping my hands locked so I wouldn’t default to wild, nerve-fueled gestures. I unclasp and take his gently. “Maddie,” I say. “Short for Madeleine?” “Yes.” “A beautiful classic.” Oh fuck. Is that … a line? I think it is. Just be cool and say something interesting. “I used to hate it.” “Why?” Yes, Maddie—why indeed? Why did I say that, to this stranger called Ben? Especially since I don’t fully understand why I used to hate my name; something vague about how I don’t quite match it. I am simply not the person you’d expect if you’d only heard the name Madeleine Wright. “I’d look in the mirror and never felt like it fit,” I answer. “I get that,” he says. “I used to hate being called Benjamin, still do. I grew up with friends named Jared, Brick, and Colson. I felt incredibly ordinary.” I smile and say, “Oh, the trials and tribulations of Benjamin…?” “Featherstone.” I raise an eyebrow and he laughs. “Fair enough,” he says. “Do you have a less pretentious surname?” “Wright,” I answer. “Madeleine Wright.” I press my lips together and nod. “Circumspect parents,” I add. The bell rings for the play’s second half. “Oh, I have to get back.” “You’re here for the show? I came last night—that’s a shame.” “It is? Is the second half not very good?” “I meant, with my luck I would have been sitting right beside you and now I’ve missed out.” Marry me? I nod and smile. “Yes, that is a shame.” He considers me. “Or maybe not,” he finally says. “Perhaps I could take your number?” * * * I miss so much of the play’s second act because all I can think about is Ben. He asked for my number and I gave it to him. He said he looked forward to talking to me again. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? I’d google it, but phones out during a theater performance are prohibited. “How do you plead?” an actor onstage asks. “Not guilty!” the witch proclaims. “Burn the truth from her!” a jury member screams. I think he’s in his late twenties. Ben Featherstone. What if he does ask me out on a date? I can’t go. What if it’s my day with Dad? What happens if it’s not and the date goes well? Eventually Ben would want to see where I lived. He’d expect me to live alone or with flatmates, like most people in their twenties. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him my number, but it just slipped out. Did I shout them at him or relay the numbers in a nonchalant fashion? Why am I so bad at this? Lack of practice. My first and last boyfriend (unless you count being married to Jeremiah Stephens for the duration of lunch break in year three, which I don’t, because he promptly divorced me and
| 0 |
84 |
Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt
| 64 |
different hand. López’s rattan furniture and his wallpaper with a pale green bamboo print in the living room had the whiff of the tiki craze of the early sixties. But Tristán was right: this room was from a previous era, and the doilies on the night table made her think of her grandmother. “Maybe he was a surfer when he was young,” Montserrat suggested. “Or played the ukulele.” “He carved faces into pineapples.” Tristán snickered, then paused, thoughtful. “You think we can trust him?” “He hasn’t tried to kill us.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “That’s a low bar.” “We could leave while he’s taking his nap if you don’t think he’s honest.” “Alma also said she wanted to destroy the film.” “But she pickled herself in magic, so she was lying.” “You’re sure she was passing herself off as her niece? It might be a family resemblance.” “There was something wrong about her. Didn’t you feel it?” “When I met her the second time she looked older. I thought it was the light or the makeup she was wearing, but maybe she is finally aging. It could be the unintended consequences López talked about. Or maybe I’m going nuts.” “No, you might be right.” “I suppose,” Tristán muttered. “I guess Alma’s a dead end. And those dogs might be outside, anyway. I wouldn’t want to see those creatures again.” Montserrat glanced at the window with lace curtains and wondered if that was indeed the case. Were López’s wards as strong as he claimed? She was not entirely sure what he meant by that term. Protective charms somehow tied to a building? He’d tattooed symbols on his arms; maybe he’d also carved them beneath the wallpaper or under the floor. The thought of hidden magic made her frown. “What?” Tristán said. “Spookiness,” she muttered, unwilling to elaborate. The sleepless night and bizarre encounter with Bauer’s minions had drained her, and the pillows were soft. She curled up without another word and closed her eyes. Tristán must have had enough, too, because he was snoring after a few minutes. Montserrat figured that if López decided to walk into the room and murder them, he’d have an easy time accomplishing the deed. 23 Karina used to say Tristán slept like a starfish, limbs extended, attempting to take over the entire bed. It was hard to sleep with him because he tossed and turned. But Tristán must not have been terribly restless because when he woke up, Montserrat was next to him, and she remained fast asleep. It was getting dark and it was Friday. The posadas had started. They ought to have been out, eating tamales, venturing forth to a party. They should have been planning a New Year’s celebration for the two of them, with champagne and streamers and a scary midnight movie. Black Christmas, perhaps, or Gremlins for something lighter. Instead, they were trapped in this odd house and a room that was filling with shadows. He figured the best thing would be to nudge Montserrat and find their host, but
| 0 |
78 |
Pineapple Street.txt
| 68 |
stepping over broken bottles to sit not on the mattresses, which were always wet, but on the logs people had dragged into the clearing. I’d smoke, and Geoff would entertain me. Sometimes Carlotta would ditch her unsupervised studio art time to join us and smoke half a cigarette, and Geoff would watch like that was his actual cock she was putting to her lips. Half an hour sounded right for the walk—that’s what I’d seen quoted online, as people questioned whether someone could have left the party, killed Thalia, and returned—but it took longer in snow and ice, longer in the mud. I can tell you with certainty that we couldn’t have walked to the mattresses and back in one class period. The mattresses were, as we now all know, 1.4 miles from both the theater and the gym. It was a bit farther than that from the darkroom in Quincy, which was where Geoff and I would start our trek. I tuned back in to Britt, preaching to her choir. “Plus,” she was saying, “the only evidence that Omar ever even talked to her was student gossip. She’d told a few friends she was having trouble with some older dude. And her friends look around for someone older and creepy, and they settle on the Black guy.” “That’s not quite how it happened,” I said. There was chatter in the room, but it only swam around me. It was the word creepy, an echo of something just out of reach. And then—I wonder if I actually sat there slack-jawed, or if I managed to keep my face composed—it was as if the hemispheres of my brain jolted out of decades-long disconnection. The time the two of you stayed behind and missed the firefly show. The days I’d waited endlessly outside your door while Thalia’s convocation coaching ran overtime. Low rumbling when you talked, the sound of Thalia projecting her voice across the room, long periods of silence. I’d seen her turn red, junior year, when she talked about you. I’d seen you sitting too close. I’d seen her stay late after Follies practice. We had talked about it, me and Fran and Carlotta and Geoff. We joked that she was obsessed with you, we joked that you were sleeping with her. Wasn’t it a joke? Or, it was something we only believed for fun. The same way we chose to believe in dormitory ghosts. And what if— You didn’t even seem that shaken up after Thalia died, at least not more than other teachers. You asked again and again at our convocation practice if I was okay, talked about how your kids, who’d known her as a babysitter, were so shaken. By then, I must have abandoned any notion that something illicit was going on. Back in ’95, I’d learned first that there were rumors about Omar, then that he’d confessed, then—after we graduated—that he’d been convicted, and only then that part of the evidence against him was Thalia’s alleged statements about some older guy. It had thickened the air in
| 0 |
98 |
Yellowface.txt
| 72 |
trees in the backyard, with hiding out among their roots and spinning stories long after Rory decided it was time to return to the real world. “Did you pack my room up yet?” “I’ve just gotten started,” says Mom. “I was going to put most of your things in storage, but why don’t you go see if there’s anything you want? Give me some time to wrap up this porcelain, and then we’ll meet back down here for dinner.” “I—oh, sure, okay.” I pause on the staircase before I go up. I keep waiting for Mom to ask me what’s going on, for her to intuit with her motherly senses that I’m deeply not all right. But she’s already turned back toward those stupid ceramic cats. MY NOTEBOOKS ARE RIGHT WHERE I LEFT THEM: STACKED AT THE TOP of my bookshelves in neat rows of five. They’re each labeled with my name, the year, my phone number, and a ten-dollar reward offer if returned to the owner. No Moleskines here—my notebooks were always those college-ruled, black-and-white-splattered composition notebooks that you buy for ninety-nine cents at Walmart while your parents are doing back-to-school shopping. My dream worlds. I pull them out and set them on the floor. I used to live my entire life out of these notebooks. They’re crammed with doodles I scribbled instead of listening during class; full-scale drawings I sketched out after school; half-finished scenes or story ideas or even fragments of lines of dialogue that came to me throughout the day. Nothing in these dream worlds ever became a fully formed product—I didn’t have the discipline or craft skills then to write a complete novel. They’re more like a smorgasbord of creative churning, half-formed doors to other worlds, worlds in which I lingered for hours when I didn’t want to be in my own. I flip through the pages, smiling. It’s cute to see how derivative my story ideas were of whatever fandoms I was in at the time. Sixth grade: my Twilight phase, and I was clearly infatuated with Alice Cullen because I kept describing a protagonist with the same gravity-defying pixie cut. Ninth grade: my emo phase, and everything was Evanescence and Linkin Park lyrics. By then I’d begun sketching out some gothic, futuristic dystopian cityscape where kids flew around on skateboards and everyone had floppy, skunk-tail bangs and arm warmers. I guess Ayn Rand was an influence at some point in tenth grade, because by then I was writing paragraphs on paragraphs about a male lead named Howard Sharp, who bowed to no one, who had an unassailable sense of pride, who was a “lone believer in truth in a world of lies.” I spend the rest of the afternoon going through those notebooks. I don’t notice the time slipping by until Mom calls upstairs asking if I want takeout for dinner, and it’s only then that I realize the sun has set. I’ve lost myself for hours in those worlds. I call down to Mom that takeout sounds fine. Then I root around for a
| 0 |
64 |
Happy Place.txt
| 96 |
should take a walk. Cool down.” The thought of being any farther away from him than this is torment. I nod. His eyes scrape down me and back up once more, heat washing from my head to my toes, a heavy pulse of need between my thighs. “The bed’s all yours,” he says, and stalks past me. I slide out of the way so he can open the door. “Don’t feel like you need to wait up.” It’s not that I wait up for him. It’s that as soon as I climb under the sheets, it’s like he hasn’t left at all, only multiplied. Every breeze from the cracked window is his mouth. Every brush of the sheets is his hand, moving across my thigh, over the curve of my stomach. Every creak of the settling house is his voice: Tell me to kiss you. I try to think about anything else. My mind is caught on him. Earlier tonight, as Cleo and I rested our chins atop our folded arms at the pool’s edge, legs sweeping in slow, luxurious kicks through the water, she asked, Any progress on your goal for the week? And my eyes went straight for Wyn. Not yet, I told her. I don’t even know what I need from this week. To make it to the end without coming apart? Or without ruining Sabrina and Parth’s wedding? My life has been on one set of rails since I decided to go into medicine. It’s been easy to make decisions with that as the governing force. Outside of that, I’ve rarely had to. But I don’t want to regret anything at the end of this week. I want to feel like I used this time, even in a small way, how I wanted to. And that’s what I fall asleep thinking over and over again: What do you want, Harriet? I dream he climbs into bed with me. Arms up, baby, he says, and peels away my Virgin Who CAN Drive T-shirt. There’s no one else, he whispers into the curve of my belly, the underside of my arm. Perfect, he says. When I wake before sunrise, I’m still alone. 21 HAPPY PLACE WEST VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY WYN’S AND MY first place, just the two of us. A hissing radiator. A ghost who never does much, other than open a window when it’s cool out or knock a book off a shelf. Sitting on the floor, eating noodles straight from the take-out boxes because we don’t have a couch yet. Side tables found on curbs and repaired to perfection by Wyn. A shelf installed above our bed, lined with the James Herriot paperbacks Hank used to read Wyn and his sisters when they were small. Plus one particular romance novel, whose origins neither of us even recall. (Wyn says it probably belongs to the ghost.) Our first place together, just the two of us, and it’s bittersweet. Weeks ago, as the end of the lease on the Morningside Heights apartment drew closer, Cleo sat us down in
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27 |
Silas Marner.txt
| 74 |
and a dying fire. When Dunsey, who's been drinking, strolls into the room, his jeering tone lives up to the villagers' opinion of him. Agitated, Godfrey demands that Dunstan return the money he borrowed from Godfrey, which was a tenant's rent payment. Dunstan knows how to manipulate Godfrey, though. He threatens to tell the Squire about Godfrey's marriage to drunken Molly Farren, and Godfrey reacts with fear. Now you know why lately Godfrey's been acting strangely. NOTE: PARALLELS Like Silas, Godfrey is taken advantage of by a thieving brother. (Dane was like a brother to Silas.) Both hope to marry a nice young woman but are prevented by shameful situations--Silas' conviction and Godfrey's marriage. What obvious contrasts, however, can you point to? This is the first scene Eliot dramatizes directly. She doesn't comment much, except to show characters' gestures and expressions. In slangy, lively speech, the brothers refer casually to people they know, whom you haven't met. You've caught them in the midst of life, with upcoming events (the hunt, Mrs. Osgood's party) and ongoing quarrels. Afraid of their father, they blackmail each other. Godfrey declares he may confess his marriage to the Squire to shake off Dunstan's hold on him. But Eliot takes you into his thoughts, to show that this springs from desperation more than courage--Molly's been threatening to reveal herself to his father, anyway. He thinks over the consequences of confession: losing Nancy and being disinherited. Bred to a useless life, he couldn't do anything for a living. Dunstan knows how to handle his brother. He sits back, waiting until Godfrey has cowardly talked himself out of this move. Godfrey realizes that he must sell his horse Wildfire to get the money. Actually, this is Dunstan's suggestion, and Dunstan convinces his flustered brother to let him sell the animal. Compare Dunstan's cool confidence in his own luck to Godfrey's nervous decision to risk getting caught rather than turn himself in. Which brother seems the stronger in this scene? Which brother do you like better? Why? After Dunstan has left, Eliot enters Godfrey's thoughts with sympathetic insight into his problems. Surprisingly, even though Godfrey is from the top rung of rural society, Eliot says he lacks culture. Typically, she tangles herself up in a long, indirect, abstract sentence to express this. ("The subtle and varied pains springing of the higher sensibility... that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation... the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discontents.") In the last chapter, she asked you to pity how Silas' simple mind reacted to his situation. Here, she urges you to feel sorry for Godfrey because even a crude squire's son feels pain when his life turns out badly. Next Eliot explains how Godfrey got into this jam--Dunstan urged him on in his brief passion for Molly. But Godfrey doesn't feel like a victim, as Silas did. He knows his own foolish bad habits are to blame, though it's agonizing knowledge. In contrast to this, his love for Nancy summons the better side of his nature, the side that's muffled
| 1 |
70 |
Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt
| 30 |
a decommissioned canoe has fallen out of its rack and is resting directly on top of the hatch. Javier lets the air hiss out from between his teeth. “That explains that,” Javier says. “We were running from a canoe. Nice.” “And the camera?” I ask. “And the lock on the boathouse? I know I locked it.” “You sure?” Kyle asks. “I forgot to lock the front gate. It’s okay if it slipped your mind.” “No,” I say adamantly. “I don’t forget to do stuff like that.” Kyle’s gaze traces down to the floor. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m not tryna make you feel bad. I’m just saying that I know I locked it.” Bezi tries to get Tasha on the phone, but she doesn’t have a signal either. “We gotta go to the office and use the landline,” I say. Javier’s brows push up. “Who is ‘we’? I’m not going anywhere.” “It’s almost six,” I say. “You’re not worried about them?” “Not really,” says Javier. “They’re probably on their way back right now.” Bezi crosses her arms over her chest. “I guess Tasha has a soft spot for insensitive jerks. Her last boyfriend was a lot like you. She dropped his sorry ass.” Javier shrugs. “Good thing I’m not her boyfriend, then, huh?” Bezi and Javier look at each other like they want to fight. “Stop,” I say to both of them. “We’re not going to argue. Not right now. I don’t have a problem going to the office myself, but Tasha has a cell phone. Things might work on my end but they probably won’t work on hers.” There aren’t any other choices, and as I weigh my options, I can see the light fading from the sky. “We gotta go get them.” “Again,” Javier says. “Who is ‘we’?” I make sure my sneakers are knotted and I pull my hair up into a puff on top of my head. “Go. Or stay. I don’t care what you do. I’m going to take a flashlight and go find them.” “I’m coming too,” Bezi says. Kyle sighs. “I guess I’m going too.” Javier glares at us. “You’re just gonna leave me here? Alone?” “Yeah,” I say without hesitation. He grumbles something I can’t make out, then tilts his head and clenches his jaw. “Fine. We’ll all go together.” Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I let out a little squeal as I scramble to pull it out. I breathe a sigh of relief as Tasha’s name flashes across the screen. I hit the green button and press the phone to my ear. “Tasha! Oh my god, where are you? I’ve been tryna call you, but the signal—” Static garbles the line, and Tasha’s voice breaks through in strangled yelps. “Charity! . . . out there! I can’t . . . please!” Bezi grips my arm. “Where is she? What’s happening?” A fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my entire three years of working at Camp Mirror Lake, or my lifetime of horror-movie watching, grips my chest like a vise, squeezing
| 0 |
53 |
After Death.txt
| 9 |
has a taste for taking risks of all kinds, a talent for evading authorities, and no moral compunctions whatsoever. “Hector he takes the bodies out to sea,” Speedo continues, “chops ’em into chum, feeds the sharks.” “Sounds like a plan,” Jason says. “Only thing,” Kuba says, “nobody’s gonna pop no caps, ’cause then we gotta throw away a gun has a bad history and maybe gotta wrap up loose brains and skull pieces. A knife don’t have no history like a gun. And done right, it’s neater.” “It ain’t just a plan,” Hakeem declares, “it’s an episode of The Sopranos.” “Three teams,” Aleem says, “two men to a building, till we searched ’em all. Remember the bitch has herself a piece, a trey eight, and she knows how to use it.” Jason and Speedo each has a flashlight, so Aleem takes one for him and Kuba. They move away from the trees, toward the buildings, one man short of being the Magnificent Seven, like in that old Western Aleem has watched several times. Even though they’re only six, they have an important advantage the seven didn’t possess, which is that they aren’t to any extent whatsoever restrained by a foolish sense of community values, by honor, by pity—or by anything, really. The chance of finding Nina and John in one of these buildings is low, and the likelihood that the plan Aleem cooked up to deal with the four SUVs will work is even lower. However, this world doesn’t reward second-guessers. You can change direction if a fork in the path appears and has promise, but you can’t back up and rethink, because in this business, to both your enemies and your homeys, that looks like retreat. Retreat is seen as weakness, and the weak die young, which they deserve to do. The only thing that Aleem despises is weakness. Once you commit to an operation, you have to drive forward hard, never doubting, never relenting. If the result isn’t what you hoped, even if it’s a disaster, you can learn from it after it’s done. Anyhow, no mistake he can make is so bad that it can’t be erased with enough violence and cash. With a shitload of money, he can buy his way out of most trouble, and when money isn’t enough, he can kill his way out, which is why he has the respect of his homeboys and not just of his homeboys, but also the respect of all those who are gangsters disguised as pillars of their communities, as friends of the working man and woman. You can’t win a war if you don’t drive forward hard and harder even when fighting seems hopeless. And to Aleem Sutter, life is war. THE ONLY WISDOM WE CAN HOPE TO ACQUIRE To Nina’s right, pressed against her, felt but unseen, John sits in two inches of cold water, deep in the rat hole, under the artfully rearranged trash, his back to the wall. He has wrapped his arms around the duffel bag that rests on his lap, less to safeguard
| 0 |
19 |
Hound of the Baskervilles.txt
| 56 |
evidently." "A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not --" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson." "Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull." Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one." The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fin- gers as agile and restless as the antennae of an insect. Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night and again to-day?" "No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary prob- lem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe --" "Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with some asperity. "To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Mon- sieur Bertillon must always appeal strongly." "Then had you not better consult him?" "I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently --" "Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance." Chapter 2 The Curse of the Baskervilles "I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer. "I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes. "It is an old manuscript." "Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery." "How can you say that, sir?" "You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of
| 1 |
57 |
Cold People.txt
| 85 |
share this object with her, she raised the tip to her eye, observing its unique texture and form. She hadn’t seen anything like it before – it was altered-ice, reformed at a molecular level, harder than diamond, yet as malleable as clay. She wondered how he’d created this new substance, how such a transfiguration of frozen water was even possible. As she pondered these questions, she felt him enter her thoughts. Let me show you the world we can build together. Not a refugee encampment with buckets for toilets and vats of kelp soup. She saw Antarctica pristine again, no bases or buildings, no flags or footprints, as it had been before human discovery, the brief two-hundred-year history of people erased from the continent. A new society emerged, not limited to the warmer fringes but concentrated in the coldest centre, a civilization rising from the south pole plateau consisting of buildings unlike any she’d seen before. There were no bricks or girders; these were structures rendered whole, as though they’d been pressed out of a baking mould, crystal domes and spiral towers. Surrounding this new citadel was Antarctic vegetation, crops capable of living in the cold, fields of icicles, and beyond them was a forest, trees with stalactite roots and snowflake leaves. Above this city, not in the stars, but among the clouds, was a synthetic cold blue sun, the powerplant of this species, with a swirling blue-fire surface not as a source of heat but as life-giving light. At a castle in the very centre, standing on a terrace overlooking this kingdom, stood Echo and Eitan. MCMURDO CITY HISTORIC BASE DISTRICT THE ARCHIVE SAME DAY LIZA COULD ONLY WATCH, HELPLESS on the sidelines, as her daughter fell under the spell of this creature. Echo was somewhere else, no longer by her side, her thoughts far away, someplace unseen. Liza was certain, as only a mother could be, that he didn’t have her daughter’s interests at heart. He was a specimen composed entirely of strengths, his flawless armoured torso brazenly naked in the cold, contemptuous of conditions which would kill an ordinary person in seconds. He was vain, she thought, and she recoiled from his beauty which to her eye was a marvel of biological engineering and a manifestation of his innate sense of superiority, an absolute certainty that he’d been born to rule, which he intended to do with the ruthlessness of someone who considers their cruelty to be rational rather than despicable. He might be evolutionarily advanced, but he was a regressive figure – inherently transactional. He wanted Echo to fight on his side. Silent until now, Yotam broke rank, leaving the group and walking towards the species he’d devoted his life in Antarctica to. He wondered whether the allegations against him were true, that Song Fu had always known he’d fall for her creation, that it hadn’t been his intelligence or tenacity which won her over, but his naivety. Infatuation hadn’t been an accident: it had been her intention from their first meeting at the South Pole Station. Masterminding
| 0 |
81 |
Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt
| 25 |
as I push out the door into the biting air of October in Maine, I think of another reason I was given this assignment. One more chilling than the weather. Mr. Gurlain chose me because Lenora Hope is the one patient nobody—not even the police—will mind if I kill. TWO It takes me less than an hour to gather my belongings. I learned early on that a caregiver should pack light. A medical bag, a suitcase, and a box. There’s no need for more than that. The medical bag is filled with the tools of my trade. Thermometer, blood pressure cuff, stethoscope. My parents gave me the black leather tote when I was first hired by Mr. Gurlain. Twelve years later, I’m still using it, even though the zipper sticks and the leather is cracked at the corners. The suitcase is filled with a toiletry bag and my clothes. Bland, inoffensive slacks and cardigans ten years out of date. I’ve long ago given up trying to be stylish. Comfort and thrift matter more. The box is filled with books. Paperbacks, mostly. They once belonged to my mother and bear the loving wear and tear of a voracious reader. “You’re never alone when there’s a book nearby,” she used to say. “Never ever.” While I appreciate the sentiment, I also know it’s a lie. For six months, I’ve been surrounded by books, and I’ve never felt more alone. All packed, I peek into the hallway to make sure there’s a clear path to the back door off the kitchen. My father came home for lunch, which he sometimes does when a job site is nearby. He’s now in the living room, watching TV and eating a sandwich while sunk deep into his La-Z-Boy. In the past six months, the two of us have become experts at avoidance. Full weeks went by in which we never saw each other. I’ve mostly kept to my room, venturing to the kitchen only when I was certain my father was at work, asleep, or out with the girlfriend I’m not supposed to know about. We haven’t been introduced. I’m only aware of her existence because I heard them talking in the living room last week, surprised by the sound of another woman’s voice in the house. The next night, my father snuck out like a schoolboy, either too afraid to admit he’s started dating again or too ashamed to risk my bumping into his new lady friend. Now it’s me sneaking out, moving on tiptoes as I make two trips to my car, one for the suitcase and medical bag, one for the box of books. On the second trip, I find Kenny leaning against my Ford Escort. Clearly, he saw me with the suitcase and came out of the house next door to investigate. Staring at the box in my hands, he says, “You moving out?” “For now, yeah,” I say. “Maybe for good. I got a new assignment.” “I thought you were fired.” “Suspended. It just ended.” “Oh.” Kenny frowns. Rare for him. Normally he
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Pride And Prejudice.txt
| 67 |
the same, her peace equally wounded. A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying, ``Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.'' Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing. ``You doubt me,'' cried Jane, slightly colouring; ``indeed you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A little time therefore. -- I shall certainly try to get the better.'' With a stronger voice she soon added, ``I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to any one but myself.'' ``My dear Jane!'' exclaimed Elizabeth, ``you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.'' Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister's warm affection. ``Nay,'' said Elizabeth, ``this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. _I_ only want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it is unaccountable!'' ``My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and Charlotte's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.'' ``To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else could be benefited by such
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25 |
Oliver Twist.txt
| 39 |
man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction. 'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door, 'I'm glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!' Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was. 'The boy. Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire. 'Wud of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney, with a grin. 'Fagin's, eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. 'Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him.' 'There--there's enough of that,' interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment. 'Now,' said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'if you'll give us something to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not very far off.' Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was passing around him. 'Here,' said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon the table, 'Success to the crack!' He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same. 'A drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. 'Down with it, innocence.' 'Indeed,' said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; 'indeed, I--' 'Down with it!' echoed Toby. 'Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.' 'He had better!' said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. 'Burn my body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!' Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the contents
| 1 |
58 |
Confidence_-a-Novel.txt
| 98 |
be a part of this. Inside, away from the cameras, Orson asked Jeremy if he was feeling ready to spend twenty-four hours on the Farm. Jeremy looked Orson up and down, clearly taking in his jean jacket and work pants—an “approachable” wardrobe I’d picked out for him that morning—and snorted. “Yeah, I’m ready for your New Age bullshit,” he said. Chuck smacked Jeremy on the back of the head, which was horrifying, so I quickly turned away to meet Priscilla’s pleading gaze. “Jeremy can’t help it,” she squeaked. “We try so hard, but he can’t help it.” “I’m sure you do,” I said, and then turned to Jeremy. “It’s going to help you,” I said softly. “I promise.” Jeremy made a noise that sounded like he was about to hock a wad of spit, but he hocked nothing, just crossed his arms and looked at Orson, who hadn’t stopped smiling. “Let’s get started,” Orson said. We ate a banquet lunch with the Enners, the kitchen staff serving meat for the first time in the brief history of the Farm. Jeremy and his father loved ribeye, and both devoured theirs with quiet precision. Jeremy clearly possessed all of Orson’s metabolic gifts without any of his tendency to scarf. But Orson didn’t scarf: he barely ate. The Enners listened as he explained Synthesis and the Bliss-Mini and the Bliss-Mini 2 (currently in development), clearly distracted by the beauty of the farmhouse, which I’d had redecorated in reds and golds specifically for their visit (red and gold being Jeremy’s favorite colors). When Jeremy was finished with his ribeye, he slouched in his seat and began somewhat vigorously kicking Chuck’s shins under the table. “Don’t kick your father,” Priscilla said. “Fuck you,” Jeremy said. Chuck stood, rounded the table, and once again smacked Jeremy on the back of the head. I jumped. Jeremy didn’t move, just stayed staring into the middle distance with his arms crossed. Priscilla began to cry. “It’s like this every day,” she said. “These two just fight all the time. Jeremy won’t let up.” Jeremy smiled wickedly at Orson. Chuck’s face was stony. He, too, could have benefited from some behavior modification therapy. “Can I borrow Jeremy for a minute?” Orson asked. “Go ahead,” said Chuck. “Borrow him for a fucking decade.” Orson brought Jeremy out onto the patio, leaving the rest of us to finish lunch. Chuck ate his steak sternly while Priscilla glanced from her plate of asparagus to the patio. “You have a kid and you dream of, you know, meeting his first girlfriend, sending him off to college, visiting his first house,” Chuck said, declining to look up from the neat row of cubes he’d made of his steak. “Never in my wildest dreams did I think any of this was going to happen.” “He’s our only child,” Priscilla added, and began crying again. “Frankly? I’ve given up. I’ve tried everything with him. He responds to nothing. Not doctors, not shrinks, not us. Nothing.” “What’s he doing?” Priscilla asked. Orson and Jeremy were sitting across from each other
| 0 |
87 |
The Foxglove King.txt
| 58 |
swoop it put into her middle, the feeling of vertigo that the thought of running away brought her. Leaving would be as futile as trying to catch the ocean in your hands. Not just physically, but spiritually, like something anchored her here. “We can’t,” she murmured. “As much as I don’t want to trust him, Anton is our only—” “You don’t understand, Lore.” There was something desperate in Bastian’s tone, something that told her he felt the same pull to this night as she did and was desperately fighting against it. “It happened again. Another village.” Only Bastian’s hand on her waist kept her from tripping over her hem. Lore’s fingers went cold. “When?” “Last night.” He kept her close, spoke in her ear—to anyone watching, they’d look two minutes away from sneaking off to a secluded corner, but their faces were twin masks of fear. “A few of the Presque Mort went to collect the bodies—Anton put Malcolm in charge.” Another village. She thought of her uncomfortable sleep, dark dreams she could only recall fragments of. Lore shook her head, banishing the half-formed speculations. “Where is Anton, then?” “I don’t know.” Bastian led her through a spin. “Preparing to stop August, I guess. It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let my uncle be the only thing that stands between you and death. I can get you money. Food. Get you on a ship —” “I can’t leave Dellaire. Mortem won’t let me.” “Damn this.” He hissed it through his teeth, his grip on her waist so tight it almost hurt. “Damn this. Fine. I can find a place for you in the city—” “Bastian.” She shook her head again, her nose grazing his neck. They didn’t have to stand this close, but it was a comfort, and neither of them moved away. “They’d just find me. You know that.” Her road ended here, in the Citadel. Either dead from August’s ritual, or kept in a gilded cage, a tool to aid in controlling a mad and dying King. Lore knew it. Gabe knew it. Bastian did, too. Of the three of them, he was the most likely to try to change the unchangeable, the one most predisposed to thinking he could shift the world to suit him. But even Bastian had to realize it was pointless this time. Lore was caught. But just because she was caught didn’t have to mean all of them were. “I can’t leave,” Lore repeated, a murmur against his ear. “But you can.” For the first time, Bastian stuttered in their dance; other courtiers swirled around them as if she and the Sun Prince were rocks in a stream, but he and Lore just stood still, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, his eyes boring down into hers. “And leave you.” Gruff, not quite angry, but more than halfway there. “Leave you here.” “Anton said he’d stop the ritual.” A thin defense, but it was all she had. “Say he does. Then what?” People were starting to stare; Bastian swept her up
| 0 |
32 |
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt
| 93 |
-- maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more. The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted desire. By-and-by Tom said: " Sh! Did you hear that?" Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer. "It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky -- we're all right now!" The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded --------------------------------------------------------- -293- against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred -- there was no passing it at any rate. Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be Tuesday by this time. Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a --------------------------------------------------------- -294- glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to -- Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to see
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96 |
We-Could-Be-So Good.txt
| 33 |
closed off, bricked up, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or sad. That time is gone, that version of himself is gone, and there’s nowhere to go but forward. He walks back to the subway stop and gets on the train to Manhattan. * * * At the top of the stairs, there’s a light under his door and the smell of garlic wafting out into the hall. Nick’s heart starts to pound, but he tells himself not to get his hopes up: it’s probably Linda heating up takeout next door, and the light he’s seeing is just a bulb he forgot to check earlier that day. But when he turns the key in the lock, he’s holding his breath, and when he sees Andy at the stove, he feels something ease up inside of him, even if Andy anywhere within three feet of a gas burner is a pretty terrifying sight. Nick goes over to the stove and puts his arms around Andy, hooking his chin over Andy’s shoulder. “Hey,” Nick says. “I’d turn around and kiss you, but I don’t want to mess this up.” Andy’s stirring what looks like— “Is that minestrone soup?” “That’s what it’s supposed to be. Only time will tell what it actually is.” “It smells good.” Nick presses his face into Andy’s neck. “You smell good, too.” “I thought you might need soup,” Andy says. In all the weeks Andy’s been living here, rarely has Nick come home to find Andy already there. Andy has a thing about being alone, and Nick usually tries to avoid making it an issue. But today Andy let himself in and cooked. Nick tightens his arms around Andy. “I do. Thank you.” “Are you going to let go of me so I can finish cooking?” “No.” Anyway, the soup’s done, as far as Nick can see. He kisses beneath Andy’s ear, right where a strand of hair curls when he’s due for a trip to the barber. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says. He doesn’t know if he’s ever said as much out loud, which probably makes him a jerk, but he hopes that this isn’t news to Andy. He can feel Andy smiling, can feel the thump his heart just gave. “Me too.” Eventually Nick pries himself off and they eat soup and crackers at the table. “This tastes like how my mother makes it,” Nick says, trying not to sound too surprised. Andy still can’t scramble eggs without nearly ruining a pan, and what’s more, he’s always leery of trying something new and then failing. “It should,” says Andy, not looking at Nick. “I used your mom’s recipe.” “My mom has a recipe?” He can’t imagine his mother using a recipe. And then the rest of his brain catches up. “How? How did you get it?” “I called her. I hope that’s okay.” Andy stirs his spoon in the last inch of soup, where he’s left all his rejected bits of carrot. “This afternoon? You called her today?” “Yes. Is that— Did I cross
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37 |
The Hunger Games.txt
| 99 |
is dangling a foot off the ground, im- prisoned in Thresh’s arms. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding Clove like a rag doll. I remem- ber him as big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I even recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. He flips Clove around and flings her onto the ground. When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. “What’d you do to that little girl? You kill her?” 282 Clove is scrambling backward on all fours, like a frantic in- sect, too shocked to even call for Cato. “No! No, it wasn’t me!” “You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?” Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. “You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?” “No! No, I —” Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh’s hand and loses it. “Cato!” she screeches. “Cato!” “Clove!” I hear Cato’s answer, but he’s too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get Foxface or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and just badly misjudged his location? Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove’s temple. It’s not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she’s a goner. There’s still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moan escaping her lips. When Thresh whirls around on me, the rock raised, I know it’s no good to run. And my bow is empty, the last loaded ar- row having gone in Clove’s direction. I’m trapped in the glare of his strange golden brown eyes. “What’d she mean? About Rue being your ally?” “I — I — we teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first. District One,” I say. May- be if he knows I helped Rue, he won’t choose some slow, sa- distic end for me. “And you killed him?” he demands. “Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers,” I say. “And I sang her to sleep.” 283 Tears spring in my eyes. The tension, the fight goes out of me at the memory. And I’m overwhelmed by Rue, and the pain in my head, and my fear of Thresh, and the moaning of the dy- ing girl a few feet away. “To sleep?” Thresh says gruffly. “To death. I sang until she died,” I say. “Your district. . . they sent me bread.” My hand reaches up but not for an arrow that I know I’ll never reach. Just to wipe my nose. “Do it fast, okay, Thresh?” Conflicting emotions cross Thresh’s face. He lowers the rock and points at me, almost accusingly. “Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and
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6 |
Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt
| 38 |
building generally, sitting upon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by night. Every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some fears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without delay.” Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing to me—no more than to any one else. In vain:—I was the last person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer’s) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of. Going up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting upon the banister at the landing. “What are you doing here, Bartleby?” said I. “Sitting upon the banister,” he mildly replied. I motioned him into the lawyer’s room, who then left us. “Bartleby,” said I, “are you aware that you are the cause of great tribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being dismissed from the office?” No answer. “Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something, or something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you like to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some one?” “No; I would prefer not to make any change.” “Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store?” “There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a clerkship; but I am not particular.” “Too much confinement,” I cried, “why you keep yourself confined all the time!” “I would prefer not to take a clerkship,” he rejoined, as if to settle that little item at once. “How would a bar-tender’s business suit you? There is no trying of the eyesight in that.” “I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not particular.” His unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge. “Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting bills for the merchants? That would improve your health.” “No, I would prefer to be doing something else.” “How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young gentleman with your conversation,—how would that suit you?” “Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite about that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular.” “Stationary you shall be then,” I cried, now losing all patience, and for the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly flying into a passion. “If you do not go away from these premises before night, I shall feel bound—indeed I am bound—to—to—to quit the premises myself!” I rather absurdly
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68 |
I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt
| 80 |
sure everyone was listening. “In 1995, Thalia Keith died on the campus of the Granby School in Granby, New Hampshire.” I did admire the ambition inherent in her framing, the idea that this would reach some national audience in need of orienting. “Her body was found in the campus pool on the afternoon of Saturday, March fourth. Although the cause of death was drowning, Thalia also had open fracture wounds to the back of her skull plus bruising on her neck and damage to her carotid artery and thyroid cartilage, as if she’d been choked. She was a star in musical theater and tennis, a senior who’d been admitted to Amherst College. Suspicion soon settled on Omar Evans, a twenty-five-year-old Black man who worked as head athletic trainer at the prestigious boarding school. He was the only official suspect in the case. Evans falsely confessed under extraordinary pressure after fifteen hours of interrogation, a confession he recanted the next day. He was a victim of an inexperienced and racist small-town police force and a racist school that wanted to close the case quickly. Omar Evans was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to sixty years. He has now been imprisoned nearly twenty-three years for a murder he did not commit. This is the story of two stolen lives: those of Thalia Keith and Omar Evans.” Lola whistled. Alder said, with no apparent irony, “Oh, snap.” Jamila said, “You really just called us prestigious?” I said, “That was well done, Britt. I have a small correction, which is that the case was handed to the State Police. They might’ve been racist, I don’t know, but they weren’t inexperienced. I like how you’ve laid out not just the subject but a thesis statement, too. One danger with that—” I sipped my coffee, buying time. I felt adrenal, wondered what on earth I’d started. “One danger is that if you lay out your theories at the beginning, and then change your mind as you investigate, you’ll be stuck.” “I won’t change my mind,” Britt said. “I’ve already done a ton of research. The case was so flaky.” I assumed she meant flimsy. She asked if I’d seen the Diane Sawyer interview with Omar’s mother. I hadn’t; she told me she’d send it. “When you hear her speak you’ll understand,” she said. I was sure his mother believed with every cell of her body that he was innocent. I was sure that came through on camera. I said, “Maybe there were flaws in the case. But they had his DNA on her swimsuit. One of his hairs was in her mouth. They had him in the building when she died, and they can’t put anyone else there. They had a confession. They had the motive, at least according to her friends. They had that noose he drew in the directory. People get convicted on much less.” I heard myself, a parrot. But Britt was only parroting the Reddit boards. I didn’t want her to swing into obstinacy in either direction. I wanted her to do a
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59 |
Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt
| 21 |
she thinks to herself, “What if the loser is your loved one?” How does this mentality guide Clytemnestra throughout her life? Clytemnestra and the rest of the girls in Sparta are trained to fight as children. How does this warrior mentality guide her throughout the novel? How does this set her apart from other heroines you have read before? The murder of Clytemnestra’s first husband, Tantalus, and her baby is not told from the perspective of Clytemnestra herself. How did you read this change in perspective? What did it add to the narrative? Clytemnestra and Helen’s relationship is tested many times, yet there is always love between them. How might you describe the evolution of their relationship? How does the theme of forgiveness play a role between the two? Describe Clytemnestra’s relationship with her father. How did his betrayal make you feel, and how does it shape Clytemnestra? The story of Clytemnestra and her family is foreshadowed by an inescapable prophecy. Did the priestess’s vision play out the way you though it would? What roles did prophecies and religion have in this world? This story does not have obvious good characters and bad characters; all of them make decisions that are morally questionable. Were there specific moments that made you think differently about any of the characters? Were there some you found unforgiveable? Why do you think Odysseus allowed for Clytemnestra’s daughter to be sacrificed? How did you feel about Clytemnestra’s final act against Agamemnon? In the end, were her actions warranted? Who do you believe is ultimately to blame? Vengeance is a common theme that courses throughout the story. How does vengeance play a role in all the characters’ lives, especially Clytemnestra’s? Clytemnestra has been portrayed by history as an evil queen. How does the author question that role? Do you think Clytemnestra is truly evil? Are you familiar with any of the myths that are presented in this novel? Were they told differently than you remember? A Conversation with the Author Of all the women in Greek mythology, why Clytemnestra? What drew you to her story? I fell in love with this extraordinary character more than ten years ago. In the ancient texts, she is fierce, clever, powerful, and unbending, unlike any other heroine I’d read before. The most fascinating thing about her in the ancient sources is that she is feared and respected for the power she holds in Mycenae. I thought, here is a woman who commands a city as her husband is away, who makes him pay for all the wrong he has done to her, and who doesn’t let the men around her belittle her. I felt the need to explore her story. Her backstory was also incredibly fascinating with all the myths surrounding her. Clytemnestra grows up in Sparta, where women, compared to other Greek cities of the time, were much freer, so she is taught to hunt and fight just like the men around her. And then she is connected to some of the most fascinating characters from the myth: she is sister to
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The Age of Innocence.txt
| 76 |
--and how am I to prevent his knowing these horrors?" the poor lady wailed. "After all, Mamma, he won't have SEEN them," her daughter suggested; and Mrs. Welland sighed: "Ah, no; thank heaven he's safe in bed. And Dr. Bencomb has promised to keep him there till poor Mamma is better, and Regina has been got away somewhere." Archer had seated himself near the window and was gazing out blankly at the deserted thoroughfare. It was evident that he had been summoned rather for the moral support of the stricken ladies than because of any specific aid that he could render. Mr. Lovell Mingott had been telegraphed for, and messages were being despatched by hand to the members of the family living in New York; and meanwhile there was nothing to do but to discuss in hushed tones the consequences of Beaufort's dishonour and of his wife's unjustifiable action. Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who had been in another room writing notes, presently reappeared, and added her voice to the discussion. In THEIR day, the elder ladies agreed, the wife of a man who had done anything disgraceful in business had only one idea: to efface herself, to disappear with him. "There was the case of poor Grandmamma Spicer; your great-grandmother, May. Of course," Mrs. Welland hastened to add, "your great- grandfather's money difficulties were private--losses at cards, or signing a note for somebody--I never quite knew, because Mamma would never speak of it. But she was brought up in the country because her mother had to leave New York after the disgrace, whatever it was: they lived up the Hudson alone, winter and sum- met, till Mamma was sixteen. It would never have occurred to Grandmamma Spicer to ask the family to `countenance' her, as I understand Regina calls it; though a private disgrace is nothing compared to the scandal of ruining hundreds of innocent people." "Yes, it would be more becoming in Regina to hide her own countenance than to talk about other people's," Mrs. Lovell Mingott agreed. "I understand that the emerald necklace she wore at the Opera last Friday had been sent on approval from Ball and Black's in the afternoon. I wonder if they'll ever get it back?" Archer listened unmoved to the relentless chorus. The idea of absolute financial probity as the first law of a gentleman's code was too deeply ingrained in him for sentimental considerations to weaken it. An adventurer like Lemuel Struthers might build up the millions of his Shoe Polish on any number of shady dealings; but unblemished honesty was the noblesse oblige of old financial New York. Nor did Mrs. Beaufort's fate greatly move Archer. He felt, no doubt, more sorry for her than her indignant relatives; but it seemed to him that the tie between husband and wife, even if breakable in prosperity, should be indissoluble in misfortune. As Mr. Letterblair had said, a wife's place was at her husband's side when he was in trouble; but society's place was not at his side, and Mrs. Beaufort's cool assumption that it was
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The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt
| 6 |
garment. "I suppose I must leave you," he said. "It's--incredible. Three things happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions, would make me insane. But it's real! Is there anything more that I can get you?" "Only bid me good-night," said Griffin. "Good-night," said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards him. "Understand me!" said the dressing-gown. "No attempts to hamper me, or capture me! Or--" Kemp's face changed a little. "I thought I gave you my word," he said. Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad--or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It's fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact! "But--" He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? In the sea, yes. Thousands! millions! All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things-- specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No! "It can't be. "But after all--why not? "If a man was made of glass he would still be visible." His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked out of the room, and went into his little consulting- room and lit the gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by practice, and in it were the day's newspapers. The morning's paper lay carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over, and read the account of a "Strange Story from Iping" that the Mariner at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it swiftly. "Wrapped up!" said Kemp. "Disguised! Hiding it! 'No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune.' What the devil is his game?" He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. "Ah!" he said, and caught up the St. James' Gazette, lying folded up as it arrived. "Now we shall get at the truth," said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a couple of columns confronted him. "An Entire Village in
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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt
| 49 |
I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he'll be all right -- talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens." "Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an empty room, you wait 'til you hear this..." He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them, then he told them what he'd seen and heard. "So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy -- and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus pocus' -- I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through -- " "So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" said Hermione in alarm. "It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron. CHAPTER FOURTEEN -- NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they'd thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it didn't look as though he'd cracked yet. Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling people off for laughing at Quirrell's stutter. Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer's Stone. She had started drawing up study schedules and colorcoding all her notes. Harry and Ron wouldn't have minded, but she kept nagging them to do the same. "Hermione, the exams are ages away." "Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "That's not ages, that's like a second to Nicolas Flamel." "But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her. "Anyway, what are you studying for, you already know it A." "What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten into me..." Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the Easter holidays weren't nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood or practicing wand movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron spent most of their free time in the library with her, trying to get through all their extra work. "I'll never remember this," Ron burst out one afternoon, throwing
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Silas Marner.txt
| 47 |
force of the universe? 3. HUMAN AFFECTIONS What kinds of human ties are important in this novel? There are family ties--weak at the Casses' house but strong for the Lammeters. The bonds of parent and child are especially important, whether they are biological (as with Dolly and Aaron Winthrop) or adoptive (as with Eppie and Silas). When Eppie has to choose between her biological father, Godfrey, and her adoptive father, Silas, what factors count most with her? Wholesome human affections can restore a damaged personality like Silas'. Yet stunted affections, like those at Squire Cass' house, can damage a basically good person like Godfrey. Look at the way larger communities are bound together, too: Lantern-Yard, the city Silas came from, Raveloe as a whole, or the upperclass society of Raveloe. 4. CHANGE In Eliot's view, all change is the product of a multitude of tiny factors. The process is so complex that mere humans cannot presume to control it. To examine this theory, Eliot chose for her main setting a community with ingrained old beliefs, a place where change comes slowly. She shows how gradually the collective "mind" of village opinion shifts until it accepts Silas. Many individual characters, too, have fixed habits of thought that are hard to change. Consider, for example, Squire Cass, Nancy Lammeter, old Mr. Macey, Dolly Winthrop, Godfrey's wife Molly, and Silas himself. Choosing a long time span for her story, Eliot shows people changing gradually over the years, as Silas changes before his robbery and then after finding Eppie. She also minutely examines step by step the process of short-term changes--the reasoning that leads Godfrey to keep his secret marriage hidden or that makes Dunstan rob Silas. 5. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PAST Raveloe is a society strongly connected to its past. In contrast, the town Silas comes from seems impersonal and transient--when Silas returns thirty-two years later, Lantern-Yard has been literally wiped off the face of the Earth. Individuals in this book also are connected to their own pasts in different degrees. Godfrey hopes to bury his past. Silas and Eppie cherish their past together. As Silas is redeemed by his love for Eppie, he regains a sense of his past, and memory heals him. Attachment to the past can be stultifying, however, for characters like Squire Cass and Nancy Lammeter. Look at the role played in this novel by local traditions, personal memories, and familiar objects or places. By her own comments, then, Eliot gives this story, set in the past, a meaning for her own modern world. 6. OTHER THEMES In Silas Marner, Eliot also examines the class system of England in microcosm (mark the differences between the upper and lower classes, and judge Eliot's comments on them). Connected to this is her belief in the importance of work. The villagers understand the value of having a craft or skill and the role this gives one in a community. Silas clings to his craft when all else is taken from him. In the upper class, the Lammeter girls understand hard work, but the
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66 |
Hell Bent.txt
| 71 |
cost her at all. Something very bad had happened in Oddman’s house, something she couldn’t explain. She was meant to control the dead, to use them. Not the other way around. She pulled out her phone and saw two texts from Dawes, both exactly fifteen minutes apart and in all caps. URGENT CALL IN. Alex ignored the messages and scrolled down, then typed out a quick It’s done. The reply was immediate: When I have my money She really hoped Oddman got his house in order. She deleted Eitan’s messages, then called Dawes. “Where are you?” Dawes answered breathlessly. Something big must be happening if Dawes was ignoring protocol. Alex could picture her pacing the parlor at Black Elm, her knot of red hair sliding to one side, headphones clamped around her neck. “Sterling. On my way back to the Hutch.” “You’re going to be late to—” “If I stand here talking to you, I will be. What’s up?” “They’ve selected a new Praetor.” “Damn. Already?” The Praetor was the faculty liaison for Lethe, who served as a go-between with the university administration. Only Yale’s president and dean knew about the real activities of the secret societies, and it was Lethe’s job to make sure it stayed that way. The Praetor was a kind of den mother. The responsible adult in the room. At least he was supposed to be. Dean Sandow had turned out to be a murderer. Alex knew a Lethe Praetor had to be a former Lethe deputy and had to be a member of the Yale faculty or at least reside in New Haven. That couldn’t be easy to find. Alex and Dawes had assumed it would take the board at least another semester to find someone to replace the very dead Dean Sandow. They’d counted on it. “Who is he?” Alex asked. “It could be a woman.” “Is it?” “No. But Anselm didn’t give me a name.” “Did you ask?” Alex pushed. A long pause. “Not exactly.” There was no point needling Dawes. Much like Alex, she didn’t like people, but unlike Alex, she avoided confrontation. And really, it wasn’t her job. Oculus kept Lethe running smoothly—fridge and armory stocked, rituals scheduled, properties kept in order. She was the research arm of Lethe, not the harass-board-members arm. Alex sighed. “When are they bringing him in?” “Saturday. Anselm wants to set up a meeting, maybe a tea.” “Nope. No way. I need more than a couple of days to prepare.” Alex turned away from the passing students, staring up at the stone scribes that guarded the Sterling Library doors. Darlington was with her here, picking away at Yale’s mysteries. “Egyptian, Mayan, Hebrew, Chinese, Arabic, engravings of cave paintings from Les Combarelles. They covered all their bases.” “What do they mean?” Alex had asked. “Quotes from libraries, holy texts. The Chinese quote is from a dead judge’s mausoleum. The Mayan comes from the Temple of the Cross, but they chose it at random because no one knew how to translate it until twenty years later.” Alex had laughed. “Like
| 0 |
60 |
Divine Rivals.txt
| 7 |
only darkness. Enraged, he realized she had gone above. He rallied his creatures and his servants to fight, but when they emerged through the secret doorways into the world above, Enva and a Skyward host were awaiting them. The battle was bloody and long, and many of the Underlings fled, deep into the earth. Dacre was wounded by Enva’s own arrow; she shot him in the shoulder, and he had no choice but to retreat, down into the bowels of his fortress. He blocked every passageway so no one and nothing from above could trespass below. He descended to the fire of the earth, and there he plotted his revenge. But Dacre was never victorious. He could not best the Skywards, and so he chose to terrorize the mortals above. He never realized that Enva had learned all the passages of his realm while he slept beneath her charm. And when she decided to step into his hall again, two centuries later, she carried her harp with a vow lodged in her heart. To make him and his court sleep for a hundred years. Some say she was successful, because there was a time of peace, and life was pleasant and golden for the mortals above. But others say she was unable to sing that long without diminishing her power, to hold Dacre and his court asleep for such a stretch of time. All of this to say—it is never wise to offend a musician. And choose your lovers wisely. Iris fell pensive with the ending of the myth. She wondered if history was wrong; all this time, she had been taught of her kind’s victory over the five surviving gods—Dacre, Enva, Alva, Mir, and Luz—who had been fooled into drinking a poisonous draught to make them sleep beneath the loam. But perhaps it had been Enva and her harp all along, which meant there had only ever been four gods slumbering, with the fifth still roaming in secret. The more Iris dwelled on it, the more it rang true. Enva had never been buried in an eastern grave; she must have struck a deal with the mortals long ago. She had been the one to sing the other four divines to enchanted sleep in deep, dark graves. It suddenly wasn’t so difficult to fathom why Dacre would wake with such vengeance in his blood. Why he would tear through town after town, hell-bent upon drawing Enva to him. Iris shivered at the thought, and wrote her correspondent back: I’m thrilled by your ability to find this second part and am eternally grateful for how you sacrificed yourself with tea and biscuits and reprimands from your nan, who sounds like someone I’d probably like. I almost hesitate now to ask anything more of you, but there is something else … I went to the infirmary here at Aval where I’m stationed. It gave me the chance to meet with soldiers who have been wounded. Some are recovering well, and yet some of them will die, and I find that truth difficult to
| 0 |
16 |
Great Expectations.txt
| 60 |
was in no such difficulty, and so I perceived - though dimly enough perhaps - that it was not beneficial to anybody, and, above all, that it was not beneficial to Herbert. My lavish habits led his easy nature into expenses that he could not afford, corrupted the simplicity of his life, and disturbed his peace with anxieties and regrets. I was not at all remorseful for having unwittingly set those other branches of the Pocket family to the poor arts they practised: because such littlenesses were their natural bent, and would have been evoked by anybody else, if I had left them slumbering. But Herbert's was a very different case, and it often caused me a twinge to think that I had done him evil service in crowding his sparely-furnished chambers with incongruous upholstery work, and placing the canary-breasted Avenger at his disposal. So now, as an infallible way of making little ease great ease, I began to contract a quantity of debt. I could hardly begin but Herbert must begin too, so he soon followed. At Startop's suggestion, we put ourselves down for election into a club called The Finches of the Grove: the object of which institution I have never divined, if it were not that the members should dine expensively once a fortnight, to quarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and to cause six waiters to get drunk on the stairs. I Know that these gratifying social ends were so invariably accomplished, that Herbert and I understood nothing else to be referred to in the first standing toast of the society: which ran "Gentlemen, may the present promotion of good feeling ever reign predominant among the Finches of the Grove." The Finches spent their money foolishly (the Hotel we dined at was in Covent-garden), and the first Finch I saw, when I had the honour of joining the Grove, was Bentley Drummle: at that time floundering about town in a cab of his own, and doing a great deal of damage to the posts at the street corners. Occasionally, he shot himself out of his equipage head-foremost over the apron; and I saw him on one occasion deliver himself at the door of the Grove in this unintentional way - like coals. But here I anticipate a little for I was not a Finch, and could not be, according to the sacred laws of the society, until I came of age. In my confidence in my own resources, I would willingly have taken Herbert's expenses on myself; but Herbert was proud, and I could make no such proposal to him. So, he got into difficulties in every direction, and continued to look about him. When we gradually fell into keeping late hours and late company, I noticed that he looked about him with a desponding eye at breakfast-time; that he began to look about him more hopefully about mid-day; that he drooped when he came into dinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance rather clearly, after dinner; that he all but realized
| 1 |
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