book_id
int64 0
99
| book
stringlengths 8
51
| snippet_id
int64 0
99
| snippet
stringlengths 2.35k
8.11k
| label
int64 0
1
|
|---|---|---|---|---|
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 6 | great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are wide, and I don’t know if he’s fearful or angry. It’s difficult to tell. “Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes,” I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection. He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me. “Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head. “I’m not hungry, thank you.” She purses her lips but says nothing. “Where were you?” Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Saw- yer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor’s office, into the foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship. I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom. “Ana,” he calls after me, “answer me.” I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door. “Ana!” Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles. “Ana, open the damned door.” “Go away!” “I’m not going anywhere.” “Suit yourself.” “Ana, please.” I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it’s warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin. Oh my. This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I’ve finished, I feel better, stronger, ready 413/551 to face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me. I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted pred- ator. I stride past him and into our walk-in closet. “Are you ignoring me?” Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet. “Perceptive, aren’t you?” I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good manners taking over. I sense his eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an Oscar winner, I let my towel fall to the floor and pretend that I am oblivious to my naked body. I hear his restrained gasp and ignore it. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low. “Why do you think?” My voice is velvet soft as I pull out a pretty pair of black lace | 1 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 78 | Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby." While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning,and clattering everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan -- mdash; what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee? asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. | 1 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 86 | I want to handle this. There’s the honest route, which is to explain to them the details of the controversy, tell them the same thing I told my editors, and let them make up their own minds. It’ll be an object lesson in the social economy of publishing, in how social media distorts and inflames the truth. Maybe they’ll walk away with more respect for me. Or I could make them regret this. “Skylar?” My voice sounds more like a bark than I intended. Skylar flinches like she’s been shot. “It’s your story we’re critiquing today, isn’t it?” “I—uh, yeah.” “So where are your printouts?” Skylar blinks. “I mean, I emailed it to everyone.” I requested in the workshop guidelines that the subject of critique bring printed copies of their story to class. We’ve been using laptops since last year, though, and I know it’s unfair to rip Skylar for it, but it’s the first knock I can think of. “I made my expectations very clear in the handouts. Perhaps you don’t think the rules apply to you, Skylar, but that attitude won’t get you very far in publishing. Keep thinking you’re the exception, and you’ll end up like one of those creeps who corner editors in bathrooms and slide manuscripts under doors into hotel rooms because they don’t think the industry guidelines apply.” This wins me a couple of snickers. Skylar’s face goes white as paper. “Are you going to corner editors in bathrooms, Skylar?” “No,” she drawls, rolling her eyes. She’s trying to play it cool, but I can hear her voice quiver. “Obviously not.” “Good. So print your manuscript next time. That goes for all of you.” I take a long, satisfying sip of my Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher. My knees are still trembling, but this verbal putdown gives me a rush of hot, spiteful confidence. “Well, let’s get to it. Rexy, what did you think of Skylar’s story?” Rexy swallows. “I, uh, liked it.” “On what grounds?” “Well, it’s interesting.” “‘Interesting’ is a word people use when they can’t think of anything better to say. Be specific, Rexy.” That sets the tone for the rest of the morning. I used to think that mean teachers were a special kind of monster, but it turns out that cruelty comes naturally. Also, it’s fun. Teenagers, after all, are unformed identities with undeveloped brains. No matter how clever they are, they still don’t know much about anything, and it’s easy to embarrass them for their ill-prepared remarks. Skylar gets the worst of it. Technically her story—a whodunnit set in San Francisco’s Chinatown, in which none of the witnesses will cooperate with the police because they have their own secrets and community codes of honor—is not bad. The writing is strong, the conceit is interesting, and there’s even a clever twist at the end that makes you reevaluate every previous word uttered by the characters. It’s very impressive for a high schooler. Still, her inexperience shows. Skylar’s exposition is clumsy in parts, she makes use of quite a few contrived coincidences to | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 10 | too have been over your room with a toothcomb. It isn't there.' Bond grinned. 'It is,' he said, 'more or less. On the door of each room there is a small square of black plastic with the number of the room on it. On the corridor side, of course. When Leiter left me that night, I simply opened the door and unscrewed my number plate and put the folded cheque underneath it and screwed the plate back. It'll still be there.' He smiled. 'I'm glad there's something the stupid English can teach the clever French.' Mathis laughed delightedly. 'I suppose you think that's paid me back for knowing what the Muntzes were up to. Well, I'll call it quits. Incidentally, we've got them in the bag. They were just some minor fry hired for the occasion. We'll see they get a few years.' He rose hastily as the doctor stormed into the room and took one look at Bond. 'Out,' he said to Mathis. 'Out and don't come back.' Mathis just had time to wave cheerfully to Bond and call some hasty words of farewell before he was hustled through the door. Bond heard a torrent of heated French diminishing; down the corridor. He lay back exhausted, but heartened by all he had heard. He found himself thinking of Vesper as he quickly drifted off into a troubled sleep. There were still questions to be answered, but they could wait. CHAPTER 20 - THE NATURE OF EVIL Bond made good progress. When Mathis came to see him three days later he was propped up in bed and his arms were free. The lower half of his body was still shrouded in the oblong tent, but he looked cheerful and it was only occasionally that a twinge of pain narrowed his eyes. Mathis looked crestfallen. 'Here's your cheque,' he said to Bond. 'I've rather enjoyed walking around with forty million francs in my pocket, but I suppose you'd better sign it and I'll put it to your account with the Crdit Lyonnais. There's no sign of our friend from SMERSH. Not a damn trace. He must have got to the villa on foot or on a bicycle because you heard nothing of his arrival and the two gunmen obviously didn't. It's pretty exasperating. We've got precious little on this SMERSH organization and neither has London. Washington said they had, but it turned out to be the usual waffle from refugee interrogation, and you know that's about as much good as interrogating an English man-in-the street about his own Secret Service, or a Frenchman about the Deuxime.' 'He probably came from Leningrad to Berlin via Warsaw,' said Bond. 'From Berlin they've got plenty of routes open to the rest of Europe. He's back home by now being told off for not shooting me too. I fancy they've got quite a file on me in view of one or two of the jobs M's given me since the war. He obviously thought he was being smart enough cutting his initial in my hand.' 'What's that?' | 1 |
80 | Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt | 98 | from him slightly. “They’re comforting, and they’re fun, and they’re absurdly addictive. You always know the villain’s going to get caught in the end. But you know. I mostly just read them now.” “Why’d you stop writing?” he asks. “Fiction, I mean.” A deep breath—because I had a feeling this was coming. “I haven’t stopped, exactly. I’m just on a very long break.” I knot my fingers together, play with the bedspread, fluff my pillow. All while he waits for me to continue. “It’s the same old story, the same reason most people stop doing something they love—it wasn’t practical. Trying to get published would have meant leaving so much up to chance. It made better sense as a hobby, but once I decided to focus on journalism . . . that hobby sort of faded away.” I shake my head, because I let it go a long time ago. “But that was okay. Because I could do what I loved and still get a steady paycheck.” Except the paychecks are rarely steady, and I’ve been stuck telling other people’s stories instead of my own for so long. “Besides,” I continue. “I feel like I know too much about publishing at this point, and it’s all about living at least a year in the future. You’re always looking at the endgame and not the process. It can be easy to forget to enjoy writing.” As I say it, I realize it’s true. That it used to be a passion, but now it’s simply a job. His face falls. “You’re not enjoying this?” “No, no, no,” I rush to say. “This is actually the first time I’ve enjoyed it in a couple years.” When his features soften, that concerning feeling from our night with the vibrator comes back, full force. The way he tucked a finger beneath my chin and kissed me so gently—in that moment, it was almost too easy to forget that what we’re doing isn’t real. “I can honestly say,” he starts, placing his bowl of soup on the nightstand and fidgeting with the sheets, “that this is the most fun I’ve had on tour in a while.” “I’m guessing that might have something to do with what’s been happening in our hotel rooms?” Finn laughs, this open, brassy sound that I’ve come to learn is his true laugh. Not the one he reserves for panels, the one with slightly sharper edges. This one is smoother. Softer. “Sure, I won’t discount that. But I might have been talking about myself when I was saying that I haven’t gotten out much lately. It’s usually me and the hotel and maybe some room service, if I’m feeling adventurous.” His eyes have started drooping, his words coming out more slurred. The medication is doing its job. “That’s the way it is,” he says with an uncoordinated flick of his hand. “And I know this book might come out and nothing will change, but . . .” “It will,” I say firmly, believing not just in the quality of my writing but in the | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 32 | held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. "Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes?" "I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've got th' rheumatics." "The Magic will take them away," said Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant." "I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They turned me out o' th' church choir th' only time I ever tried it." No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the Magic. "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking like a strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--the roots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being alive is the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It is in me--it is in me. It's in every one of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic! Magic! Come and help!" He said it a great many times--not a thousand times but quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. "Now I am going to walk round the garden," he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk. "You 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 | 1 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 65 | beaker, or else leave an inevitable and weary languor, after the lees of bitterness wherewith she had been drugged, as with a cordial of intensest potency. Pearl was decked out with airy gaiety. It would have been impossible to guess that this bright and sunny apparition owed its existence to the shape of gloomy gray; or that a fancy, at once so gorgeous and so delicate as must have been requisite to contrive the child's apparel, was the same that had achieved a task perhaps more difficult, in imparting so distinct a peculiarity to Hester's simple robe. The dress, so proper was it to little Pearl, seemed an effluence, or inevitable development and outward manifestation of her character, no more to Thesaurus aloes: (n) physic, aloe; (adj) gall and unfriendly, stern, cold, cool, feebleness; (n) lethargy, fatigue, wormwood, quassia, rue. disagreeable, aloof, reserved, distant, infirmity, lassitude, weakness, apparition: (n) ghost, phantom, spirit, rude, uncordial, unpleasant. indifference, ennui; (adj) atony. spectre, hallucination, spook, shade, drugged: (adj) stoned, drowsy, ANTONYM: (n) energy. eidolon, wraith, advent; (n, v) vision. narcotised, comatose, drunk, high, lees: (adj, n) grounds; (n) sediment, beaker: (n) goblet, bail, bowl, canakin, chloroformed, narcotized, stupefied. deposit, residue, ground, lee, dreg, Billy, chalice, tumbler, cup, glass, ANTONYMS: (adj) clean, straight. feculence, bottom, silt, feces. container, jar. flavoured: (adj) seasoned, spiced, quench: (adj, v) extinguish, allay, cordial: (adj) genial, warm, affable, spicy, tasteful, flavorful. slake; (v) appease, quash, put out, amiable, friendly, genuine, ardent, henceforth: (adv) hence, in future, destroy, assuage, annihilate, calm, unaffected, gracious, honest; (n) after this; (adj) following. chill. ANTONYMS: (v) stimulate, liqueur. ANTONYMS: (adj) languor: (adj, n) inactivity, inertia, light. Nathaniel Hawthorne 221 be separated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a butterfly's wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright flower. As with these, so with the child; her garb was all of one idea with her nature. On this eventful day, moreover, there was a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her mood, resembling nothing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that sparkles and flashes with the varied throbbings of the breast on which it is displayed. Children have always a sympathy in the agitations of those connected with them: always, especially, a sense of any trouble or impending revolution, of whatever kind, in domestic circumstances; and therefore Pearl, who was the gem on her mother's unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance of her spirits, the emotions which none could detect in the marble passiveness of Hester's brow.% This effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk by her mother's side. She broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and sometimes piercing music. When they reached the market-place, she became still more restless, on perceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot; for it was usually more like the broad and lonesome green before a village meeting-house, than the centre of a town's business "Why, what is this, mother?" cried she. "Wherefore have all the people left their work to-day? Is it a play-day for the | 1 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 72 | the ones who liked to lick the mirror occasionally. Miss Beaumont sat behind her desk, her forehead wrinkled. When Miss Stanwich was in charge, the office was a welcoming place, smelling of crushed rosin and coffee. Miss Beaumont had replaced the scratched-up oak desk with a stark, modern one, and now the small room reeked of cigarette smoke. She began speaking before Marion had even sat down. “I’m getting more complaints, Marion. You’re not giving the young ones enough structure. You know what I’m saying, right? We’ve had this conversation before.” “The freestyle was only for a few minutes of class. It helps them shake off the fidgets and get back on track.” She was about to add that Miss Stanwich used to encourage a sense of play during class but thought better of it. Miss Beaumont had little patience for what she considered the lax methods of the previous owner. “They’re sent here to learn discipline and grace,” said Miss Beaumont. “They can run about like hooligans at home; that’s not why they come to my dance studio.” “I’ll stick with the standard program from now on,” conceded Marion. “You said that last time. You seem to have a hard time obeying the rules.” “Sorry. I promise. No more freestyle.” Miss Beaumont let out a dramatic sigh. “No. I can’t do this anymore. It’s not working out, I’m afraid.” She paused. “I’m sorry, what?” Marion’s heart raced. There was a finality to Miss Beaumont’s tone that frightened her. Not working out? “There are a number of teachers with storied professional careers in the dance world who are eager to join our faculty, and I’ve been putting off the inevitable out of respect for your long association with Miss Stanwich. But enough’s enough. Your services are no longer needed here at Broadway Ballet and Dance Studio.” She picked up the cigarette that was smoldering in the ashtray and took a long drag, aiming her exhale at the open window. “Effective immediately.” * * * “What are you doing home so early?” Marion’s sister, Judy, sat at the antique rolltop desk in the living room of the house in Bronxville, paying bills, and from the sour look on her face, she wasn’t pleased at the interruption. Marion dumped her dance bag on the floor and plopped on the couch, legs wide, arms flung out. Judy was the last person she wanted to share her day with. Yet that hadn’t always been the case. When Marion was a little girl, Judy had been her entire world. It was Judy’s idea to put on a variety show for the neighbors and charge admission. She rode her bike around, pasting flyers up on the telephone poles, cut out paper tickets, and collected the coins in a coffee can. Marion happily danced about the stage in her leotard and tights for a good fifteen minutes before an older boy who juggled shoved her off. At the end of the show, the parents in attendance praised Marion for her lovely performance while Judy sat counting their riches at | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 94 | against the leader of ISIS, Stephen Miller reportedly proposed beheading the militant, dipping his head in pig’s blood as an affront to Muslims, and parading it around as a warning. Esper says he had to tell the Trump aide that such an action would be a war crime. (Miller denied that the episode occurred.) The no-holds-barred attitude applied to the border more than anything. Aides would go to whatever lengths were necessary to fulfill Trump’s pledge to secure the territorial line with Mexico. That included a willingness to explore lethal drone strikes against innocent civilians. The border symbolizes the wider aims of the MAGA movement. In order to make America great again, adherents believe Washington must curb the influx of foreigners who are ruining America. Everything MAGA leaders reject about the existing order—the “globalist” promotion of free trade, the “establishment” story of America as a nation of immigrants, the “woke elites” whose internationalist views are destroying Western culture—is embodied by the situation at the border. Politics aside, the crisis is real. The United States is unable to control the flow of people and contraband across its territory, which has reached unprecedented levels. Drugs and dangerous individuals infiltrate America easily because of inadequate security, creating a volatile situation for border communities and the wider country. But the situation is also unfair to migrants seeking a better life. America’s porous border has incentivized a spike in human trafficking, cartel activity, and violence, which makes the journey dangerous for these would-be Americans. When they arrive, a broken immigration system forces them into years of uncertainty in the shadows before they’re given a final answer about whether or not they can stay here. Polls show a majority of Americans support tougher border security and immigration reform. Whether it’s a path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants living in the United States or a faster process for aspiring Americans to become citizens, the solution is uncomplicated in theory. In practice, political polarization has put a legislative solution well out of reach for every recent U.S. president who tried. Donald Trump saw only one side of this equation: security. To him, this was the primary mission of DHS—deporting undocumented immigrants, punishing those who made it to the border, and making it harder for any others to follow their path. Everything else was secondary or irrelevant. He conveyed this to DHS leaders in some form or fashion weekly. Kristen Marquardt, who served as a Trump-appointed counterterrorism leader at DHS, compared the president’s obsession with the border to the strong desert winds she experienced as a CIA officer overseas. “You know those ‘shamals’ in the Middle East—those sandstorms that block out the sun? That’s what immigration did to the Department of Homeland Security during the Trump administration,” she explained. “There was no light, no air, no room for anything else.” Another far-right president would create the same environment, with potentially dire consequences. I raised the possibility with an advisor who was appointed by Trump to manage national security programs. She saw what happened to DHS under her former boss. “If MAGA | 0 |
74 | Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt | 96 | through the last few years. Not that I’m surprised. That’s always been you, Rich. Making the best out of a bad situation. Finding the good in the bad. I wish I could be more like that.” As he reached across me to put a bunch of wrapped cutlery in the gray tub housing finished sets, his arm grazed mine, and I tried to ignore the shot of electricity that ran through me. “So,” I said casually, “are you dating anyone?” “Well, I know this might come as a shock, but dating in my line of work is a little tricky. I’d never date anyone on staff and it’s kind of hard to be like, ‘Hey, I know this is going great, but for the next ten weeks, I’m basically going to disappear. In fact, not only will I not see you, but you likely won’t hear from me for days at a time.’ ” We both laughed. “Yes, but you can make up for it the other seasons.” “Maybe. But so far, that hasn’t been a compelling argument. At least, not compelling enough to make anyone stay.” I ventured a glance at him, wondering how that could possibly be true. “I don’t know how June does it, staying here all year long, alone for months at a time.” Rich shook his head. “Me neither. I always come visit her when I’m down, but besides a few work weekends and a weekly check-in, I’m not here if it isn’t April to September. It gets cold on this river. And dark. And terribly lonely. And she’s by herself in that tiny cabin…” A chill ran up my spine. I often thought of June here, alone, and wondered why she stayed year-round. After all the loss and heartache she had endured, maybe the solitude soothed her soul. Or, maybe, after months of being on every minute of the day, she needed to recharge her batteries and get ready to be everything to everyone again. Although, I had to admit, being here alone in the winter with only Rich checking on you didn’t sound so bad… Stop it, I scolded myself. I was only feeling this way because I was mad at Bryce—again. Should one be this mad at her fiancé before they were even married? I mean, I knew every couple had their ups and downs, but lately it felt like more than that. It almost felt like for all these months he had been playing a part and now, finally, he had taken off the mask. But was this who he really was? Or was the sweet, doting Bryce his true self, and the stress of a big life transition was just getting in the way of that? Or maybe he was a little bit of both. I had always been willing to take the good with the bad, but this bad felt different. The voice in the back of my mind told me he was hiding something. And that was a feeling I didn’t like at all. As if reading my thoughts, Rich | 0 |
91 | The-One.txt | 5 | right the ship of her broken marriage. But it was a start. Chapter 7 Ethan waits until he hears the shower turn on in their master bathroom to sneak into the garage and check the GPS in Sloane’s Porsche. He heard her come home last night not long after he went to bed. It was nearly midnight when he checked the clock. Much too late for her to have come straight home after the award gala. He tossed and turned all night, at one point nearly marching into their bedroom demanding to know who she’d been with after the ceremony. He was already awake that morning when her alarm went off across the hall, and it dawned on him that he could check her navigation history. When he gets downstairs, he spots her purse on the kitchen counter. It takes him only a few seconds to find her key fob tucked inside the side pouch. Before opening the door to the garage, he pauses to make sure he can still hear water running upstairs. He climbs in sideways when he gets to her Porsche, not wanting to adjust the seat. He turns on the car and drums his fingers against the wheel as he waits for her navigation screen to load. The map appears, and it takes him longer than he anticipated to find the most recent destination. When the waterfront Medina address pops up, Ethan stares at the screen. Her time at the location was less than an hour. Medina was one of the most expensive zip codes in the country, and properties on the lake were worth upward of ten million dollars. He takes a photo of the address with his phone before turning off her car and going back inside. The upstairs shower is still running. He drops her key fob into her purse and turns on the coffee pot, starting to feel relieved. Maybe he was wrong to think she’d sleep with someone else after he blew off her award dinner. A home like that had to belong to some major hospital donor. Maybe they had an after-party. Sloane was too ambitious not to attend, at least for a little while. Rain beats against the kitchen window as he pours a cup of coffee, not waiting for the full pot to brew. What was he thinking last night? Pushing Sloane into someone else’s arms would only bring catastrophe. He wonders if a part of him wanted her to cheat as a way of feeling better for doing it to her. He’s starting to relax when he hears her footsteps on the stairs. Maybe he even misread the phone call he overheard yesterday. But he has to know the truth, or it’s going to drive him crazy. “Morning.” Ethan leans against the counter, taking a sip of coffee as Sloane slams the refrigerator door after retrieving her almond milk. She makes for her espresso machine and fires up the milk frother without answering. Ethan waits for the noise to stop before saying anything more, admiring her lean frame beneath | 0 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 3 | man in Raveloe, she tells you, although her tone is ironic. She first discusses the local gentry as villagers might--pointing out Cass' big brick house, casually mentioning the Osgoods. But then she discusses these landowners with an outsider's perspective. She makes you aware that political conditions later brought this class to ruin, through their wasteful living habits and poor farming. Yet when she describes the generous feasts that people like Cass and Osgood hold, she paints a glowing picture of old-fashioned plenty. (You'll see one of these feasts later, in Chapter 11.) The poor enjoy this bounty, too. Do you think Eliot approves or disapproves of this social system? What evidence supports your opinion? There's a reason why Squire Cass throws big raucous parties and spends his time at the local pub--his wife died long ago. Eliot expresses here her ideal of woman's role--as a source of order, refinement, and loving feelings. Lacking a mother, the Cass sons have turned out badly. Compare this all-male family to Silas Marner's, which seems to consist only of himself, a mother, and a sister. Eliot lets you hear the village gossip about Dunstan and Godfrey. While Dunstan sounds thoroughly bad, Godfrey seems good-hearted. But people have been worried about Godfrey's behavior lately. Everyone's hoping he'll straighten himself out by marrying Nancy Lammeter, obviously the daughter of another important Raveloe family. Now you meet the Cass brothers in person, so you can make up your own mind about them. As Godfrey stands by the fire, the parlor around him defines his gloomy mood. It's dimly lit and messy, full of pleasure's leftovers--discarded hunting clothes, half-empty mugs of beer, ashy pipes, 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 | 1 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 71 | ugly mess of anger and betrayal. “I guess it’s true what they say, huh, Remaut? When someone shows who they are, you’d better believe them. I thought to give you the benefit of the doubt. More fool me.” Gabe wasn’t close enough to touch, but the very air around him seemed to vibrate with the force of keeping himself still. His fist curled by his side, white-knuckled. “He’s right.” All eyes snapped to Lore. She stared straight ahead, not looking at any of them, keeping her gaze locked on the thin flaring line of the sun emerging over the garden wall. “It seems like betrayal comes easily to you, Duke Remaut.” She’d wounded him. She’d meant to. Still, the subtle deflation of his shoulders, the way his face turned so all she could see was that infernal eye patch, made all her organs tie themselves in knots. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than you and my nephew think.” Anton peered at her, the rising sun behind him making the scarred side of his face a mass of runneled shadow. “Questions of betrayal and treason often are. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He turned sharply, headed toward the door cut into the wall of the garden that led back into the Church. “Come. We have much to discuss.” The Presque Mort deposited Lore and Bastian in a large antechamber, empty other than a long table and a handful of chairs, hung with one simple tapestry of Apollius clutching His bleeding chest. It reminded Lore of the room she’d been taken to after accidentally raising Horse. Her bonds were a bit more intricate this time. So were Bastian’s. Instead of ropes, their hands were manacled, and those manacles attached to thick iron rings in the floor. A slanted echo of the iron bars crossing the floor in the Citadel. She supposed no one needed that particular reminder of their holy purpose in the Church. There were reminders everywhere. It was Malcolm who locked the manacles around her wrists. “Why?” she asked as he worked, not bothering to whisper. “I thought you wanted things to change, Malcolm? I thought you were on our side?” She didn’t mean to sound so wounded. The head librarian took a moment to answer. When he did, it was with a sigh. “Anton will explain,” he said. “Gabe came to him, then they both came to me, and what they told me let me know that we have to work together.” Lore scowled. Next to her, another Presque Mort shackled Bastian, but the Sun Prince stayed silent, staring at the floor. An hour later, and that silence still held. In that hour, she’d observed that they both handled betrayal differently. Lore iced over, letting no emotion cross her face. Bastian, by contrast, cycled between looking like he might attempt to pull the iron ring out of the floor with his bare hands, and looking like he’d just lost a friend. She supposed he had, in a way. The thing between her and Gabe and Bastian wasn’t friendship, | 0 |
12 | Fahrenheit 451.txt | 4 | that old man in the black suit hide something, quickly in his coat . ... The old man leapt up as if to run. And Montag said, "Wait ! " "I haven't done anything! " cried the old man trembling. "No one said you did." They had sat in the green soft light without saying a word for a moment, and then Montag talked about the weather, and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too. Faber held his hand over his left coat-pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, he might pull a book of poetry from the man's coat. But he did not reach out. His. hands stayed on his knees, numbed and useless. "I don't talk things, sir," said Faber. "I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive." That was all there was to it, really. An hour of monologue, a poem, a comment, and then without even acknowledging the fact that Montag was a fireman, Faber with a certain trembling, wrote his address on a slip of paper. "For your file," he said, "in case you decide to be angry with me." "I'm not angry," Montag said, surprised. Mildred shrieked with laughter in the hall. Montag went to his bedroom closet and flipped through his file-wallet to the heading: FUTURE INVESTIGATIONS (?). Faber's name was there. He hadn't turned it in and he hadn't erased it. He dialled the call on a secondary phone. The phone on the far end of the line called Faber's name a dozen times before the professor answered in a faint voice. Montag identified himself and was met with a lengthy silence. "Yes, Mr. Montag?" "Professor Faber, I have a rather odd question to ask. How many copies of the Bible are left in this country?" "I don't know what you're talking about! " "I want to know if there are any copies left at all." "This is some sort of a trap! I can't talk to just anyone on the phone!" "How many copies of Shakespeare and Plato?" "None ! You know as well as I do. None!" Faber hung up. Montag put down the phone. None. A thing he knew of course from the firehouse listings. But somehow he had wanted to hear it from Faber himself. In the hall Mildred's face was suffused with excitement. "Well, the ladies are coming over!" | 1 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 46 | them. It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back. It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XV SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict. 'Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously. Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head. 'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. 'Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?' The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a | 1 |
29 | Tarzan of the Apes.txt | 78 | board the Arrow. The sight that met the Frenchmen's eyes as they clambered over the ship's side was appalling. A dozen dead and dying men rolled hither and thither upon the pitching deck, the living intermingled with the dead. Two of the corpses appeared to have been partially devoured as though by wolves. The prize crew soon had the vessel under proper sail once more and the living members of the ill-starred company carried below to their hammocks. The dead were wrapped in tarpaulins and lashed on deck to be identified by their comrades before being consigned to the deep. None of the living was conscious when the Frenchmen reached the Arrow's deck. Even the poor devil who had waved the single despairing signal of distress had lapsed into unconsciousness before he had learned whether it had availed or not. It did not take the French officer long to learn what had caused the terrible condition aboard; for when water and brandy were sought to restore the men, it was found that there was none, nor even food of any description. He immediately signalled to the cruiser to send water, medicine, and provisions, and another boat made the perilous trip to the Arrow. When restoratives had been applied several of the men regained consciousness, and then the whole story was told. That part of it we know up to the sailing of the Arrow after the murder of Snipes, and the burial of his body above the treasure chest. It seems that the pursuit by the cruiser had so terrorized the mutineers that they had continued out across the Atlantic for several days after losing her; but on discovering the meager supply of water and provisions aboard, they had turned back toward the east. With no one on board who understood navigation, discussions soon arose as to their whereabouts; and as three days' sailing to the east did not raise land, they bore off to the north, fearing that the high north winds that had prevailed had driven them south of the southern extremity of Africa. They kept on a north-northeasterly course for two days, when they were overtaken by a calm which lasted for nearly a week. Their water was gone, and in another day they would be without food. Conditions changed rapidly from bad to worse. One man went mad and leaped overboard. Soon another opened his veins and drank his own blood. When he died they threw him overboard also, though there were those among them who wanted to keep the corpse on board. Hunger was changing them from human beasts to wild beasts. Chapter 20 108 Two days before they had been picked up by the cruiser they had become too weak to handle the vessel, and that same day three men died. On the following morning it was seen that one of the corpses had been partially devoured. All that day the men lay glaring at each other like beasts of prey, and the following morning two of the corpses lay almost entirely stripped of flesh. The | 1 |
11 | Emma.txt | 21 | pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with, "I have something to tell you, Emma; some news." "Good or bad?" said she, quickly, looking up in his face. "I do not know which it ought to be called." "Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance. You are trying not to smile." "I am afraid," said he, composing his features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it." "Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too." "There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Does nothing occur to you?-- Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith." Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what. "Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole." "No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me." "You are prepared for the worst, I see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin." Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared-- and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed. "It is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago." She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement. "You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject." "You mistake me, you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only mean, that he intends it." "I mean that he has done it," answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted." "Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, "Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?" "It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to | 1 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 51 | "Did she die free?" asked Jem. "As the mountain air," said Atticus. "She was conscious to the last, almost. Conscious," he smiled, "and cantankerous. She still disapproved heartily of my doings, and said I'd probably spend the rest of my life bailing you out of jail. She had Jessie fix you this box-" Atticus reached down and picked up the candy box. He handed it to Jem. Jem opened the box. Inside, surrounded by wads of damp cotton, was a white, waxy, perfect camellia. It was a Snow-on-the-Mountain. Jem's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Old hell-devil, old hell-devil!" he screamed, flinging it down. "Why can't she leave me alone?" In a flash Atticus was up and standing over him. Jem buried his face in Atticus's shirt front. "Sh-h," he said. "I think that was her way of telling you- everything's all right now, Jem, everything's all right. You know, she was a great lady." "A lady?" Jem raised his head. His face was scarlet. "After all those things she said about you, a lady?" "She was. She had her own views about things, a lot different from mine, maybe... son, I told you that if you hadn't lost your head I'd have made you go read to her. I wanted you to see something about her- I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her. According to her views, she died beholden to nothing and nobody. She was the bravest person I ever knew." Jem picked up the candy box and threw it in the fire. He picked up the camellia, and when I went off to bed I saw him fingering the wide petals. Atticus was reading the paper. PART TWO 12 Jem was twelve. He was difficult to live with, inconsistent, moody. His appetite was appalling, and he told me so many times to stop pestering him I consulted Atticus: "Reckon he's got a tapeworm?" Atticus said no, Jem was growing. I must be patient with him and disturb him as little as possible. This change in Jem had come about in a matter of weeks. Mrs. Dubose was not cold in her grave- Jem had seemed grateful enough for my company when he went to read to her. Overnight, it seemed, Jem had acquired an alien set of values and was trying to impose them on me: several times he went so far as to tell me what to do. After one altercation when Jem hollered, "It's time you started bein' a girl and acting right!" I burst into tears and fled to Calpurnia. "Don't you fret too much over Mister Jem-" she began. "Mister Jem?" "Yeah, he's just about Mister Jem now." "He ain't that old," I said. "All he needs is somebody to | 1 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 95 | Morpheus! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none tonight! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need by, tonight shall be sleepless. Later.--Glad I made the resolution, gladder that I kept to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once. My patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only in his night gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and as we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house. I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield's figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old iron-bound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, les t I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him, the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say. . . "I am here to do your bidding, Master. I am your slave, and you will | 1 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 40 | again. Meanwhile other people had come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and nodded across him to Miss Price. "You're very late," she said. "Are you only just up?" "It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in bed and think how beautiful it was out." Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously. "That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would be more to the point to get up and enjoy it." "The way of the humorist is very hard," said the young man gravely. He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he was working in colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. He turned to Philip. "Have you just come out from England?" "Yes." "How did you find your way to Amitrano's?" "It was the only school I knew of." "I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn anything here which will be of the smallest use to you." "It's the best school in Paris," said Miss Price. "It's the only one where they take art seriously." "Should art be taken seriously?" the young man asked; and since Miss Price replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: "But the point is, all schools are bad. They are academical, obviously. Why this is less injurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than elsewhere. Because you learn nothing...." "But why d'you come here then?" interrupted Philip. "I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who is cultured, will remember the Latin of that." "I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr. Clutton," said Miss Price brusquely. "The only way to learn to paint," he went on, imperturbable, "is to take a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself." "That seems a simple thing to do," said Philip. "It only needs money," replied Clutton. He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the comer of his eye. He was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his body; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the arms of his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on each of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to Philip's easel. "If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just help you a little," she said. "Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour," said Clutton, looking meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me because I have genius." He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he said very quaint. | 1 |
92 | The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt | 46 | his lips. “Not here. Why?” I gestured at the sketches. “If Lukub is hosting the Banquet, then the third trial will be in Nizahl.” The guards exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Wes said slowly. “Baira’s trial will be held in Nizahl.” Jeru’s thick brows drew together. “You are the Nizahl Champion; did you think you could avoid visiting the kingdom you’re competing for?” The question circled in my head. In the whirl of change, I had not stopped to consider I would be meeting Supreme Rawain again. The man who slaughtered my family, who eviscerated Jasad, would be delivered glory by the very same Heir he had failed to kill. I walked out without another word. My surroundings dipped in and out of focus. If I failed in the Alcalah, Felix’s ego would not rest until my head was mounted on Mahair’s flag post. If I did win, I would be granted a Victor’s immunity, but I would be spitting on the grave of every Jasadi cut down by a Nizahl sword. Which I could have borne, were it not for the fact that apparently, two groups of Jasadis probably suspected I was the Heir. Perhaps they were even stupid enough to want me at the helm of their pointless cause. What other reason could they have for chasing me? Certainly not the draw of my magic. At some point, I had slid down the wall in the hallway. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and a part of me noted this fit could have been delayed for the ten steps it took to reach my room. I started to laugh. If Arin knew the real reason the Mufsids and Urabi were competing, if he thought for even just one second that the Jasad Heir was alive and living two halls away from him—I laughed harder. They’d have to scrape what was left of me off the walls. He was not a man who played the odds, and the risk that the Mufsids or Urabi could capture me and lend legitimacy to their cause was too great. Maybe they didn’t hope to recruit me. It was entirely possible they simply wanted to kill me themselves. Take their well-deserved revenge on the Heir who had forsaken them. “Careful, sire,” came Vaun’s voice, but it seemed to emerge from a narrow tunnel. “Her kind lash out during outbursts.” I trained you to lead Jasad, and he is training you to betray it. What freedom can you gain after this? Where can you go where Essiya won’t follow? Hanim’s words bled into my thoughts, until I could not distinguish what was mine and what was Hanim’s. I became vaguely aware of a shape settling in front of me in the hall. I cringed, drawing my knees closer. I hope you perish in the very first trial. Sylvia is worthless, and if you succeed as Nizahl’s Champion, Essiya will be, too. How did they know where to find me? Why would they conjure Hanim’s rotting specter if they meant to recruit me? I could not guess | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 98 | been watching too much CSI and Law and Order or whatever on TV,” her father had charged. Montoya had held up a hand. “We’ll handle it,” he’d assured her before they’d left. Father and daughter had shuttled quickly away, out the door of the viewing room, their footsteps echoing in the hallway before fading, and the body had been returned to the morgue where the detectives were now standing, staring down at what remained of Helene Sands Laroche. And Montoya was right. Without makeup or her wigs, the prosthetics on her nose and cheeks removed, she looked younger than her years. “Yeah.” Bentz was staring at the corpse and shaking his head, knowing that the psycho who had killed so many was at it again. All because Bentz’s aim had been off just a fraction, but enough to allow the pathetic piece of human garbage that was the Rosary Killer to survive. If only the bullet would have found its mark on that murky night in the bayou, or if only the alligators had feasted on the wounded man. But no. Father John was back. “This is not a copycat.” “Probably not.” “Let’s get out of here.” The morgue was cold and sterile with tile walls and shiny, brutal-looking instruments—stainless steel saws and scales, forceps and scalpels, scissors and hammers. Tools of the trade for autopsies, but Bentz imagined them as weapons. They’d seen enough. Though the autopsy wasn’t complete, the toxicology screen not processed, it seemed obvious that Helene Laroche had died from asphyxiation, the result of being strangled by what appeared to be, at least in Bentz’s mind, a rosary, most likely a homemade one with sharpened beads and piano wire for string. He’d seen it before. A long time ago. Outside the day was gray and overcast, still warmer than usual for October, the wind steady and quick. The talk by the weather forecasters was that there was still a chance for a hurricane this year. That thought was grim; hurricanes here, despite all the recent upgrades to the city’s defenses against huge storms, were a cause of major concern and stretched city services, including the police department, to the limits of their capabilities. They reached Montoya’s Mustang and Bentz slid into the passenger seat. “All right,” Montoya said as he started the car and the big engine roared to life. “I’m convinced. Rosary is back.” He wheeled out of the lot, gunning it to slide into a spot in heavy traffic. This wasn’t good news, but at least Montoya and Bentz were on the same page. “But I’m not sure he was behind the McKnight homicide.” “No?” The truth was Bentz was on the fence about that as well. “MO is too different.” “What are the chances that we’ve got two whackos dressed as priests?” “Slim. Okay, I’ll give you that.” Montoya’s head swiveled and then he cut across traffic to make a quick left turn. “Hey!” Bentz shouted as an angry horn blared. In all the years they’d been partnered together Bentz had never gotten used to | 0 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 52 | no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.'' ``They have none of them much to recommend them,'' replied he; ``they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.'' ``Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.'' ``You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these twenty years at least.'' ``Ah! you do not know what I suffer.'' ``But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.'' ``It will be no use to us if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.'' ``Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty I will visit them all.'' Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news. __ CHAPTER II (2) MR. BENNET was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with, ``I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.'' ``We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,'' said her mother resentfully, ``since we are not to visit.'' ``But you forget, mama,'' said Elizabeth, ``that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.'' ``I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.'' ``No more have I,'' said Mr. Bennet; ``and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you.'' Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters. ``Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.'' ``Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,'' said her father; ``she times them ill.'' ``I do not cough for my own amusement,'' replied Kitty fretfully. | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 47 | this, quite seriously. Then sighed. Marched to the window, hauled it open. Reached out, feeling for the drainpipe. Glanced back over her shoulder. Mouthed, Two minutes. Jane-one motioned one of the men to cover the keyhole. Tiptoed to the center of the room. Twirled a finger in the air. At first the men didn’t understand. Then she kicked off her shoes, pulled her apron over her head, unbuttoned her black twill dress. Their mouths dropped open. She stood there in her chemise and her bloomers. The men turned around in a hurry. Jane-one felt a tingling in her muscles, and began her stretches. 35 1:00 a.m. Hephzibah had a new problem. There was a man heading upstairs. She recognized the ashen gleam to his hair from the old days. The family lawyer. Mr. Lockwood. As soon as the princess had gone in for supper, he’d slipped away from the royal party. Hephzibah had watched him beetling toward the stairs. She’d planted several of her best people by the banister to head off any real guests who tried to leave the saloon floor, but the crush was too great—they couldn’t waylay him. No, no. She hastened after him. He took the stairs two at a time, as if he were in a hurry. Hephzibah had to cling on to the banister to stop herself from tumbling over. “Sir!” she exclaimed, voice going up a notch. He didn’t hear her. He rounded the stairs and disappeared. Her first thought was, He’s fetching something for Miss de Vries. But her bedroom was at the front of the house, facing the park. And Lockwood had turned the other way, toward the enormous suite above the ballroom. He had entered Mr. de Vries’s bedroom. Her heart plunged when she saw Mrs. Bone’s men marching over from the other end of the house, ready to start clearing Mr. de Vries’s suite of its possessions. She hoisted her skirts and legged it along the passage. The double doors were open. The lights were burning dimly in the gigantic suite beyond. Lockwood was already in there. The men frowned at her, halting. “Do as I do,” she said, breathless. She pressed herself behind the half-open door, skirts to the wall. The lawyer didn’t seem to notice that half the objects in the room were sitting under dust sheets, or atop packing crates. He was crouching by the bureau, opening drawers, rifling inside, closing them again. Searching for something. One of the men leaned over her shoulder. His breath smelled very faintly of beer. He had a terrifyingly muscular forearm. “We need him out of there,” he said. Hephzibah scanned the insurance contract in her mind. No gags, no blindfolds. But there was nothing about scaring people... “Death!” she cried, throwing open the sliding doors. “Destruction! Doom!” Lockwood started nearly out of his skin, lurching backward. Hephzibah strode across the bare floorboards, sequins scattering as she went. “Good Lord,” Lockwood said, face reddening in annoyance. He had a nasty bruise on his top lip. “We will deliver you to your doom!” | 0 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 50 | and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around. 'What room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver. 'This is not the place I went to sleep in.' He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work. 'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,--as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!' With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck. 'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!' 'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; 'perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.' 'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly. 'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though,' added Oliver after a moment's silence. 'If she had seen me hurt, it would have made here sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.' The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again. So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted | 1 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 23 | to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations. "But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. "Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. `Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. `Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even YOU turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.' "These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion | 1 |
77 | Maame.txt | 55 | know whether that’s a good thing or not; I don’t know whether I want him to think I am or not. So I sit and eat my ice cream. “I think the opposite of you,” I finally admit. “Not that you’re not-innocent, but rather … experienced.” I twirl a finger around the kitchen. “You’ve done this before. It’s been such a smooth night, there’s no doubt you’ve done this before.” “I don’t deny it,” he says. I have to wait for him to swallow his ice cream before he continues. “Last year, I came out of a four-year relationship.” Four years? “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.” “We grew apart,” he says. “It took me a while to accept that, sometimes, nothing is wrong.” He looks calm as he says it, maybe a little sad even. “Growing up and apart—it can happen.” “Growing up” catches me off guard because he’s thirty-four. He’s already grown up, but then I realize how naive that sounds. I don’t think you turn thirty and become immune to mistake-making or lesson-learning. You grow wiser (supposedly) but never omniscient. There’s always something you need to be taught, and so you keep learning and you keep growing up—until you’re dead. But I don’t know that feeling and I’m having difficulty imagining it. Ben has experienced real love, having a partner, another half. He’s grown older with someone, experienced life with them, years, milestones, celebrations as well as lamentations. It’s a mature response to the end of all of that, to the end of four years with someone you no longer see. “Do you date much, Maddie?” I don’t want to tell him my last date was eight years ago at Nando’s and that my ex had brought his friends along so we could all share the platter. But his response was so honest I can’t find it in me to lie. “No, not much at all,” I admit. “I am … or was a homebody.” Ben puts down his spoon to listen to me; I feel quite trapped by how warm his stare is. “I spent a lot of time with my dad. My mum travels…” I hear her voice before I say anything else. Our matters are private, remember? You tell one person, they tell another and the next thing you know, important people are asking all sorts of questions. “My mum travels a lot, so it was just Dad and me for a while,” I say slowly. “She’s back now and so I moved out and…” I shrug, not sure of where I’m going with this, if I should be going anywhere with this. “I guess I’m finally living a little.” Ben smiles softly, firstly to himself and then at me. He holds up his sundae glass. “Cheers to living a little,” he says. I clink mine against his and whisper, “Cheers.” * * * Ben kisses me again at the end of the night. He orders me a cab home and kisses me on his doorstep until it arrives. He uses his tongue and | 0 |
91 | The-One.txt | 33 | from October first, if you still have it.” He knows it’s likely too late. Most stores only keep their security footage for ninety days, but smaller businesses like the Kirkland Market are more likely to only keep them for thirty. Her pleasant smile fades. She glances around as if she might be in imminent danger. “Um. Did you say homicide?” “I did. I’m looking for something possibly related to an ongoing investigation,” he lies. “Do you know if you still have your security footage from that date?” She swallows. “Let me just check with my manager.” She waves her hand to get the attention of a middle-aged man straightening an aisle end display of organic honey. “Hey, Rick? Could you come here?” The man walks toward them wearing a matching green apron to his employee behind the counter. The cashier points to Ethan when the manager approaches. “This man is a detective from Seattle Homicide. Wanting to know how long we keep our security footage.” Beyond them, an elderly woman slows her cart, watching them intently before turning down an aisle. The manager turns his attention to Ethan, raising his eyebrows. “Oh. We keep ours for ninety days.” A grave shadow crosses over his face. “Did something happen here I should be aware of?” “No. I’m just looking for something that might help in an ongoing investigation. Would I be able to view the footage you have from the evening of October first?” Ethan holds his breath as the manager seems to think it over. There is no way Ethan can get a warrant if he asks for one. “Sure.” Rick glances at the entrance as several more shoppers enter the store. “But I won’t have time to go through the footage until later today, unless you want to go have a look for yourself. We’re short-staffed and busier than usual with Thanksgiving coming up.” Ethan thinks of the assault victim from last night. And the second, untouched case file still sitting atop his desk. “Later today is great.” He pulls out his card with his email and extends it to the manager. Normally, Ethan would give the business a link to upload the footage directly to the department’s official website for digital evidence collection, where it would get logged and linked to a specific investigation. “Okay.” The manager inspects the card. “Detective Marks. I’ll email you a link to view the footage from the night. It might be early evening by the time I send it over.” “Thank you.” “Excuse me?” a tall, dark-haired woman with a toddler on her hip comes to a stop beside Ethan, her exasperated gaze fixed on the manager. “Do you have that organic cranberry sauce made from that farm in Grayland?” The manager tucks Ethan’s card into his apron and nods. “Right this way.” Chapter 49 Sloane takes a seat beside the window overlooking the Seattle waterfront at the same table she shared with Kay just over a month ago. She looks around the busy Italian restaurant as she waits for Ethan’s mother. Every table | 0 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 24 | raised him and he caught the window sill. "Hurry," Jem whispered, "we can't last much longer." Dill punched my shoulder, and we lowered him to the ground. "What'd you see?" "Nothing. Curtains. There's a little teeny light way off somewhere, though." "Let's get away from here," breathed Jem. "Let's go 'round in back again. Sh-h," he warned me, as I was about to protest. "Let's try the back window." "Dill, no," I said. Dill stopped and let Jem go ahead. When Jem put his foot on the bottom step, the step squeaked. He stood still, then tried his weight by degrees. The step was silent. Jem skipped two steps, put his foot on the porch, heaved himself to it, and teetered a long moment. He regained his balance and dropped to his knees. He crawled to the window, raised his head and looked in. Then I saw the shadow. It was the shadow of a man with a hat on. At first I thought it was a tree, but there was no wind blowing, and tree-trunks never walked. The back porch was bathed in moonlight, and the shadow, crisp as toast, moved across the porch toward Jem. Dill saw it next. He put his hands to his face. When it crossed Jem, Jem saw it. He put his arms over his head and went rigid. The shadow stopped about a foot beyond Jem. Its arm came out from its side, dropped, and was still. Then it turned and moved back across Jem, walked along the porch and off the side of the house, returning as it had come. Jem leaped off the porch and galloped toward us. He flung open the gate, danced Dill and me through, and shooed us between two rows of swishing collards. Halfway through the collards I tripped; as I tripped the roar of a shotgun shattered the neighborhood. Dill and Jem dived beside me. Jem's breath came in sobs: "Fence by the schoolyard!- hurry, Scout!" Jem held the bottom wire; Dill and I rolled through and were halfway to the shelter of the schoolyard's solitary oak when we sensed that Jem was not with us. We ran back and found him struggling in the fence, kicking his pants off to get loose. He ran to the oak tree in his shorts. Safely behind it, we gave way to numbness, but Jem's mind was racing: "We gotta get home, they'll miss us." We ran across the schoolyard, crawled under the fence to Deer's Pasture behind our house, climbed our back fence and were at the back steps before Jem would let us pause to rest. Respiration normal, the three of us strolled as casually as we could to the front yard. We looked down the street and saw a circle of neighbors at the Radley front gate. "We better go down there," said Jem. "They'll think it's funny if we don't show up." Mr. Nathan Radley was standing inside his gate, a shotgun broken across his arm. Atticus was standing beside Miss Maudie and Miss Stephanie Crawford. Miss | 1 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 56 | oleaginousness, smarminess. decrepitude, imbecility, feebleness, phosphorescent: (adj) bright, light, wearisome: (adj, v) tiresome, irksome, insanity, years; (adj) second glowing, fluorescent, phosphoreous; troublesome; (adj) tedious, dull, childishness. ANTONYM: (n) (v) meteoric, in a blaze, ablaze, monotonous, boring, laborious, adolescence. blazing, rutilant, relucent. trying, slow, annoying. ANTONYMS: jollity: (adj, n) glee, joviality; (n) shipwreck: (n, v) ruin; (adj, v) sink; (v) (adj) satisfying, soothing, exciting, merriment, cheerfulness, festivity, defeat, scuttle, destroy, fail; (n) hulk, refreshing, easy. frolic, gladness, hilarity, mirth, accident, wreckage, wrack, ruination. witticisms: (n) facetiae. Nathaniel Hawthorne 19 bright-buttoned %blue coat, his brisk and vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, altogether he seemed--not young, indeed--but a kind of new contrivance of Mother Nature in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no business to touch. His voice and laugh, which perpetually re-echoed through the Custom- House, had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old man's utterance; they came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a clarion. Looking at him merely as an animal--and there was very little else to look at--he was a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness and wholesomeness of his system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or nearly all, the delights which he had ever aimed at or conceived of. The careless security of his life in the Custom-House, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehensions of removal, had no doubt contributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original and more potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfection of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritual ingredients; these latter qualities, indeed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walking on all-fours. He possessed no power of thought no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities: nothing, in short, but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper which grew inevitably out of his physical well-being, did duty very respectably, and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. He had been the husband of three wives, all long since dead; the father of twenty children, most of whom, at every age of childhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. Here, one would suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest disposition through and through with a sable tinge. Not so with our old Inspector One brief sigh sufficed to carry off the entire burden of these dismal reminiscences. The next moment he was as ready for sport as any unbreeched infant: far readier than the Collector's junior clerk, who at nineteen years was much the elder and graver man of the two. I used to watch and study this patriarchal personage with, I think, livelier curiosity than any other form of humanity there presented to my notice. He was, in truth, a rare phenomenon; so perfect, in one point of view; so shallow, so Thesaurus admixture: (n) mixture, composite, tinge, steep, dye, | 1 |
48 | Wuthering Heights.txt | 47 | during two or three hours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals, and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of the candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was very, very sad; and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy had vanished from the world, never to be restored. "The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen latch. Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual, owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my companion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at me. " 'I'll keep him out five minutes,' he exclaimed. 'You won't object?' " 'No; you may keep him out the whole night for me,' I answered. 'Do; put the key in the lock, and draw the bolts.' "Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front. He then came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that gleamed from his. As he both looked and felt like an assassin, he couldn't exactly find that; but he discov- ered enough to encourage him to speak. " 'You and I,' he said, 'have each a great debt to set- tle with the man out yonder. If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment?' " 'I'm weary of enduring now,' I replied, 'and I'd be glad of a retaliation that wouldn't recoil on myself; but treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends. They wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies.' " 'Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence!' cried Hindley. 'Mrs. Heath- cliff, I'll ask you to do nothing but sit still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I'm sure you would have as much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend's existence. He'll be your death unless you overreach him; and he'll be my ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he were master here al- ready! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that clock strikes---it wants three minutes of one---you're a free woman!' "He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his breast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away, however, and seized his arm. " 'I'll not hold my tongue,' I said; 'you mustn't touch him. Let the door remain shut, and be quiet.' " 'No! I've formed my | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 16 | At sunset they carried the sacks to the postbox, frog-marching the postman down the lane with one of Mrs. Bone’s stony-faced guards. Winnie patted her sack as it was borne away from her hands. “Godspeed,” she murmured. Mrs. King glanced at her. “You’re enjoying this.” Winnie considered this seriously. “I am,” she said. “Come on,” Mrs. King said. “Let’s have a drink.” She felt it then: that burst and tingle of pleasure, that thrill of surety. She had her funds, her women, her plan. She pictured the messages flying out into the night, lifting off like starlings in flight: looping and undulating and gathering force like a storm cloud. To Europe, to America and beyond. Spreading the word: there was a big job on the horizon, bigger than all imagining, a fortune to be made... Godspeed, she said to herself—in private, deep inside. * * * Alice came downstairs while the other servants were managing the dinner service. She’d been at her worktable nearly four hours, mouth parched, eyes blurring, and there was an intractable ache in her neck. Madam’s costume was at the stage where it controlled her, not the other way around. Unpicking one thread meant unpicking a dozen more. The shoulder seams were immensely delicate, spun as finely as silkworm threads, and they needed to carry so much weight: the rich lining, jet ornaments, the far-reaching acreage of the train. The dress seemed to unspool every time she looked at it, growing uglier, wilder, blacker. She hoped never to see crepe de Chine again. Miss de Vries hadn’t sent for her all day. Alice hounded the other servants with inquiries: had Madam given word as to when she next wanted to be fitted? Had she left any message, any instructions for Alice at all? She needed some assurance that she was still doing well, that she was excelling, that she was safe. The weaselly-looking errand boy was lugging a bucket of coal in for the range. “Whatchoo asking so many questions for?” he said, staring at Alice without compunction. Alice rounded on him. “Bugger off, little rat,” she said, showing her teeth. His eyes widened, startled, and he scuttled off across the yard, his ragged coat flapping in the breeze. Alice had startled herself. She put her hands to her crucifix. By any measure it was too late for Miss de Vries to still be eating her dinner. Evidently, she was preoccupied, absorbed in business. Alice lingered in the front hall, trying to invent excuses to enter the dining room. William, the head footman, came out and spotted her. “You’d better make yourself scarce before Shepherd sees you,” he said, eyes narrowing. And then, voice gentle: “What’s got you in a twist?” “Nothing,” she said, anguished. “Hmm,” he said, turning his gaze away from her. “Do I sense a tragedy?” She blushed at that and scurried outside, crossing the garden, then the yard. Mr. Doggett and his boys were playing Racing Demon outside the mews house, flicking cigarette ash behind the ornamental urns. They didn’t notice Alice, or else | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 9 | like medicine,” I said, counting off on my fingers. “And I do like art.” Suffice it to say, he didn’t think any of that was relevant. Then he went on to imply that I was spoiled and foolish and had never known true suffering. Even though we both knew—on that last one, at least—he was lying. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He didn’t get to decide what I did with my life. I was the one who had to live it, after all. My dad was not a big fan of losing. “Don’t ask me for help when you’re broke,” he said. “You’re on your own. If you choose this path for yourself, then you have to walk it.” I shrugged. “I haven’t asked you for help since I was fourteen.” At that, my dad stood up, scooting back his café chair with a honk that announced he was done. Done with this conversation—and possibly done with fatherhood, as well. I still remember the determination I felt as I watched him leave. It seems almost quaint now. I’ll show you, I remember thinking, with a self-righteous fire in my eyes. I’ll make you wish you’d believed in me all along. Spoiler alert: I did not show him. At least not so far. That was eight years ago. I’d gotten that BFA in Fine Arts. I’d graduated all alone, and then I’d marched past all the families taking proud pictures, and then I’d driven triumphantly out of the university parking lot in my banged-up Toyota that my friend Sue and I had painted hot pink with flames for the Art Car Parade. And then? I’d embarked on many endless years of … not showing him. I applied to contests and didn’t win. I submitted my work for shows and didn’t get accepted. I eked out a living selling portraits from photos (both human and pet) on Etsy at a hundred dollars a pop. But it wasn’t enough to make rent. And whenever I talked to my dad, I pretended I was “thriving.” Because he might have been right that day. I might be headed for a pauper’s grave. But I would be under the dirt in that grave before I’d ever admit it. That must have been why I called him about placing in the contest. The contest itself was a big deal—and huge prize money, if you could win it. I guess the lure of having a genuine triumph to report kept me from thinking clearly. Plus, don’t we all, deep down, carry an inextinguishable longing for our parents to be proud of us? Even long after we’ve given up? In the thrill of the moment, I forgot that he didn’t care. It was a good thing—and no surprise—that my call went straight to his voicemail. It meant I could make my next call. To somebody who did care. “What!” my friend Sue shouted as soon as the words were out. “That’s huge!” She stretched out the U for what felt like a full minute. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge. And I just let myself enjoy it. | 0 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 25 | her get close in some ways, but he continued to doggedly fend her off in others. Last night at her mother’s house, they’d been each other’s one-person hype squads. They’d comforted each other with touches and . . . God, at some point it started to feel like she was actually introducing her husband into the family. She’d forgotten about their arrangement right up until Ingram stood to leave for the night. She’d wanted to forget again on the ride home, but the silence was too deafening. Was he waiting for her to announce her returned feelings? Was he waiting for her to announce she wanted him as her real husband? Reading August was next to impossible this morning, when he was working in the barn with the door closed, a clear sign to stay out. She wasn’t welcome there. And it was too much of a reminder of how she’d been raised. Allowed to participate only when it was convenient for everyone else and there was no chance she’d screw up. Maybe she would screw up his operation, even worse than it already was. After all, she’d flamed out brilliantly in New York. If he were hurting her intentionally, maybe she could find the heart to be mad at him. But really, he was just a stubborn, determined man who saw only the goal, not sparing any thoughts about who he climbed over to reach it. And instead of being mad at him, she missed him. Missed sitting shoulder to thigh with him like she’d done last night. Missed the sound of his big, obnoxious laugh—and it had been only one day. Whether she’d hurt him by protecting herself and not vocalizing her feelings or he was shutting her out, she still wanted to hear that laugh. She wanted this time with him and she wanted to experience it to the fullest because it . . . made her feel a way she couldn’t admit yet. Not without questioning her vision for the future. Natalie’s attention drifted away from her laptop and around the kitchen, landing on a package of cookies above the stove. Should she make August some food? Heaven only knew the last thing he’d expect was for her to bring him a snack. An idea struck. A perfect way to hear his laugh again. She closed her laptop and made sure the door was locked, then she spent the next forty-five minutes setting her plans in motion. At one time, she’d been known in this town as the prank queen. But it had been a while since she’d played a prank. Funny how the series of pranks excited her more than the chance to guarantee a billion dollars in financing, but that was a problem for another day. For now, she desperately needed to lighten the tension between her and August. And in the process, she’d get him back for making her dance to “Brick House” at their wedding. Close to an hour later, Natalie plated the cookies she’d been working on, schooled her features, and walked out | 0 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 51 | susceptibility of Mr. Welland's bronchial tubes, they always spent the latter part of the winter. Mr. Welland was a mild and silent man, with no opinions but with many habits. With these habits none might interfere; and one of them demanded that his wife and daughter should always go with him on his annual journey to the south. To preserve an unbroken domesticity was essential to his peace of mind; he would not have known where his hair-brushes were, or how to provide stamps for his letters, if Mrs. Welland had not been there to tell him. As all the members of the family adored each other, and as Mr. Welland was the central object of their idolatry, it never occurred to his wife and May to let him go to St. Augustine alone; and his sons, who were both in the law, and could not leave New York during the winter, always joined him for Easter and travelled back with him. It was impossible for Archer to discuss the necessity of May's accompanying her father. The reputation of the Mingotts' family physician was largely based on the attack of pneumonia which Mr. Welland had never had; and his insistence on St. Augustine was therefore inflexible. Originally, it had been intended that May's engagement should not be announced till her return from Florida, and the fact that it had been made known sooner could not be expected to alter Mr. Welland's plans. Archer would have liked to join the travellers and have a few weeks of sunshine and boating with his betrothed; but he too was bound by custom and conventions. Little arduous as his professional duties were, he would have been convicted of frivolity by the whole Mingott clan if he had suggested asking for a holiday in mid-winter; and he accepted May's departure with the resignation which he perceived would have to be one of the principal constituents of married life. He was conscious that Madame Olenska was looking at him under lowered lids. "I have done what you wished--what you advised," she said abruptly. "Ah--I'm glad," he returned, embarrassed by her broaching the subject at such a moment. "I understand--that you were right," she went on a little breathlessly; "but sometimes life is difficult . . . perplexing. . ." "I know." "And I wanted to tell you that I DO feel you were right; and that I'm grateful to you," she ended, lifting her opera-glass quickly to her eyes as the door of the box opened and Beaufort's resonant voice broke in on them. Archer stood up, and left the box and the theatre. Only the day before he had received a letter from May Welland in which, with characteristic candour, she had asked him to "be kind to Ellen" in their absence. "She likes you and admires you so much--and you know, though she doesn't show it, she's still very lonely and unhappy. I don't think Granny understands her, or uncle Lovell Mingott either; they really think she's much worldlier and fonder of society than she is. | 1 |
29 | Tarzan of the Apes.txt | 17 | left no opening for any thought that these could be aught else than enemies. Similarity of form led him into no erroneous conception of the welcome that would be accorded him should he be discovered by these, the first of his own kind he had ever seen. Tarzan of the Apes was no sentimentalist. He knew nothing of the brotherhood of man. All things outside his own tribe were his deadly enemies, with the few exceptions of which Tantor, the elephant, was a marked example. Chapter 10 And he realized all this without malice or hatred. To kill was the law of the wild world he knew. Few were his primitive pleasures, but the greatest of these was to hunt and kill, and so he accorded to others the right to cherish the same desires as he, even though he himself might be the object of their hunt. His strange life had left him neither morose nor bloodthirsty. That he joyed in killing, and that he killed with a joyous laugh upon his handsome lips betokened no innate cruelty. He killed for food most often, but, being a man, he sometimes killed for pleasure, a thing which no other animal does; for it has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death. And when he killed for revenge, or in self-defense, he did that also without hysteria, for it was a very businesslike proceeding which admitted of no levity. So it was that now, as he cautiously approached the village of Mbonga, he was quite prepared either to kill or be killed should he be discovered. He proceeded with unwonted stealth, for Kulonga had taught him great respect for the little sharp splinters of wood which dealt death so swiftly and unerringly. At length he came to a great tree, heavy laden with thick foliage and loaded with pendant loops of giant creepers. From this almost impenetrable bower above the village he crouched, looking down upon the scene below him, wondering over every feature of this new, strange life. There were naked children running and playing in the village street. There were women grinding dried plantain in crude stone mortars, while others were fashioning cakes from the powdered flour. Out in the fields he could see still other women hoeing, weeding, or gathering. All wore strange protruding girdles of dried grass about their hips and many were loaded with brass and copper anklets, armlets and bracelets. Around many a dusky neck hung curiously coiled strands of wire, while several were further ornamented by huge nose rings. Tarzan of the Apes looked with growing wonder at these strange creatures. Dozing in the shade he saw several men, while at the extreme outskirts of the clearing he occasionally caught glimpses of armed warriors apparently guarding the village against surprise from an attacking enemy. He noticed that the women alone worked. Nowhere was there evidence of a man tilling the fields or performing any of the homely duties of the village. Finally | 1 |
44 | Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt | 43 | Ah never married her for nothin’ lak dat. She’s uh woman and her place is in de home.” Janie made her face laugh after a short pause, but it wasn’t too easy. She had never thought of making a speech, and did- n’t know if she cared to make one at all. It must have been the way Joe spoke out without giving her a chance to say any- thing one way or another that took the bloom off of things. But anyway, she went down the road behind him that night feeling cold. He strode along invested with his new dignity, thought and planned out loud, unconscious of her thoughts. “De mayor of uh town lak dis can’t lay round home too much. De place needs buildin’ up. Janie, Ah’ll git hold uh somebody tuh help out in de store and you kin look after things whilst Ah drum up things otherwise.” “Oh Jody, Ah can’t do nothin’ wid no store lessen youse there. Ah could maybe come in and help you when things git rushed, but—” “I god, Ah don’t see how come yuh can’t. ’Tain’t nothin’ atall tuh hinder yuh if yuh got uh thimble full uh sense. You 52 Zora Neale Hurston got tuh. Ah got too much else on mah hands as Mayor. Dis town needs some light right now.” “Unh hunh, it is uh little dark right long heah.” “’Course it is. ’Tain’t no use in scufflin’ over all dese stumps and roots in de dark. Ah’ll call uh meetin’ bout de dark and de roots right away. Ah’ll sit on dis case first thing.” The very next day with money out of his own pocket he sent off to Sears, Roebuck and Company for the street lamp and told the town to meet the following Thursday night to vote on it. Nobody had ever thought of street lamps and some of them said it was a useless notion. They went so far as to vote against it, but the majority ruled. But the whole town got vain over it after it came. That was because the Mayor didn’t just take it out of the crate and stick it up on a post. He unwrapped it and had it wiped off carefully and put it up on a showcase for a week for every- body to see. Then he set a time for the lighting and sent word all around Orange County for one and all to come to the lamplighting. He sent men out to the swamp to cut the finest and the straightest cypress post they could find, and kept on sending them back to hunt another one until they found one that pleased him. He had talked to the people already about the hospitality of the occasion. “Y’all know we can’t invite people to our town just dry long so. I god, naw. We got tuh feed ’em something, and ’tain’t nothin’ people laks better’n barbecue. Ah’ll give one whole hawg mah ownself. Seem lak all de rest uh y’all put tuhgether oughta | 1 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 45 | before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you | 1 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 91 | Siyāti uq-Nāra used to distil a cure for the Curse of Yikala, the plague breathed by the Nameless One. Suttu the Dreamer: The legendary founder of the House of Onjenyu, who led the Joyful Few over the Eria – the great salt desert, still thought to be impossible to cross – from a distant civilisation named Selinun. Queen Jeda of Taano State welcomed them to Lasia. Suttu carried a spear, Mulsub, which she claimed was dipped in starlight. Washtu: The Lasian high divinity of fire, believed to have pulled hair from the sun to bring heat and light to the world. She is both the enemy and lover of Abaso, the high divinity of water. The Priory of the Orange Tree assigns particular importance to Washtu. THE WEST Adeliza ‘Adela’ afa Dáura: A lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet. Daughter of Liuma afa Dáura. Annes Haster: A woman of the Leas, married to Sir Landon Croft. Bramel Stathworth (Sir Bramel): A knight of Inys and guard to Glorian Berethnet. Brangain Crest (Lady Brangain): Duchess of Justice, head of the noble Crest family, and a descendant of the Knight of Justice. She is mother to Julain Crest. Damud Stillwater (Lord Damud): Duke of Courage, head of the noble Stillwater family, and a descendant of the Knight of Courage. Doctor Forthard: Royal physician to the House of Berethnet. Edith Combe (Lade Edith): Duchet of Courtesy and a descendant of the Knight of Fellowship. Edrick Glenn (Lord Edrick or Baron Glenn): Baron Glenn of Langarth, and adoptive father to Roland, Mara and Wulf. He is married to Lord Mansell Shore. He is responsible for the haithwood north of the Wickerwath, keeping it on behalf of the Countess of Deorn, who lives some way from the forest and reports to Lord Robart Eller, the highest authority of the Lakes. Erda Lindley (Dame Erda): A knight of Inys and guard to Glorian Berethnet. Florell Glade (Lady Florell): First Lady of the Great Chamber to Sabran VI of Inys. Gladwin Fynch (Lady Gladwin): Duchess of Temperance, descendant of the Knight of Temperance. Guma Vetalda (the Hermit of Hart Grove): High Prince of Yscalin and Duke of Kóvuga, and twin brother of Rozaria III of Yscalin, born a few minutes after her. Uncle to the Donmato Alarico and granduncle to Princess Idrega and Prince Therico. He rules from the stronghold of Hart Grove and is the wealthiest man in Yscalin, thanks to the mines known collectively as the Ufarassus. Helisent Beck (Lady Helisent): A lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet. Daughter of Lord Ordan Beck, the Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch. Idrega Vetalda: Princess of Yscalin and only daughter of the Donmato Alarico and his companion, Thederica Yelarigas. Sister to Therico, grandniece of Prince Guma, and granddaughter of Rozaria III. Julain Crest (Lady Julain): Principal lady-in-waiting to Glorian Berethnet, and daughter of Lady Brangain Crest, the Duchess of Justice. Kell Bourn (Mastress Bourn): A bonesetter and assistant to Doctor Forthard. Liuma afa Dáura: A lady-in-waiting and former tutor to Sabran VI of Inys, who taught her Yscali. Liuma is now Mistress of the Robes. | 0 |
48 | Wuthering Heights.txt | 95 | "Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so dia- bolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weep- ing, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then; his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an ex- pression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face in the presence of such grief. In his case, I was gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart. His weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong." "Fie, fie, miss!" I interrupted. "One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God af- flict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to His." "In general I'll allow that it would be, Ellen," she continued; "but what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings, and he might know that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much! On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, for every wrench of agony return a wrench, re- duce him to my level; as he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then--why, then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is ut- terly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was. " 'Not as ill as I wish,' he replied. 'But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps.' " 'Yes, no wonder,' was my next remark. 'Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm. She meant that certain persons would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It's well people don't really rise from their grave, or last night she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised and cut over your chest and shoulders?' " 'I can't say,' he answered; 'but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when I was down?' " 'He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,' I whispered. 'And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth, because he's only half man--- not so much---and the rest fiend.' "Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the counte- nance of our mutual foe, who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him. The longer he | 1 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 60 | town his best damn shot and grapes simply weren’t his area of expertise. All efforts to be successful were exhausted. He’d left nothing on the battlefield. Until last night, when Natalie slid a new opportunity across the table. Now? August could no longer walk away secure in the knowledge that he’d done everything in his power to bring Sam’s dream to life. There was one more try available—so he had to take it or guilt and loose ends would haunt him for the rest of his life. And the woman. She would haunt him, too. Natalie needed something—her trust fund. He could help give it to her. August liked to think he would help any woman who was up against some ancient bullshit contract designed to force her into marriage, but deep down he knew it was just this one. Natalie. Damn it to hell, what was it about her? Every time they were together, a needle sewed itself in and out of his gut. His palms sweat. His dick pleaded with him to be nicer so it might have a chance of seeing the light of day at some point. Or, better yet, the dark of her bedroom. They fought like they hated each other, but somehow, Lord, he’d been ready to drop to his knees in front of her on that sidewalk last night. I’m better elsewhere. I’m something. I’m someone when I’m not here. After the shock of hearing that breathy confession had worn off, he’d just gotten mad. Who the fuck made her feel like that? How long had she been feeling like crap without his knowing about it? That second concern happened to be ridiculous, by the way. There were probably endless things he didn’t know about Natalie Vos. Their relationship didn’t exactly lend itself to a lot of quiet heart-to-hearts in front of a fire. Still, he should have known about her insecurity. That she was better off gone. He should have picked up on it. He should have shut his stupid mouth and paid better attention. As she’d made abundantly clear, it was too late for August to romance her in any way. Attraction might be an undeniable crackle between them, but she wouldn’t touch him with industrial rubber gloves, let alone her bare hands. Still, he couldn’t walk away from Natalie if she needed him. Not when she’d sucked it up and asked for assistance when it clearly had been very difficult to set aside her pride. No, he’d dwell on it forever. So he crossed the stupid street in his hot, restrictive suit with his molars grinding together, scanning the crowd for the black-haired goddess he would never get to sleep with but would apparently be marrying, because he’d lost his fucking mind. It was so hot under the tent that he immediately started to sweat. Why did these people insist on gathering to celebrate fermented grape juice? Had none of them heard of baseball? Now that was a reason to gather outside in the sun— Natalie. Up ahead. Hot. Damn. As usual, | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 49 | the glasses. With one foot he hooked forward the small arm-chair, whose seat was now an empty circular frame of wood, until it was directly opposite him. Bond stood stark naked in the middle of the room, bruises showing livid on his white body, his face a grey mask of exhaustion and knowledge of what was to come. 'Sit down there.' Le Chiffre nodded at the chair in front of him. Bond walked over and sat down. The thin man produced some flex. With this he bound Bond's wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the front legs. He passed a double strand across his chest, under the arm-pits and through the chair-back. He made no mistakes with the knots and left no play in any of the bindings. All of them bit sharply into Bond's flesh. The legs of the chair were broadly spaced and Bond could not even rock it. He was utterly a prisoner, naked and defenceless. His buttocks and the underpart of his body protruded through the seat of the chair towards the floor. Le Chiffre nodded to the thin man who quietly left the room and closed the door. There was a packet of Gauloises on the table and a lighter. Le Chiffre lit a cigarette and swallowed a mouthful of coffee from the glass. Then he picked up the cane carpet-beater and, resting the handle comfortably on his knee, allowed the flat trefoil base to lie on the floor directly under Bond's chair. He looked Bond carefully, almost caressingly, in the eyes. Then his wrists sprang suddenly upwards on his knee. The result was startling. Bond's whole body arched in an involuntary spasm. His face contracted in a soundless scream and his lips drew right away from his teeth. At the same time his head flew back with a jerk showing the taut sinews of his neck. For an instant, muscles stood out in knots all over his body and his toes and fingers clenched until they were quite white. Then his body sagged and perspiration started to bead all over his body. He uttered a deep groan. Le Chiffre waited for his eyes to open. 'You see, dear boy?' He smiled a soft, fat smile. 'Is the position quite clear now?' A drop of sweat fell off Bond's chin on to his naked chest. 'Now let us get down to business and see how soon we can be finished with this unfortunate mess you have got yourself into.' He puffed cheerfully at his cigarette and gave an admonitory tap on the floor beneath Bond's chair with his horrible and incongruous instrument. 'My dear boy,' Le Chiffre spoke like a father, 'the game of Red Indians is over, quite over. You have stumbled by mischance into a game for grown-ups and you have already found it a painful experience. You are not equipped, my dear boy, to play games with adults and it was very foolish of your nanny in London to have sent you out here with your spade and bucket. | 1 |
11 | Emma.txt | 62 | said Frank Churchill, "to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield-- if you are going home." Mrs. Weston was disappointed. "I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased." "Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps--I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?" "I am here on no business of my own," said Emma; "I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument." "Well--if you advise it.--But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone--what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood." "I do not believe any such thing," replied Emma.--"I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night." "Do come with me," said Mrs. Weston, "if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it." He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,--trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. "Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford.-- "Yes--no--yes, to Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.--And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly-- so it had better go to Hartfield--at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?" "It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels." "No more it is." "No trouble in the world, ma'am," said the obliging Mrs. Ford. "Oh! but indeed I would much | 1 |
17 | Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt | 45 | "Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see." Harry walked toward him. I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's all. Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again. He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone. "Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?" Harry screwed up his courage. "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've won the house cup for Gryffindor." Quirrell cursed again. "Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it? But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips. "He lies...He lies..." "Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you just see?" The high voice spoke again. "Let me speak to him...face-to-face..." "Master, you are not strong enough!" "I have strength enough...for this..." Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot. Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. "Harry Potter..." it whispered. Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move. "See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor...I have form only when I can share another's body...but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds...Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks...you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest...and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own...Now...why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?" So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He stumbled backward. "Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me...or you'll meet the same end as your parents...They died begging me for mercy..." "LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly. Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling. "How touching..." it hissed. "I always | 1 |
11 | Emma.txt | 22 | was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings. This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper. "I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably. "But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out." Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private. It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. "Is not this most vexations, Knightley?" she cried.--"And such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston." "You had better explore to Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my | 1 |
48 | Wuthering Heights.txt | 48 | so!" she wrote. "My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can't give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. "He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place--" I began to nod drowsily over the dim page; my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title--"Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabes Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough." And while I was, half consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabes Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! what else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering. I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning, and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim's staff, telling me I could never get into the house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there. We were journeying to hear the famous Jabes Branderham preach from the text, "Seventy Times Seven," and either Joseph the preacher or I had committed the "First of the Seventy-First," and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks twice or thrice. It lies in a hollow between two hills---an elevated hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of embalm- ing on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman's sti- pend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor, especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabes had a full and attentive congregation, and he preached--good God! what a sermon, divided into four hundred and ninety parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he | 1 |
47 | Ulysses.txt | 63 | and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be feared all the occupants have been buried alive. From the reports of eyewitnesses it transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by a violent atmospheric perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of headgear since ascertained to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials, crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen bay near the old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of the different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to decree that a special MISSA PRO DEFUNCTIS shall be celebrated simultaneously by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the episcopal dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy See in suffrage of the souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away from our midst. The work of salvage, removal of DEBRIS, human remains etc has been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street, and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable sir Hercules Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P. C., K. C. B., M. P, J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R. I. A., B. L., Mus. Doc., P. L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P. I. and F. R. C. S. I. You never saw the like of it in all your born puff. Gob, if he got that lottery ticket on the side of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the citizen would have been lagged for assault and battery and Joe for aiding and abetting. The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure as God made Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And he let a volley of oaths after him. --Did I kill him, says he, or what? And | 1 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 63 | day . . . I nibbled at Thais’s home-thread, fraying it inch by inch. When it finally snapped, all the love that Thais felt for Alante, the reason she would never leave the city, disappeared. I asked Rosa to send her dreams of traveling so intense that she wouldn’t be able to resist. When Thais packed up her things and left, it wasn’t a surprise. I had wished it. I had planned it.” It was intentional, it was premeditated, it was slow and meticulous. It was malicious, she was malicious, and she knew it. She had thought telling Edei would be liberating, a burden lifted off her shoulders, a shared solace. But what she felt was sadness. Now that she had heard it spoken aloud, her story was one of unhappiness. She felt sad for herself, for Ava. For Thais, too. “Io,” Edei started— “I saw her today,” she went on, because she could feel that he was going to try to make her feel better and that maybe he was going to succeed, and she didn’t deserve that. “With Saint-Yves. She was calm and kind and happy. And I just kept thinking, what if she just needed someone to fight for her? I didn’t even try.” “It wasn’t your responsibility to try. You were what? Sixteen? You were in pain, for years, and you chose to protect yourself.” After a moment, Edei said, “Someone wise told me once that tolerating wickedness is just a slow kind of death.” A sound came out of Io’s throat, half a sob, half a laugh. They were her words, reflected back to her. She looked at the ceiling. Gods, he was wonderful. If she went into the Quilt, she knew, the fate-thread would be pulsing bright as the moon of Pandia. She could reach out and tug it, and she could show him. This is our fate-thread. This is how I feel. But the fear was all-consuming: she couldn’t imagine any other reaction except betrayal and blame. She hadn’t cut it, she had hidden it for too long, and worst of all, now she was fulfilling it. She was falling for him. She would asphyxiate him with what he hated: a destiny laid out for him, a choice made for him. Soon, she thought. She would tell the truth, and lose him, after this mess was over. “You really think it could be Bianca?” Edei asked. “Yes.” Tenderly, she added, “I think the people we love can be cruel. Our love doesn’t absolve them. Nor should it.” “What kind of person are you,” Edei whispered, “if you love someone who is cruel?” It was a question Io had often asked herself. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.” This was one of those lessons you had to speak to hear, wasn’t it? “You asked me to trust you,” Edei said, massaging his palms. “I do trust you. For a minute back there, I forgot. I’m sorry.” | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 83 | to get parts for old equipment. Stuff comes from all over the world these days, so what’re ya gonna do?” Then he glanced to the side. “Oh. Hello. What’s this?” “What?” She watched as he took a step to the side of the door, leaned down, and picked up a vase of flowers—roses and baby’s breath—that had been tucked close to the house, just out of her viewpoint from the cracked doorway. Straightening, he said, “I think these are for you?” Kristi wasn’t surprised. She’d received bouquets and live plants for the better part of two weeks, but she’d thought maybe they’d stopped coming. This was the first delivery in four days. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and headed back to his van. She followed him with her eyes as he retrieved equipment and tools, then left the door open for him and carried the flowers inside just as her cell phone jangled. She left the vase on a side table near the front door. Answering, she kept her gaze on the technician. He seemed okay, but she was still unnerved, trying to be uber-careful these days. The call was from Bella. “Hey, just letting you know that we’re actually doing it. Tomorrow, at six in the morning, if you can believe that, because Sarah has to be at work at seven forty-five.” “What?” “Running! We’re going to start at Crescent Park six a.m., sharp. That’s when it’s supposed to open, and from what I’ve heard it has great jogging and walking paths.” It did. Kristi had run the span of trails and bridges with great city views. Bella continued, “Thought you might want to join in. You’re the expert.” “Six?” Kristi repeated, watching as the boxes of security components grew and the repairman suddenly looked up at her, obviously waiting to speak with her. “Look, I doubt it. Not tomorrow. Maybe another time? But I have to run now. I’ve got someone here.” “Wait!” Bella said. “I need to ask you something. From the producer of the morning show at the station.” “What?” Kristi asked, holding up a finger at Lance to indicate she’d be off the call shortly. “Renee-Claire, the host, would love it if you would do a show. And soon. It’s almost Halloween and we’re doing all kinds of spooky stuff at the station and on Bonjour, New Orleans! And since you’re the resident author who writes about serial killers and I know you, they thought I could convince you to be on the show.” “Oh—God, I can’t think about that now,” Kristi said. “Yeah, I know it’s a bad time, but they’re really interested! I mean really! I think they’ve even talked to your publisher or agent or something.” “What? Uh . . .” Lance was still waiting. Kristi said, “I can’t . . . I mean . . . I’ll call you back,” and she ended the call. “Sorry,” Lance apologized by rote, then said, “I see you’ve got an older system. As in ancient. Are you sure you just want to upgrade it a | 0 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 25 | tone of voice and closed down its speech channel again. Zaphod and Trillian pored over the figures that the Improbability flight path scanner flashed silently up in front of them. "Can we work out," said Zaphod, "from their point of view what the Improbability of their rescue was?" "Yes, that's a constant", said Trillian, "two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand seven hundred and nine to one against." "That's high. They're two lucky lucky guys." "Yes." "But relative to what we were doing when the ship picked them up ..." Trillian punched up the figures. They showed tow-to-the power- of-Infinity-minus-one (an irrational number that only has a conventional meaning in Improbability physics). "... it's pretty low," continued Zaphod with a slight whistle. "Yes," agreed Trillian, and looked at him quizzically. "That's one big whack of Improbability to be accounted for. Something pretty improbable has got to show up on the balance sheet if it's all going to add up into a pretty sum." Zaphod scribbled a few sums, crossed them out and threw the pencil away. "Bat's dots, I can't work it out." "Well?" Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth. "OK," he said. "Computer!" The voice circuits sprang to life again. "Why hello there!" they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). "All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer ..." "Yeah well shut up and work something out for me." "Sure thing," chattered the computer, "you want a probability forecast based on ..." "Improbability data, yeah." "OK," the computer continued. "Here's an interesting little notion. Did you realize that most people's lives are governed by telephone numbers?" A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod's faces and on to the other one. "Have you flipped?" he said. "No, but you will when I tell you that ..." Trillian gasped. She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight path screen. "Telephone number?" she said. "Did that thing say telephone number?" Numbers flashed up on the screen. The computer had paused politely, but now it continued. "What I was about to say was that ..." "Don't bother please," said Trillian. "Look, what is this?" said Zaphod. "I don't know," said Trillian, "but those aliens - they're on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot. Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?" ================================================================= Chapter 13 Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning. "... and then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side ..." "No?" said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. "Really?" "Oh yes," said Marvin, "I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens." "I can imagine." Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. "Well well well," he kept saying to himself, "Zaphod Beeblebrox ..." Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand. "You know what's happened now of course?" "No, what?" said Arthur, who didn't what to know. "We've arrived at another of those | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 12 | body, hungry for every molecular detail. Was she floating right now? It felt that way, but she couldn’t be sure, her body was tingling, her teeth were chattering and then it was gone – the vibrations stopped, the light disappeared and the sky was dark again. Slowly she lowered her arms, opened her eyes. Her feet were firmly on the ground and, adjusting to the darkness, she peered up. She saw stars multiplying like bacteria in a petri dish. These weren’t stars, she thought, they were too bright, too big, and they were arranging themselves in formations – they were ships, ships in the night sky. A staggeringly beautiful alien armada had arrived, the moment many had pondered but few had ever thought would happen. With no previous fascination in space, her interests grounded in the world around her, Liza was surprised how quickly her mind accepted this new reality. A scientist to her core, she updated her understanding of the universe – they were not alone in the cosmos and, more importantly, they’d been found. Back in the city, across the red-tiled rooftops and church spires, the first sound to break the awestruck silence was the wail of an older woman like the call to prayer. As if answering the call, military jets flew low across the city, crude and cumbersome compared to the elegance of the star ships far above them. After the roar of jet engines came the sound of sirens, so many overlapping sounds that it was clear the city would never be silent again. Liza turned to Atto, a man she barely knew, whose hand she was holding and sharing this moment with. He was still staring up at the star ships, watching them enter the atmosphere, and she could tell that more than fear, he felt a sense of wonder, utterly absorbed in the magnificence of the invasion taking place in their sky. ‘Atto?’ He looked at her like a man waking from a deep sleep, trying to figure out the world around him. The dumbstruck population stirred into action, some people moving with haste as though they knew exactly what to do in the case of an alien occupation, while others remained stupefied, gazing up at the extraordinary night sky. In awe of the armada above her, one woman stepped into the streets, struck down by a speeding police car that didn’t bother to stop. Those nearby rushed to her side and Liza’s instinct as a medical student was to join them, to try to help. Atto squeezed her hand. ‘No ambulance is coming. There’s no hospital treatment. That time is over.’ Many people seemed to want to flee but had no idea where to flee to – out of the city or underground, should they wait on boats huddled in the middle of the river, away from the buildings, or move to higher ground? Without direction or guidance, they had no sense of their place in this world or this world’s place in the universe. Anything was possible now. Pulling his own thoughts together, | 0 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 68 | have to mask the flood of excitement I feel as the dam bursts and the rush of excitement overwhelms me. I always feel this way as the game commences, and the high is dizzying. My single complaint is that the fake blood he’s drenched in is too opaque. I like it better when I can see through it just a little. “Please!” Javier screams as he clings to the doorjamb, chest heaving. “Please help me! He—he’s out there!” “Who?” I ask. “What are you talking about?” I know my lines as well as I know my own name. “A guy in a mask!” Javier bellows, real tears glinting in his eyes. “Help me!” The brunette gasps as she clings to her friend, her eyes wide, her mouth halfway open. She’s terrified. Only me and the remaining staff know that it’s about to get a lot worse for her specifically. The rude guests are always the ones who end up crying or pissing their pants first. Over the course of the next few hours, the guests move through a carefully curated series of experiences. I like to make sure they have a good view of Kyle in his mask, machete in hand, as he carves up Javier, Porter, and Tasha one by one. Of course we leave time for guests to “hide” or try to make their own plans for navigating the camp, but it’s all a part of the game even if they don’t realize it. Halfway through the game, the guests end up separating, and Javier and Tasha have to herd them back to a common area so that we can move them toward the next gruesome display. While they handle that, I find myself alone by the lake. I separate from the group early in the game so I can help with other special effects. I’m waiting for my cue, which, for tonight’s game, is the audio of a girl screaming at the top of her lungs played over the tiny speakers hidden in the trees near the guest cabins. When it sounds, my job is to dump a bucket of fake blood mixed with a few pieces of raw chicken onto the path so the guests come across it. As I wait in the shadow of a towering pine tree near Mirror Lake’s shore, there’s a splash in the water behind me. I turn to look, expecting to see one of the guests doing something they’re not supposed to be doing, but there’s no one. I take a step toward the lake. Just offshore, I spot something in the water. A shadowy human-size shape bobbing near the surface. Their head and shoulders move up and down, but I can’t see their face. “Hey!” I shout. “Get out of there! You can’t be in the water!” I edge my way along the shore. Who the hell is out there? Who’d want to be? “Hey!” I shout again. “Charity, go!” A voice sounds in my earpiece, and my heart jumps into my throat. I scramble back to the path and spill | 0 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 60 | Wúràọlá could begin residency right after his house job. Relieved that Kingsley was not probing any further about Kúnlé, she nodded as he continued weighing his options. Dermatology, community health or psychiatry. He kept talking until they drove into the teaching hospital. Tifẹ́’s party was happening in Springhill, a space in the university’s New Buka that was used for everything from birthday raves to prayer meetings. Kingsley reached for Wúràọlá’s hand after he parked the car. She flinched at the unexpected touch. “Wúràọlá.” “It’s nothing. I didn’t know you would…We don’t hold hands.” “The thing is, I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth. A part of me hopes you are because, yes, why should you be with someone like that?” Kingsley reached for an errant twist that had slipped from her loose bun. “But if I’m honest with myself, a part of me also wishes you were lying. That he has been hitting you and does not deserve you. Because maybe then I could still have the slimmest chance with you.” “Kingsley, you’re a nice friend but I’ve never—” “You don’t have to say it. I know.” Kingsley sighed. “The thing is, you need to leave him if he’s slapping you. You know that. Right?” “But to be clear, he’s not.” Wúràọlá did not want to leave Kúnlé. It was not just a question of the embarrassment of a broken engagement or how disappointed and ashamed her parents would be. In the week after her mother’s birthday, she’d been surprised at how bereft she felt whenever she thought about ending things. It was clear to her then that she wanted to be married to Kúnlé and only wanted him to stop hitting her when he was upset. There had been no escalation beyond slapping. He was working on himself. She knew what she was doing. There was nothing to worry about yet, no reason to cough up details to Tifẹ́ and watch judgement seep into her gaze. Why didn’t you leave him after the first time? Lágbájá was playing on the sound system when they got to Springhill. The party had not started yet, but Tifẹ́ was dancing konko below while the dozen or so people in the room cheered her on. Kingsley joined the chant. “Go, go, go, Tifẹ́.” Tifẹ́ turned to them, threw her arms open. “Kingsley! Wúrà!” “Where is Grace?” Wúràọlá asked as they hugged. “Have you lost weight?” Tifẹ́ pulled back and poked at Wúràọlá’s collarbones. “You’ve lost weight. Hope you’re not starving yourself to fit in a stupid dress?” “You’re the only one gaining weight during house job, Tifẹ́. I don’t even understand.” Grace came in bearing a birthday cake. She was followed by other people who carried varying sizes of coolers and covered dishes. “Man dey hunger, please,” Kingsley said. He was going round the room, shaking hands with everyone he recognised. “Grace, abeg, can I have something to step down?” Grace opened one of the coolers, wrapped something in a serviette and held it out to Kingsley. “Meat pie?” “God go bless you.” | 0 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 47 | Constantine needed to strengthen the new Christian tradition, and held a famous ecumenical gathering known as the Council of Nicaea." 157 Sophie had heard of it only insofar as its being the birthplace of the Nicene Creed. "At this gathering," Teabing said, "many aspects of Christianity were debated and voted upon-the date of Easter, the role of the bishops, the administration of sacraments, and, of course, the divinity of Jesus." "I don't follow. His divinity?" "My dear," Teabing declared, "until that moment in history, Jesus was viewed by His followers as a mortal prophet... a great and powerful man, but a man nonetheless. A mortal." "Not the Son of God?" "Right," Teabing said. "Jesus' establishment as 'the Son of God' was officially proposed and voted on by the Council of Nicaea." "Hold on. You're saying Jesus' divinity was the result of a vote?" "A relatively close vote at that," Teabing added. "Nonetheless, establishing Christ's divinity was critical to the further unification of the Roman empire and to the new Vatican power base. By officially endorsing Jesus as the Son of God, Constantine turned Jesus into a deity who existed beyond the scope of the human world, an entity whose power was unchallengeable. This not only precluded further pagan challenges to Christianity, but now the followers of Christ were able to redeem themselves only via the established sacred channel-the Roman Catholic Church." Sophie glanced at Langdon, and he gave her a soft nod of concurrence. "It was all about power," Teabing continued. "Christ as Messiah was critical to the functioning of Church and state. Many scholars claim that the early Church literally stole Jesus from His original followers, hijacking His human message, shrouding it in an impenetrable cloak of divinity, and using it to expand their own power. I've written several books on the topic." "And I assume devout Christians send you hate mail on a daily basis?" "Why would they?" Teabing countered. "The vast majority of educated Christians know the history of their faith. Jesus was indeed a great and powerful man. Constantine's underhanded political maneuvers don't diminish the majesty of Christ's life. Nobody is saying Christ was a fraud, or denying that He walked the earth and inspired millions to better lives. All we are saying is that Constantine took advantage of Christ's substantial influence and importance. And in doing so, he shaped the face of Christianity as we know it today." Sophie glanced at the art book before her, eager to move on and see the Da Vinci painting of the Holy Grail. "The twist is this," Teabing said, talking faster now. "Because Constantine upgraded Jesus' status almost four centuries after Jesus' death, thousands of documents already existed chronicling His life as a mortal man. To rewrite the history books, Constantine knew he would need a bold stroke. From this sprang the most profound moment in Christian history." Teabing paused, eyeing Sophie. "Constantine commissioned and financed a new Bible, which omitted those gospels that spoke of Christ's human traits and embellished those gospels that made Him godlike. The earlier gospels | 1 |
6 | Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt | 56 | had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my desk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with the copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby might snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay. In this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating what it was I wanted him to do—namely, to examine a small paper with me. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from | 1 |
74 | Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt | 23 | it had. It seemed our baggage was compostable, thank goodness. “Bridesmaids and groomsmen, line up!” I hear the photographer call. Lanier pops up between Mary Stuart and me, making me jump. “After this, champagne!” I smile, even though I know I won’t drink it, as we file out onto the front steps, staggering bridesmaids and groomsmen. Even during times of extreme stress, ever since I got pregnant with Henry, I don’t really want to drink. I work hard on my sobriety. Every day involves journaling and meditation, yoga and mantras. And I still go to therapy, although not as often as I used to. But I remember so clearly how scared I was then, how bad I felt all the time, how my life revolved around my next pill, my next drink. I never want to go back to that. That said, I just celebrated seven years of sobriety and, while that’s exciting, it’s also the year my mother relapsed. I’m not worried necessarily. More like hypervigilant. Mary Stuart is waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps for Ted, who is talking to Huff. It breaks my heart a little that I’ve never seen them play in what I’m sure is a ridiculous grown-man basketball league. Lanier is on the other end of the line from me and I lean out a little, blowing her a kiss, feeling ever so slightly guilty about the innermost thoughts about her brother I’m having trouble controlling. The photographer is busy lining us up by height and calling out orders. Huff and Ted each have one of Mary Stuart’s arms and are helping her climb the steep steps where we are all standing so that the bride and groom can take their place at the center of this calamity. I don’t want to catch Huff’s eye, but I can’t help it. After getting Mary Stuart situated, he walks a few steps over to me and sweeps a piece of hair off my face. “Picture-perfect,” he says, holding my gaze for a minute too long. Then he walks away. It is only a moment, a millisecond. His skin hasn’t even touched mine, but, still, it makes my heart stop. I think that I am the only one to notice this electricity, but Adam, the tuxedoed groomsman beside me, asks, “What the hell was that?” The bridesmaid standing next to him, Gray—who I know of vaguely thanks to all the gossip about her scandalous marriage to a much younger tennis pro—waggles her eyebrows at him. “They used to… you know.” I glare at her because I don’t want Lanier to somehow hear this. “Ohhhh,” Adam replies. “You know, I felt that tension. I really did.” I roll my eyes and hiss, “Stop it.” “That’s not all,” Gray, who I have liked very much until this moment, says. “She was his lobster.” “Seriously,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is not Lanier’s favorite topic.” Gray waves her hand. “She knows he’s still in love with you. Hell, I’m his sister’s friend’s cousin and I know.” Another bridesmaid whose | 0 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 98 | well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby --the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not. `Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. `Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose'; as an unusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off. `If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, `the world would go round a deal faster than it does.' `Which would NOT be an advantage,' said Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. `Just think of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--' `Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, `chop off her head!' Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again: `Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is it twelve? I--' `Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; `I never could abide figures!' And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line: `Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes: He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases.' CHORUS. (In which the cook and the baby joined):-- `Wow! wow! wow!' While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:-- `I speak severely to my boy, I beat him when he sneezes; For he can thoroughly enjoy The pepper when he pleases!' CHORUS. `Wow! wow! wow!' `Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. `I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her. Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer- shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, `just like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first | 1 |
67 | How to Sell a Haunted House.txt | 14 | couldn’t see who it was through the glass, just a shape coming closer, then the front door opened and Clark stood there, looking at me. He wore the same shoes, the same glasses, his hair looked the same, but he had no burns, no bandages, no scars. Maybe we’d never been to Worcester? Maybe it had all been a dream? “Hey,” I said. Over my shoulder he saw the waiting cab and I saw him figure out the entire story in a flash. “Is everyone okay?” I asked, voice low. “Is your parents’ house okay?” “What do you want?” he asked. It was like we’d never met. “The Pupkin puppet that belonged to my mom,” I said. “I need it.” For a second he didn’t move and I thought maybe it had burned in the fire. I could tell Mom he’d lost Pupkin and she’d be devastated but I’d be free. After a moment, Clark turned and walked into the house, and I could have followed, seen if Sadie and Richard were there, cleared everything up, but at that moment I was having a hard time standing up, so I waited. After a minute, he came back with Pupkin in one hand. He held him out. “Did—” I started, and my throat closed tight, and I tried again. “Are Richard and Sadie okay?” His face didn’t change expression, he just dropped Pupkin on the porch and closed the door in my face. I watched him through the glass as he went back into his apartment, then I turned around and walked across the street, Pupkin in one hand. I couldn’t cut it. I wasn’t anyone special. I’d been thrown out. I was just Mark who may have killed two people because he was stupid and selfish, and that’s who I’d be for the rest of my life. In the streetlight, I looked down and saw Pupkin smiling up at me and I wanted to pull him over my hand and disappear into Tickytoo Woods again. But I made my legs keep moving and got back in the cab. “That man looked too old to be a student,” Mom said as I closed the door. Before I could answer, she took Pupkin and held him on her lap. “Hello, you,” she said. “He was the TA,” I told her. She talked to Pupkin and the cab driver for the entire ride to the airport. I don’t know what she told Dad, but neither of them ever said anything to me about Boston and I never told anyone, and it’s like six months of my life never happened at all. Chapter 23 L ouise let the silence last as long as she could out of respect, but then she couldn’t hold it any longer. Mark had been talking for a really long time. “If I don’t go to the bathroom right now,” she said, “I’m going to wet my pants.” She slid out of the booth as she said my pants and sprinted to the bathroom and locked the door. She came back a | 0 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 24 | Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won. But perhaps I won’t. Because: “If you get the job . . .” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.” “While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?” “Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.” “And why is that?” He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.” “A waste of what?” “Of you.” My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even— “Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.” Jack has taken a step back. “No problem,” he says, looking at me. “I just hope you wore something reflective.” A moment of silence. Then Volkov registers the pun and starts wheezing. “Oh, Jack, you—you—” He chortles. Jack’s already walking out of the room, but he stops in the door for a long glance and a low “Goodbye, Elsie.” After a beat, he adds, “It was a pleasure.” 8 FRICTION W HAT DO YOU MEAN , YOU THINK WE SHOULD LEAVE THEM be?” Mom’s voice is so shrill, I glance around to make sure no one overheard her through the phone. Dr. Voight waves at me before slipping inside the auditorium—the one where I’ll give my research talk in fifteen minutes—and my stomach flips, omelet-style. “It’s just . . . Lucas is very stubborn. Short of locking him in my dishwasher, I’m not sure how to stop him from acting up.” I hasten to add before Mom asks me to do just that, “And I think he’ll be okay if we give him space to sulk.” “What about Thanksgiving?” Uh? “What about Thanksgiving?” “What if he’s not done sulking by Thanksgiving? Where do I seat him? What if he doesn’t show? Your aunt will say that I don’t have my family under control. That she should host next year! She’s been trying to steal this from me for decades!” “Mom, it’s . . . January.” “And?” I spot Jack and Andrea coming my way, laughing, Michi and a gaggle of grads in tow. He’s one whole head taller than the crowd—like at every single Smith gathering—and wears a gray long-sleeved henley that manages to look simultaneously like the first thing he found in the laundry hamper and a highend piece tailored to showcase that protein is his favorite macronutrient. Haute couture by Chuck Norris. I wish he didn’t nod at me with that stupid smirk. I wish he wasn’t amused by my glare. “If by November things aren’t better, I’ll . . | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 78 | on. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess. These last weeks have been so strange and so hard … but I want you to know that, for me, you were the best thing about them. All the times you rescued me, all the times you looked after me. You were a genuine force for good in my life. I’m grateful. I’ll always be grateful—no matter what happened or where you are or how it ended. So. Thank you. Thank you for being a friend to me when I really, really needed one. And thank you for the most phenomenal kiss in the history of all time. And I think I’m in love with you, by the way—or at least I was. Before you ghosted me. But don’t worry. I’ll get over it.” Wait— Did I just say “in love with you”? Out loud? I started trying to hit End, but my finger was so panicked it just kept uselessly slapping the phone. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I said, still recording, as I failed to hang up. Finally, mid-flail, I added, “Okay, then. Best wishes!” And with that—on attempt number four thousand—I finally landed the pad of my finger on End. And we were done. The silence that followed was brutal, as those final seconds of that message echoed around in my head: “I think I’m in love with you, by the way.” Then a gasp—and “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Then, of all things: “Best wishes!” Best wishes? Best wishes? That’s how I ended the most humiliating voicemail in human history? Best frigging wishes? But then I had a comforting thought: It was fine. It really was. He’d never listen to it, anyway. Twenty-Nine I WENT TO bed that night feeling at peace with my choices. But I woke up the next day feeling nice and angry. Had I really just called the guy who ghosted me—and thanked him? Thanked him? Where exactly was my self-respect? You don’t thank people who put your heart in a meat grinder. You don’t thank people who abandon you. You don’t thank people who stare at you cold as ice and then turn away when you beg them for help. That was my plan? To absolve him of all responsibility and then pleasantly move on? He had dumped me and left town for no apparent reason without even an explanation—and he’d acted like I was the problem. Not cool. And I thought it was a good idea to leave him a grateful voicemail for that? Yes. Apparently I did. Which made me even angrier. At both of us. Because how was I supposed to get over it if I was consumed with rage? Or maybe getting consumed with rage was part of getting over it … Fine then. No more moping, no more weeping, no more pining for the future I’d lost hold of. It was time to be okay. For real. The anger was very healing—burning through me with a purifying fire. Sue approved. When she returned from her kidnapping elopement a few days later, we gave the | 0 |
44 | Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt | 94 | It was especially noticeable after Joe had forced through a town ditch to drain the street in front of the store. They had murmured hotly about slav- ery being over, but every man filled his assignment. There was something about Joe Starks that cowed the town. It was not because of physical fear. He was no fist fighter. His bulk was not even imposing as men go. Neither was it because he was more literate than the rest. Something else made men give way before him. He had a bow-down command in his face, and every step he took made the thing more tangible. Take for instance that new house of his. It had two stories with porches, with bannisters and such things. The rest of the town looked like servants’ quarters surrounding the “big 56 Zora Neale Hurston house.” And different from everybody else in the town he put off moving in until it had been painted, in and out. And look at the way he painted it—a gloaty, sparkly white. The kind of promenading white that the houses of Bishop Whipple, W. B. Jackson and the Vanderpool’s wore. It made the village feel funny talking to him—just like he was anybody else. Then there was the matter of the spittoons. No sooner was he all set as the Mayor—post master—landlord—storekeeper, than he bought a desk like Mr. Hill or Mr. Galloway over in Mait- land with one of those swing-around chairs to it. What with him biting down on cigars and saving his breath on talk and swinging round in that chair, it weakened people. And then he spit in that gold-looking vase that anybody else would have been glad to put on their front-room table. Said it was a spit- toon just like his used-to-be bossman used to have in his bank up there in Atlanta. Didn’t have to get up and go to the door every time he had to spit. Didn’t spit on his floor neither. Had that golded-up spitting pot right handy. But he went further than that. He bought a little lady-size spitting pot for Janie to spit in. Had it right in the parlor with little sprigs of flowers painted all around the sides. It took people by surprise because most of the women dipped snuff and of course had a spit-cup in the house. But how could they know up-to-date folks was spitting in flowery little things like that? It sort of made the rest of them feel that they had been taken advantage of. Like things had been kept from them. Maybe more things in the world besides spitting pots had been hid from them, when they wasn’t told no better than to spit in tomato cans. It was bad enough for white people, but when one of your own color Their Eyes Were Watching God 57 could be so different it put you on a wonder. It was like see- ing your sister turn into a ’gator. A familiar strangeness. You keep seeing your sister in the ’gator and the ’gator | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 49 | of yours.” “Of mine?” “A scientist.” Cece is a linguist, finishing up her Ph.D. at Harvard. We first met when her former roommate moved out: apparently, Hedgie had chewed her way through his boxer briefs. Also apparently: blasting “Immigrant Song” while making poached eggs on Saturday mornings is not something normal people put up with. Cece was desperate for someone to help with rent. I felt as if I’d just been skinned alive, and was desperate not to be living with J.J. Two desperate souls, who found each other in desperate times and desperately bonded—over the fact that I could scrape together seven hundred dollars a month, was not attached to my underwear, and owned a set of noisecanceling headphones. Frankly, I lucked out. Roommate feuds are a pain, what with the passiveaggressive notes and the aggressive-aggressive Windex poisoning. I was ready to bend, twist, and carve my personality a million different ways to get along with Cece. As it turns out, the Elsie that Cece wants is conveniently close to the Elsie I am: someone who’ll companionably pig out on cheese while she complains about academia; who, like her, chooses to use children’s Tylenol because it tastes like grape. I do have to fake an appreciation for avant-garde cinema, but it’s still a surprisingly relaxing friendship. “What kind of scientist is he?” “Is there more than one kind?” I smile. “Chemist. Or engineer? He was . . . handsome. Funny. He made a joke about mulch. My first mulch joke. Popped my mulch cherry.” Her tone is vaguely dreamy. “He just . . . seems like someone you’d want to date, you know?” “I’d want to date?” “Well”—she waves her hand—“not you you. You’d rather walk into the sea with stones in your pockets than date—though that’s because of your basic misconception that human romantic relationships can only succeed if you hide and shape yourself into what you think others want you to be—” “Not a misconception.” “—but other people would not ban Kirk from their chambers.” “Kirk, huh?” I initially feared that Cece would abysmally fail at fake-girlfriending. For one, she’s way too beautiful. Her wide-apart eyes, pointy chin, and Cupid’s- bowy lips might be unconventional, but she looks like the sexiest, most stunning bug in the universe. Secondly: she’s the opposite of a blank slate. A thing of nature who pees with the door open and eats Chex Mix as cereal, full of lurid anecdotes about dead linguists’ sex lives doled out with a charming lisp. I barely let any of my personality come through, but she bombards people. And it did turn out to be a problem: clients like her way too much. “What do you tell them when they ask you to date for real?” she asked me one night. We were splitting a bag of Babybels while watching a Russian silent movie in eight parts. “Not sure.” I wondered if the guy who offered me seventy bucks to have sex in his nearby parked car qualified. Probably not. “It’s never happened.” “Wait—really?” “Nope.” I shrugged. “No | 0 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 38 | them weren’t as wowed as Maud would have liked by the size of the formal garden, but what did she expect, with no flowers yet? The conservatory, however, they found cool, “like a spaceship,” Louise said. She galloped from one end to the other, yells echoing off the glass walls as Ella walked around with her hands over her ears. Down by the pond, the frogs stayed hidden despite Louise’s attempts to find them by flipping over the lily pads with a stick. Ella wanted to go online the minute they got back to the farmhouse, so Maud showed her where to find the Wi-Fi password, then helped Louise unpack her suitcase. “It doesn’t work,” Ella said from the doorway. “Hmm?” Maud dropped shirts into a dresser drawer. Ella held her phone in front of Maud’s face. A message—FaceTime Failed—showed on the screen. “Let me put these away, then I’ll take a look.” “I knew something like this would happen,” Ella said. “You guys just wanted me off my phone and away from my friends.” “Are you sure you got the password right?” Louise said. She was arranging her socks on the bed in a rainbow, her version of unpacking. “I know how to type a password, Louise!” “Don’t yell at your sister,” Maud said. “This isn’t an emergency. Why don’t you unpack and then we’ll look at it together?” “There’s nothing to look at. Because the connection sucks!” Steadily, Maud put away another shirt as Ella ranted: she only had two real friends anyway, and now she would lose them because they wouldn’t be able to FaceTime. Texting wasn’t enough. You had to see people’s faces. She’d go back to school with no friends at all. Plus, she didn’t want to live in the middle of nowhere. “I’m going to die of boredom.” Maud shut a drawer. “You’re not going to be bored. You’ll have camp.” “I’m too old for camp. I told you guys that.” Ella’s jaw jutted and her cheeks flared. She was having an updated version of the tantrums she used to have as a toddler, when she’d lie prostrate on the kitchen floor, pounding her fists and feet and wailing because she didn’t want a nap. And Maud felt that old irritation, that internal battle to stay patient. “Give me the phone,” she said. “What are you going to do with it?” Throw it in the Hudson, Maud thought. “See if I can figure it out. You unpack.” She had no idea what the problem could be with Ella’s phone. Hers worked fine in the farmhouse, although she never used FaceTime—few people her age did, and she’d never been good at technology. As for using the internet, Harriet had advised her to plug her computer into the modem with an ethernet cord. She called Peter to see if he had any ideas. “FaceTime uses more bandwidth,” he said. “But if the router’s dodgy, she should be able to use cellular.” He told her to check the indicator, which showed only one square at the farmhouse, so she | 0 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 35 | his light. Let us see if we can get a glimpse of him." The words were hardly out of my mouth when we both saw him. Over the rocks, in the crevice of which the candle burned, there was thrust out an evil yellow face, a terrible animal face, all seamed and scored with vile passions. Foul with mire, with a bristling beard, and hung with matted hair, it might well have belonged to one of those old savages who dwelt in the burrows on the hillsides. The light beneath him was reflected in his small, cunning eyes which peered fiercely to right and left through the darkness like a crafty and savage animal who has heard the steps of the hunters. Something had evidently aroused his suspicions. It may have been that Barrymore had some private signal which we had neglected to give, or the fellow may have had some other reason for thinking that all was not well, but I could read his fears upon his wicked face. Any instant he might dash out the light and vanish in the darkness. I sprang forward therefore, and Sir Henry did the same. At the same moment the convict screamed out a curse at us and hurled a rock which splintered up against the boulder which had sheltered us. I caught one glimpse of his short, squat, strongly built figure as he sprang to his feet and turned to run. At the same moment by a lucky chance the moon broke through the clouds. We rushed over the brow of the hill, and there was our man running with great speed down the other side, springing over the stones in his way with the activity of a mountain goat. A lucky long shot of my revolver might have crippled him, but I had brought it only to defend myself if attacked and not to shoot an unarmed man who was running away. We were both swift runners and in fairly good training, but we soon found that we had no chance of overtaking him. We saw him for a long time in the moonlight until he was only a small speck moving swiftly among the boulders upon the side of a distant hill. We ran and ran until we were completely blown, but the space between us grew ever wider. Finally we stopped and sat panting on two rocks, while we watched him disappearing in the distance. And it was at this moment that there occurred a most strange and unexpected thing. We had risen from our rocks and were turning to go home, having abandoned the hopeless chase. The moon was low upon the right, and the jagged pinnacle of a granite tor stood up against the lower curve of its silver disc. There, outlined as black as an ebony statue on that shining background, I saw the figure of a man upon the tor. Do not think that it was a delusion, Holmes. I assure you that I have never in my life seen anything more clearly. As far as | 1 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 26 | Lin and Josie. ‘Here you are, ladies.’ He turned to Neil. ‘I’m getting myself a cider – do you want one, Neil?’ ‘Oh, I’m not staying.’ Josie frowned. ‘Not staying to watch the fun?’ ‘Neil’s doing a lot of walking at the moment – his cholesterol is a bit high,’ Lin explained uncomfortably. ‘The weather is perfect for a walk,’ Neil added. He pecked Lin’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you this evening, love. I’ll make us an omelette with Janice’s hens’ eggs, and a salad.’ He walked away from the village green, and Josie said, ‘It’s good he’s keeping himself fit. Didn’t you want to go walking with him, Lin?’ ‘I ought to – I worry that he might stumble and fall in Old Scratch’s woods. The phone reception is not good from there…’ ‘Ah, he’ll be fine.’ Fergal had arrived back with a glass of cider, and took a deep draught. ‘That’s good stuff.’ Dangerous Dave wandered over towards them, glass in hand. ‘Lin, good to see you. Where’s Neil? He was here a moment ago…’ ‘He’s off for a walk.’ Lin sighed. ‘How’s Florence?’ Dave gazed at his daughter, who was watching the dancers. ‘She’s fine.’ He turned to Josie. ‘She told me everything when she got in last night. I wanted to say thanks to you – and to you, Lin – for taking her under your wing.’ ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Josie said. ‘Oh, I’m proud of her – she’s all I have.’ Dave shook his head. ‘And a baby on the way. That’s two of them to take care of now.’ ‘A babby is it, Dangerous?’ Fergal sipped cider thoughtfully. ‘That’s the one thing about having boys – you don’t worry about them bringing a kiddie back to the house.’ Dangerous Dave sipped from his glass. ‘I keep wondering who put her in the family way – I bet he’s here today.’ He gazed around, his eyes falling on Jack Lovejoy and Bobby Ledbury, who were dancing with the Morris men. Beyond, the Johnson family had assembled, Rita and Linval and Adam. His eyes swivelled to the Toomey boys at the makeshift bar, laughing and joking. ‘Hello.’ A polite cough came from behind Josie and she turned to find the vicar wearing clip-on sunglasses and a Panama hat. ‘Are we all having a lovely time?’ ‘Hello, Andrew. It’s a great turn out, isn’t it?’ Josie beamed. ‘It is.’ Andrew Cooper waved a hand to indicate the growing throng. ‘A perfect sunny day for the celebrations. It was Lin I wanted to see – well, Neil, really.’ ‘Oh?’ Lin offered a warm smile. ‘Neil’s gone for a walk in the woods.’ ‘Ah, I know he likes rambling – I wanted to ask if he’d join us in the ramblers’ group next Sunday? Only we are a bit low on numbers.’ ‘You should have asked him yesterday, Andrew, when he was out with you.’ ‘Oh, no. It was just myself and the Turvey sisters yesterday, but I hoped Neil would come and support next week.’ ‘I thought he…’ Lin felt | 0 |
49 | treasure island.txt | 51 | cuit, began to head me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I and I haven’t spoke with a Christian these three years.” been as fresh as when I rose, I could see it was in vain for me I could now see that he was a white man like myself and to contend in speed with such an adversary. From trunk to that his features were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping almost his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face. Of all the double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in beggar-men that I had seen or fancied, he was the chief for doubt about that. raggedness. He was clothed with tatters of old ship’s canvas I began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all within an ace of calling for help. But the mere fact that he held together by a system of the most various and incongru- was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and ous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry my fear of Silver began to revive in proportion. I stood still, gaskin. About his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as I belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutre- was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my ment. mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, cour- “Three years!” I cried. “Were you shipwrecked?” age glowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for “Nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.” this man of the island and walked briskly towards him. I had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible He was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as I in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island. to meet me. Then he hesitated, drew back, came forward “Marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on goats since then, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man Contents on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication. is, says I, a man can do for himself. But, mate, my heart is At that I once more stopped. sore for Christian diet. You mightn’t happen to have a piece Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 122 123 of cheese about you, now? No? Well, many’s the long | 1 |
85 | Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt | 69 | you a bad person. That made him a bad person when he used to be my person. He’s supposed to be someone I don’t recognize. But every so often he shows me flashes of a Bradley I do recognize, and I really need him to stop. “Okay,” Sophie says, “so that leaves…Brad and Celine?” I jolt at the sound of my name. Next to me, Bradley does the same. “One of you has a compass on your phone, right?” I open my mouth, then close it. What am I going to do, admit that I have no idea what’s going on? I doubt that would do my commitment score for the day any favors. “Yes,” I say calmly, just as Bradley announces, “I have a pocket compass, actually.” I do a double take as he pulls out a little black plastic thing and snaps it open. Of course, Prince Perfect brought his own. I wonder if Holly’s going to give him extra points for creative thinking—or commitment—or leadership. God. I really need to step up my game. “Oh, great!” Sophie says. “Okay, everyone, come and take a picture of the map.” Subtly, I move closer to Aurora. “What’s going on?” “Relays,” she whispers back. “We’re setting up a group chat and going off in pairs.” “What? How does that make sense?” “They have a signal booster out here,” she says. “To make sure hikers can call for help, if they get lost.” “No, I meant, we need each clue to find the next book, right?” “Yeah,” Aurora says, “that’s what the group chat is for. To share whatever we find. But this task takes part in the red-outlined section of the map—meaning there’s only a limited number of sectors, right? It’s not that big a surface area. So the other pairs will look around their sectors to see if they can stumble across anything while we all wait for more info. Going around in a big group of ten just seems like a waste of time. Most of us didn’t even have a task when we were searching for this book.” That…is a terrible plan. I should really say som— “Hang on,” I hiss, realization thwacking me in the face like a tree branch. “So I have to go off on my own with Brad?” Aurora winces, which is confirmation enough. “Who are you with?!” “Raj,” she says. “Sorry!” I fake-glare at her. She laughs. For the next five minutes, I completely ignore the impending doom staring me in the face. Then we all part ways, leaving Holly behind as a safety checkpoint, and I’m forced to approach Him. The Utmost Pain in My Arse. Stay zen, Celine. If we have to work together, we have to work together. I’m not a complete child. I take a nice soothing breath and rub my rain-damp palms over my thighs. This is going to be fine. I will make it fine. Fine! BRAD Celine’s being weirder than usual. “This is honestly ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath for the ten thousandth time as we | 0 |
53 | After Death.txt | 4 | could use it with no risk of the company’s most important and privileged information being compromised. The second system is for online research, lab computation, strictly internal communications, and project data storage. It is protected by a series of firewalls, and the employees authorized to use it must access the system with both a pass code and a retinal scan; it’s the kind of failsafe network that a grownup Lisa, arguably by far the smartest member of the Simpson family, might design. Michael enters as easily as opening a door. Several projects are underway here, but it is only the robot dogs that interest him. In four seconds, he learns they’re housed in Building Four, adjacent to a thirty-acre testing ground at the north end of the property. Protean Cybernetics does not have a graveyard shift, so the building is quiet and dark. The security system is monitored and operated through the computer. Cameras are pretty much everywhere, and they have infrared capability, providing him with sufficient detail for his purpose and access everywhere except the lavatories. Because he’s not here in a corporeal sense, he has no need of a bathroom; besides, his visit isn’t likely to last longer than two minutes. He’s been on site fourteen seconds when he finds the robot canines in a windowless room, standing in their charging stations. They are thirty-six inches high, approximately the size of a Great Dane, but they are like dogs only in a skeletal sense. They have cameras in the front and the back of the head, with both day and night vision. With current-best AI, they are able to act in an autonomous manner and coordinate one with the other to an impressive extent, or they can be operated by remote control in the manner of drones. Having been given auditory receptors and provided with a vocabulary of commands, they can also respond to a human companion whose voice pattern they have been programmed to recognize and obey. Eight lithium batteries provide power that lasts between six and ten hours of continuous operation, depending on the level of activity. They are able to climb steep hills, wade shallow water, and run at a top speed of eighteen miles per hour. Incorporated in each unit is a rifle that fires a 7.62 mm round with a muzzle velocity of seven hundred meters per second. A curved-box magazine contains fifty cartridges. They are capable of either semiautomatic or automatic fire. The magazines have been fully loaded in preparation for a field test in the morning. The long-term intention is for robots to one day accompany infantrymen into battle both to increase firepower and reduce the number of flesh-and-blood soldiers who must put their lives at risk. Seen through cameras registering in the infrared spectrum, these steel-alloy canines appear ominous. When Michael extends himself into the Lutron lighting controls and brings up the room lights, the four-legged terminators are no less menacing; in fact, they’re demonic. The executive at Protean who officially named them Gog and Magog either doesn’t know what those names | 0 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 88 | the worried frown on Aunty Bíọ́lá’s face that her limp was more pronounced than usual. Only a little dancing and already she felt that dull ache in her left knee. “Where is your father?” Yèyé asked Wúràọlá as she sank into the armchair with a sigh. “He’s in his study,” Wúràọlá said without looking up from her phone. “He’s speaking with Kúnlé, Professor Coker and Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé.” “Ehen, Honourable is here?” Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé, whom Yèyé knew of but had not yet met, was their constituency’s representative in the national assembly. “He had gone to see Kúnlé’s father at home, but that one was already here. So Kúnlé brought him over.” Aunty Sùnḿbọ̀ nodded towards Wúràọlá. “That Kúnlé, he is a marvellous boy, and I can see he’s also from a suitable family. Congratulations, my dear, you brought a good one home.” “Very suitable,” Aunty Bíọ́lá said. “Well done, Wúràọlá.” Wúràọlá squinted at something on her phone. “Okay…thank you ma.” Yèyé smiled for the camera. God forbid she ever say it out loud, but Kúnlé was a much better catch than she expected for Wúràọlá. The longer Wúràọlá had remained single, flitting from one unserious boyfriend to another, the more Yèyé had worried that, when she did decide to commit to one of them, closer to thirty than twenty, she would be left with a pool of expiring men who were unmarried because no one wanted them. On her worst days, she had imagined Wúràọlá ending up with some barely educated drunkard whose parents lived in a house with no indoor plumbing. And how would that have improved on her daughter’s fortunes in this life? Look at God, though. Look at Lákúnlé Coker. Any woman, at twenty-one or twenty-eight, would be lucky to marry him. Yes, there had been that debacle about his grades when he was leaving secondary school. Mrs. Àjàdí from the Mothers’ Union once said his first WAEC result had left his mother in tears. Five F9s out of nine subjects. Truly terrible. He had worked harder once his parents stopped insisting he study medicine, graduating with a second-class upper in some other course. Public administration or business administration. It could have been public relations. Whichever it was, he had done well at it. Sharing her testimony at a Mothers’ Union prayer meeting after his graduation ceremony, Kúnlé’s mother let everyone know he had missed a first-class grade by just a few points. In any case, his family was well connected. Yèyé knew from his mother that Kúnlé had had multiple job offers of the best kind, the types he did not need to apply for to have. An uncle in Abuja who wanted Kúnlé to head his company’s marketing department. An aunt in NNPC who had a slot she wanted to give him. And now Wúràọlá said he’d stopped trying to get a transfer to Lagos or Abuja, because his father wanted him close by for the campaign. Such a sensible boy and a good son. What was a shot at reading the news at nine to the whole country | 0 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 88 | asleep -- he's dead. You hold still -- I'll go en see." He went, and bent down and looked, and says: "It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at his face -- it's too gashly." I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe -- it might come good. There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife with- out any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with some mon- strous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, | 1 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 43 | so rude. Yèyé craned her neck. The men were spilling out of the study into the corridor. Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé led the way, belly straining against his green bùbá. He was flanked by two men who, as they got closer, turned out to be boys. Both boys were seventeen at most. They were tall and muscular, sporting scraggly beards that reminded Yèyé of when Láyí tried to grow one by rubbing methylated spirit on his chin every night. A few paces behind them, Kúnlé and his father walked side by side. And then came her husband, Ọ̀túnba Adémọ́lá Mákinwá. Towering over them all, adjusting his agbádá as he advanced with the confidence of a man who had known all his life that others would wait for him. The frown on his face confirmed what she had thought when she heard the door slam, that this had not been a pleasant meeting. “Good uhm.” The Honourable glanced at his watch. “Good afternoon, Yèyé.” Yèyé rose to her feet. “Good afternoon sir.” “We’ve never been introduced, but I’ve seen you at parties before. Happy birthday ma.” “Thank you so much.” “And congratulations on your daughter’s engagement.” He glanced towards the corridor. There Kúnlé and his father had paused to speak with Adémọ́lá in whispers. “The lucky man himself told me on our way here.” “We are so happy about it. Maybe you will come when we are celebrating the wedding?” Yèyé smiled. “May God preserve all our lives until then and beyond. If I get an invitation, I will be there. I have spoken to the men, and they have been doing strong head. Yèyé ria, let me talk to you, so that you can help me to speak to them.” The Honourable gripped Yèyé’s shoulders and squeezed. “Ask your husband to warn his friend not to be unfortunate. Yèyé, I am the next governor of this state. Professor should not let anybody deceive him. When we were inside, I kept begging him to be my commissioner for health when I become governor, but he refused. That offer is now off the table. It is time for him to be warned. If he does not heed that warning? Yèyé, none of us will weep over our child’s dead body o.” The Honourable was gone before Adémọ́lá’s fist could connect with the back of his head. His boys followed, walking backwards until they reached the landing. “The effrontery!” Professor Coker shouted, rushing into the family room on Adémọ́lá’s heels. “The effrontery of that man. Do I resemble someone who can be threatened?” Adémọ́lá put his arm around Yèyé, and she held his waist, digging her fingers into the folds of his agbádá to keep them from trembling. “They are empty threats,” Kúnlé said. “That’s how they do, intimidation and threats, there is nothing to it.” “I’m so sorry you had to face that embarrassment,” Professor Coker said. “Yèyé, I’m really very sorry.” “Kò sí problem.” Yèyé swallowed. “Could you join the party now and give us a moment?” “Of course, of course. Again, I’m so sorry.” | 0 |
69 | In the Lives of Puppets.txt | 99 | “What if I wish for impossible things?” “Then you’re doing it right. It always seems impossible when you first start.” Dad cocked his head. “You are very smart.” Vic sighed. “For a human?” “No. There is no qualifier. You are very smart.” He didn’t move when Vic threw himself at him, hugging him as hard as he could. Dad’s arms stayed at his sides. That was fine. That was okay. It was enough, Vic told himself as he buried his face in his father’s beard. He held on for dear life. A beat. Two. Three. And then Dad hugged him back. “I like this,” he said quietly. “I like this quite a lot. Can we do it again?” Vic trembled. “Anytime you want.” One night, as the first blossoms were beginning to peek through the crusts of snow, Vic went to a room on the Terrible Dogfish. He kept the lights off as he pulled the sheet covering Hap, tugging it down to his chest. It was the first thing he’d fixed, knowing it was easier than a heart. The skin that had torn when Hap’s heart exploded had been too shredded to repair, the panel covering his power cavity broken. He’d replaced them with wood, knowing Hap would like it when he awoke. If he awoke. He climbed onto the table next to Hap, curling against him, making himself as small as he could. Hap was cold, skin like ice, but Vic didn’t mind. He pulled the sheet back over them and lay his head on Hap’s shoulder. “I walked through the woods today,” he whispered. “And I turned to point out a bird in the trees, but you weren’t there.” Hap didn’t reply. Vic stayed there until morning when the winter sun began rising as it always did. The snows were mostly gone when he finished the first heart. Born of desperation and rage, it was harsher than the previous heart, the lines sharper, more angled, the base a pointed tip capable of slicing skin. But that made sense: its creator was not the same as he’d been before. He was angrier. Sadder. Braver. Five gears: two bigger, three smaller. One for Dad. One for Vic. And Nurse Ratched and Rambo and Hap. And at its center, a tiny wooden hatch that opened to reveal a smooth white strip that waited for a drop of life. He did not tell the others right away, wanting to be sure before he let himself hope. As Vic returned from the forest on a cool spring afternoon two days after he finished the heart, he came across a sight he’d never seen before. A tree—an old, tall oak—stood in the woods, limbs shaggy with burgeoning leaves. But it was the moving colorful trunk that caught Vic’s gaze. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the trunk that was moving, but the dozens of butterflies upon it. Monarchs, gold and orange and black, their wings shivering. He showed them the heart. Nurse Ratched said, “I knew you could do it.” “Will it | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 3 | nearly as bad as it could have been - the king of hearts and an ace, the ace of spades. It squinted up at him like a black widow spider. 'A card.' He still kept all emotion out of his voice. Le Chiffre faced his own two cards. He had a queen and a black five. He looked at Bond and pressed out another card with a wide forefinger. The table was absolutely silent. He faced it and flicked it away. The croupier lifted it delicately with his spatula and slipped it over to Bond. It was a good card, the five of hearts, but to Bond it was a difficult fingerprint in dried blood. He now had a count of six and Le Chiffre a count of five, but the banker having a five and giving a five, would and must draw another card and try and improve with a one, two, three or four. Drawing any other card he would be defeated. The odds were on Bond's side, but now it was Le Chiffre who looked across into Bond's eyes and hardly glanced at the card as he flicked it face upwards on the table. It was, unnecessarily, the best, a four, giving the bank a count of nine. He had won, almost slowing up. Bond was beaten and cleaned out. CHAPTER 12 - THE DEADLY TUBE Bond sat silent, frozen with defeat. He opened his wide black case and took out a cigarette. He snapped open the tiny jaws of the Ronson and lit the cigarette and put the lighter back on the table. He took a deep lungful of smoke and expelled it between his teeth with a faint hiss. What now? Back to the hotel and bed, avoiding the commiserating eyes of Mathis and Leiter and Vesper. Back to the telephone call to London, and then tomorrow the plane home, the taxi up to Regent's Park, the walk up the stairs and along the corridor, and M's cold face across the table, his forced sympathy, his 'better luck next time' and, of course, there couldn't be one, not another chance like this. He looked round the table and up at the spectators. Few were looking at him. They were waiting while the croupier counted the money and piled up the chips in a neat stack in front of the banker, waiting to see if anyone would conceivably challenge this huge bank of thirty-two million Francs, this wonderful run of banker's luck. Leiter had vanished, not wishing to look Bond in the eye after the knock-out, he supposed. Yet Vesper looked curiously unmoved, she gave him a smile of encouragement. But then, Bond reflected, she knew nothing of the game. Had no notion, probably, of the bitterness of his defeat. The huissier was coming towards Bond inside the rail. He stopped beside him. Bent over him. Placed a squat envelope beside Bond on the table. It was as thick as a dictionary. Said something about the caisse. Moved away again. Bond's heart thumped. He took the heavy anonymous | 1 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 42 | me, in the beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is possible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was closed for ever. When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was so quiet that I know no more. And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep - they told me so when I could bear to hear it - on her bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its pain. Let me go on. I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the 'final pulverization of Heep'; and for the departure of the emigrants. At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber's house; where, and at Mr. Wickfield's, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes, she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs. Micawber's heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many years. 'Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,' was my aunt's first salutation after we were seated. 'Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of mine?' 'My dear madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'perhaps I cannot better express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing | 1 |
85 | Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt | 17 | Brad’s expression is front and center in my mind, looking like someone just yanked out his guts. That someone being me. Oh, God. It was me. My hands shake. My tongue feels sharp in my mouth. I take a deep breath and squeeze my prickly eyes shut. The sky is too bright a gray today, even with all these old, thick branches obscuring my view. The forest smells like fresh, green frost and slowly rotting bark. I press my palms to my thighs and bend forward and refuse to cry. I lied to Brad’s face just to save my own feelings. I didn’t even let him speak because— Because I’m scared of everything, I’m scared of loving him, I’m scared of being hurt— And so I hurt him instead. Is that the kind of love I have to give? My chest burns. I messed up. I’m messed up. I took my worst fear and did it to him. Take it back. I run. BRAD After approximately ten seconds of self-righteous storming I realize I’m being a dick. Whatever happened to friendship first? Celine never promised to want me back. In fact, she’s always said the exact opposite, but here I am throwing a hissy fit because my stupid heart is broken. Ugh, I’m that guy, aren’t I? Still, this hurts. It hurts like there’s a hole in me. I drag my glasses off my face and swipe angrily at my cheeks. Tears feel even hotter when it’s freezing. For God’s sake, who falls in love with their best friend? Doesn’t everyone know that’s a bad idea? Especially when said best friend is still working through 27,000 issues and has goals that have nothing to do with you and— Well, I guess everyone was right: I love Celine. I love her so much, I could throw up right now. Thank God I didn’t tell her. I would’ve told her, and then what? Did I really think I could just, what, teach her to want a relationship by sticking my tongue down her throat? How arrogant is that? Later, when I’m not literally splintering in two, I’m positive my brain will present me with a sixty-five-page annotated essay on what a douche bag I am. She didn’t want to change the rules; I did. I put down her bag and grasp my forearms, let my fingers dig into my flesh, but it doesn’t stop all the pieces of me drifting apart. Shit. There’s a rapid crunch sound coming up behind me, like fast footsteps against the stone, and my stomach drops. I can’t talk to anyone right now. “Brad?” I certainly can’t talk to Celine. She looks so pretty fresh out of the shower with no makeup on, those fine folds in her eyelids like silk, the texture of her skin— Bradley Thomas Graeme, I am begging you to get a grip right now. I start to rush down the path, which is hardly my finest moment, but one thing I’m rarely accused of is maturity. Celine must round the corner fast enough to | 0 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 15 | r e s o l v e d t o c l o u d s , h i g h a n d d i m ; t h e g l e a m w a s s u c h a s t h e m o o n i m p a r t s t o v a p o r s s h e i s a b o u t t o s e v e r . I w a t c h e d h e r c o m e w a t c h e d w i t h t h e s t r a n g e s t a n t i c i p a t i o n , a s t h o u g h s o m e w o r d o f d o o m w e r e t o b e w r i t t e n o n h e r d i s k . S h e b r o k e f o r t h a s n e v e r m o o n y e t b u r s t f r o m c l o u d : a h a n d f i r s t p e n e t r a t e d t h e s a b l e f o l d s a n d w a v e d t h e m a w a y ; t h e n n o t a m o o n , b u t a w h i t e h u m a n f o r m , s h o n e i n t h e a z u r e , i n c l i n i n g a g l o r i o u s b r o w e a r t h w a r d . I t g a z e d a n d g a z e d o n m e . I t s p o k e t o m y s p i r i t ; i m m e a s u r a b l y d i s t a n t w a s t h e t o n e , y e t s o n e a r i t w h i s p e r e d i n m y h e a r t . " M y d a u g h t e r , f l e e t e m p t a t i o n ! " " M o t h e r , I w i l l . " S o I a n s w e r e d a f t e r I h a d w a k e d f r o m t h e t r a n c e - l i k e d r e a m . I t w a s y e t n i g h t , b u t J u l y n i g h t s a r e s h o r t ; s o o n a f t e r m i d n i g h t , d a w n c o m e s . " I t c a n n o t b e t o o e a r l y t o c o m m e n c e t h e t a s k I h a v e t o f u l f i l l , " t h o u g h t I . I r o s e : I w a s d r e s s e d ; f o r I h a d t a k e n o f f n o t h i n g b u t m y s h o e s . I k n e w w h e r e t o f i n d i n m y d r a w e r s s o m e l i n e n , a l o c k e t , a r i n g . I n s e e k i n g t h e s e a r t i c l e s , I e n c o u n t e r e d t h e b e a d s o f a p e a r l n e c k l a c e M r . R o c h e s t e r h a d f o r c e d m e t o a c c e p t a f e w d a y s a g o . I l e f t t h a t ; i t w a s n o t m i n e ; i t w a s t h e v i s i o n a r y b r i d e ' s , w h o h a d m e l t e d i n a i r . T h e o t h e r a r t i c l e s I h a d m a d e u p i n a p a r c e l ; m y p u r s e , c o n t a i n i n g t w e n t y s h i l l i n g s ( i t w a s a l l I h a d ) , I p u t i n m y p o c k e t . I t i e d o n m y s t r a w b o n n e t , p i n n e d m y s h a w l , t o o k t h e p a r c e l a n d m y s l i p p e r s , w h i c h I w o u l d n o t p u t o n y e t , a n d s t o l e f r o m m y r o o m . " F a r e w e l l , k i n d M r s . F a i r f a x ! " I w h i s p e r e d , a s I g l i d e d p a s t h e r d o o r . " F a r e w e l l , m y d a r l i n g A d l e ! " I s a i d , a s I g l a n c e d t o w a r d t h e n u r s e r y . N o t h o u g h t c o u l d b e a d m i t t e d o f e n t e r i n g t o e m b r a c e h e r . I h a d t o d e c e i v e a f i n e e a r ; f o r a u g h t I k n e w , i t m i g h t n o w b e l i s t e n i n g . I w o u l d h a v e g o t p a s t M r . R o c h e s t e r ' s c h a m b e r w i t h o u t a p a u s e ; b u t m y h e a r t m o m e n t a r i l y s t o p p i n g i t s b e a t a t t h a t t h r e s h o l d , m y f o o t w a s f o r c e d t o s t o p a l s o . N o s l e e p w a s t h e r e ; t h e i n m a t e w a s w a l k i n g r e s t l e s s l y f r o m w a l l t o w a l l ; a n d a g a i n a n d a g a i n h e s i g h e d w h i l e I l i s t e n e d . T h e r e w a s a h e a v e n a t e m p o r a r y h e a v e n i n t h i s r o o m f o r m e , i f I c h o s e . I h a d b u t t o g o i n a n d t o s a y , " M r . R o c h e s t e r , I w i l l l o v e y o u a n d l i v e w i t h y o u t h r o u g h l i f e t i l l d e a t h , " a n d a f o u n t o f r a p t u r e w o u l d s p r i n g t o m y l i p s . I t h o u g h t o f t h i s . T h a t k i n d m a s t e r , w h o c o u l d n o t s l e e p n o w , w a s w a i t i n g w i t h i m p a t i e n c e f o r d a y . H e w o u l d s e n d f o r m e i n t h e m o r n i n g ; I s h o u l d b e g o n e . H e w o u l d h a v e m e s o u g h t f o r v a i n l y . H e w o u l d f e e l h i m s e l f f o r s a k e n ; h i s l o v e r e j e c t e d . H e w o u l d s u f f e r ; p e r h a p s g r o w d e s p e r a t e . I t h o u g h t o f t h i s t o o . M y h a n d m o v e d t o w a r d t h e l o c k : I c a u g h t i t b a c k , a n d g l i d e d o n . | 1 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 26 | avoiding the Robesons. Sophomore year I’d stayed in the dorms and hung out with Fran, and that was our plan again junior year. Just us and a handful of international kids. Even the financial aid students, even the ones who’d never skied, would, if popular enough, tag along to someone’s place in Vermont just for the hot tubs and drinking and sex. (At least, this was the picture painted by stories I heard; in retrospect I imagine it was mostly hungover cartoon watching, juvenile conversation and heartbreak, logistics around the ordering of pizza.) That week in 1994, Fran and I were thrilled to have the dorm VCR essentially to ourselves. We watched The Shining and Wait Until Dark and part of the box set of Twin Peaks—anything to help us channel the vibe of the nearly empty campus. I’d just started to appreciate film, and the Hoffnungs’ movie collection was a treasure trove. One night, we broke the horror-and-suspense streak to watch the Disney Robin Hood, and decided, halfway through, to paint our nails. I went back to my room for polish and when I opened the door, Thalia was on her bed, arm flung over her eyes, Granby duffel on the floor spilling clothes. She sat up quickly and said, “That’s why the door was unlocked. I forgot you were here.” Her eyes were ringed with pink; her nose was red. I said, “Are you sick?” It was only Thursday, an illogical time to return. School didn’t start till Tuesday. She stood, started tossing clothes from her bag into her dresser. “Let’s just say that Robbie Serenho is a little bitch.” She and Robbie had been dating since November—happily, I thought. She pointed at me and squinted. “Don’t ever date Robbie Serenho. He’s an angry little sexist bitch.” She chucked Hamlet from the bag to her desk. As I said, I’d rarely heard Thalia swear, which is why I remember her words so clearly. That and the absurdity of the idea that I’d ever date Robbie, or he’d ever date me. I knew better than to ask what he’d done. I wasn’t a confidante, wasn’t privy to this group’s drama. But my silence kept her talking. She said, “He can flirt with whoever he wants, apparently. I go on a walk with one person and it’s, like, nuclear war. He’s an alcoholic, I swear to God. He passes out at nine p.m., and I’m not allowed to talk to anyone else? I’m supposed to, what, hang out with his sleeping body? Clean up his barf?” “Wow,” I said. I was still near the doorway. “That sucks.” She stopped unpacking, stared as if she’d just noticed me. “What do you mean, that sucks?” “I mean—it sounds bad.” She said, “Oh, thanks a lot. Thanks for your vote of confidence.” I told her I’d see her later—maybe I apologized, too—grabbed a handful of nail polishes from my dresser, ran back to the common room. I told Fran what had happened and asked if I’d done something wrong. She agreed I hadn’t. When I | 0 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 98 | could be allowed to answer exam questions with their voices and not in writing? A world where they would not be labelled stupid and taunted when they needed more time than their classmates to respond to a question that involved reading something from the blackboard, a textbook, their own notebooks? There were moments when she wondered if she should have had children. For the first few years of Ẹniọlá’s education, she made her husband read his schoolwork to him every day, sure that whether her prayers had been answered or not, her son would understand what was read to him. Most of the things her own teachers said when she was a student had been easy enough to understand and remember. Even when his report cards showed that he was getting average scores on his tests and exams, she did not believe her son was not struggling until he spent a Saturday reading The Queen Primer out loud from cover to cover. Only when her husband nodded in approval after Ẹniọlá shut the book did she believe that he had been spared. She was more relaxed with Bùsọ́lá. That one knew her ABCs by heart before she started nursery school and from her first term managed always to be among the top three in her class. In primary two, she had won prizes in social studies, mathematics and English. It used to make Ìyá Ẹniọlá smile in the middle of her chores, this gift of children who learnt without pain and would not suffer the humiliation she had experienced from her teachers and peers. That joy was long gone now. A decade before she even conceived them, she had been making decisions to protect her children from pain. And yet they still suffered. She had been whipped for her low scores. They were being whipped for her failure to pay their school fees. Her brothers insisted that this was all her husband’s failure, and she should tell him so as often as she could. She swung her legs off the bed and spoke with her back to her husband. “Bàbá Ẹniọlá, I want to visit my eldest brother this afternoon. I think we should ask him to lend us some money.” Two years ago, the same suggestion had resulted in an argument that lasted a whole week. Now she waited for the bedsprings to creak as he sat up, for his voice to rise or tremble. She wanted him to be angry, hurt. Something. She stood and grabbed a broom. She would talk to him again once she was done sweeping, drag him out of bed if that was what it took for him to answer her questions. Maybe it was time to try the methods her brothers had suggested? She had just stood up her children’s mattresses so she could sweep beneath them when Ẹniọlá came in and the room became fragrant with the smell of àkàrà. Her husband sat up in bed as Ẹniọlá took the broom from her. “Should I bring you àkàrà?” she asked her husband. He shook | 0 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 59 | so tweets. I wouldn’t be able to ignore this much longer. I texted Lance and told him I’d explain later. My stomach was a mess. It was time to get to class, time to talk to these kids like I had any idea how the world worked. 23 Since I’m relating what happened those two weeks at Granby pretty much in order, I’m going to tell you something now that I didn’t learn till much later. That morning—as close as I can tell, right around the time I was dropping my plate in the coffee shop’s dish bin—Omar Evans, fifty miles away at the New Hampshire State Prison for Men, was stabbed in the side by a fellow inmate with a four-inch shard of broken glass. It was most likely a case of mistaken identity; Omar didn’t know the man who did it. The glass entered below his right ribs, and as I walked back up the hill to campus worrying about myself and Jerome and griping about the cold, Omar was taken by prison ambulance—meaning two inmates dispatched with a gurney—to the infirmary. Around the time I opened the doors to Quincy and felt the blast of the radiator heat, they were examining him visually, probing the wound with instruments. They did no scan to check for organ laceration, no X-ray to check for remaining glass. They cleaned out the cut, sutured him, gave him a tetanus shot and a topical antibiotic and not enough gauze. They told him he’d be allowed 600 milligrams of ibuprofen every eight hours. Sometime late that morning, as we sat in class discussing him like a character in a movie, he tried to sit up in his infirmary bed and passed out from the pain. 24 In class that day, purple-haired Lola announced, “My uncle says he knows you.” “Yeah?” “He was your year. His name is Mike Stiles.” “Your uncle is Mike Stiles?” I wondered if Lola had looked through the 1995 yearbook, found the hottest guy there, and was messing with me. “He’s my mom’s little brother.” They didn’t appear to be joking. I said, “No way.” “He said you were cool but scary.” “Scary! I mean—I wore a lot of black, I guess.” “Anyways, he says hi.” I wondered what was happening to my face. It felt hot. “What’s he up to now?” I asked, although I already knew from the internet—the same google spree that had led me to your Providence school that first time—that he was a professor at the University of Connecticut, specializing in US foreign relations, and that he hadn’t even had the courtesy to grow a dad bod. Mike hadn’t stood out academically at Granby; either he’d been hiding it, or something clicked in college. Until he joined Camelot, we’d all assumed his brain was made of snow. He came back from senior Thanksgiving in a full-leg cast, femur shattered in a bike accident, and chose to do the winter musical rather than endure the indignity of PE. It turned out he could sing and act; he | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 75 | a grandmother of seven. Whenever she comes to town we meet and laugh about old times. We don’t talk about the bad ones. We don’t talk about my sister. Yet, for me, Judy’s ghost is everywhere. After all, I live in the house where we grew up together. I keep her photo on my mantel. She would be fifty-eight years old, and right here by my side, if she were still alive. The theater is filled with former Rockettes. You can spot them by their regal bearing and loose-limbed walks. Bunny looks vibrant in a slinky, sparkly gown. “Can you believe it?” says Bunny. “It’s amazing what a sisterhood this is.” “We share an experience that no one else will understand.” “Do you know I still dream about being in a kick line? Every so often, there I am, onstage, as if it was yesterday. Then I wake up with creaky joints.” “As long as you don’t kick out in your dreams, you might as well enjoy them,” I assure her. The lights go down and we take our seats. The organists stop playing, take their bows, and the orchestra rises from below the stage. As the show begins, all focus turns to the marvelous, leggy dancers onstage, who are even better than we were. The choreography is sharper, tighter, and more efficient. I straighten up in my seat, watching them. Shoulders back, chin slightly lifted. I remember it well. What happened in the fall and winter of 1956 was just one story, part of the rough-and-tumble city of New York, crammed with both love and cruelty. And quite a few gray areas, where people made terrible decisions that aren’t easily summed up in a historical account of the times. People like my father. The events coordinator for the Rockettes organization, the same Ms. Burris who’d hounded me to attend, emerges from the wings as a podium is wheeled out. She makes a lovely speech about Bunny’s role in keeping all the Rockettes connected with each other, long after they’ve left Radio City, and when Bunny is called to the stage, she practically floats up the steps, gliding across the floor like we did in the old days and smiling just as Russell told us to. I clap hard and long, happy for my friend. After, Ms. Burris talks about Russell, who died two years ago, and his legacy. I brace myself as she segues into the “dark times” of Radio City’s history, when a madman planted bombs in this very theater. But Piper was right—she names Judy as well as the others who were injured—before asking for a moment of silence. Nothing tawdry. I needn’t have worried. When it’s over, she lifts her head and says she also wants to present an award to “a special Rockette, one who helped catch the Big Apple Bomber back in 1956.” I look around, wondering what on earth she’s talking about. This isn’t in the program. She speaks about the night of the madman’s capture, when one Rockette sacrificed everything to bring him to | 0 |
84 | Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt | 53 | It seemed to go from the silver point of the stick up the wooden handle and tickled her hands. She’d felt sick in the car, almost faint, but now she was wildly alert. The encounter with Ewers had sharpened her senses. This is how he felt, she thought, when he cast his spells and wove his complex conjurations. Air, earth, water, life, the opener. Her movements were elegant. Both prints were playing in smooth synchronized motion; the dialogue echoed around the room. She paid little heed to it, or to the cultists who chanted in unison. The runes held her attention. Then she paused, breathing in slowly. Tristán’s voice had started playing. He was reciting Ewers’s lines. She saw Ewers on the screen, with his gleaming, treacherous eyes, and turned her head, seeking Tristán. He was staring at her, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she looked at his familiar face, those mismatched eyes, one narrower, placed a fraction higher than the other, and the scar from the accident she couldn’t see in the dark but that she knew was there. The sight of his face, the sound of his voice, jolted her back to the reality of the ballroom, of the night thick with the scent of magic. She drew the sixth rune, but conjured fire instead, wishing for it, willing it forward. Ordering flames and heat to manifest. They did. Fire tore through the screen, like a mirror that cracked, tracing a spidery line of golds and reds. There was power in death, in blood, as Ewers had said. Power that lingered and could be re-formed, directed, and she took that feeling of might and hurled it at the screen. She clamped her hands tight around the stick, expecting a reprisal, and within seconds the attack came. Two men stepped forward, their hands wrapped around leashes, charging forward with their dogs. When a dog lunged at her, she hit it hard. The tip of the stick sunk into the dog’s skin as if it were made of tar, and the animal turned its head, viciously snapping at the wood. The other dog went for Montserrat’s leg, fangs sinking into her thin, atrophied ankle. The pain was tremendous; the fangs were sharp even if the dog was not a real animal, but a dreadful mix of magic and illusions. Her eyes watered, and she opened her mouth, but she recalled Clarimonde’s living room. Reflect, she thought. Not outrun. At Clarimonde’s house she’d had charcoal to draw with, and here she had nothing. No, not quite. One dog savaged the wooden stick, chomping at it, and she kicked the other dog away, though the motion ruined her balance. When she fell back on the floor she still had a free hand, and her fingers glided quickly in the air, tracing a rune. Fire, she thought again, as she’d thought about it only seconds before, setting the screen ablaze. Almost immediately the two dog handlers burst into flames, crowned in fire, and whirled around in shock. The dogs evaporated while the | 0 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 76 | by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past twelve o'clock, soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was. The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest manner: 'Well, ma'am, I am happy to congratulate you.' 'What upon?' said my aunt, sharply. Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of my aunt's manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile, to mollify her. 'Mercy on the man, what's he doing!' cried my aunt, impatiently. 'Can't he speak?' 'Be calm, my dear ma'am,' said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents. 'There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma'am. Be calm.' It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn't shake him, and shake what he had to say, out of him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way that made him quail. 'Well, ma'am,' resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, 'I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma'am, and well over.' During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly. 'How is she?' said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied on one of them. 'Well, ma'am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,' returned Mr. Chillip. 'Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be, under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any objection to your seeing her presently, ma'am. It may do her good.' 'And SHE. How is SHE?' said my aunt, sharply. Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird. 'The baby,' said my aunt. 'How is she?' 'Ma'am,' returned Mr. Chillip, 'I apprehended you had known. It's a boy.' My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented fairy; or like one | 1 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 79 | High above us were thirty-six oval colonnade domes, each handcrafted stained glass … Nineteenth-century reproductions utilizing the age-old process of heating mixed potash and sand to over one thousand six hundred and fifty degrees Celsius and then infusing it with various metallic oxide powders to create the vibrant colors above us. The hanging chandeliers were all Waterford … Each crystal had a 40 percent lead content, and there were seventy-five individual vintage incandescent lights per fixture. The vessel’s interior, with her paneled mahogany bulkheads, vintage oil portraits, and gilded age opulence, was like none other, especially since she’d been reappropriated, then recommissioned, by Empress Shawlee due to ever-increasing war demands—those brought about by strategic advances coming from both the Varapin and Grish. Now this would-be starliner was also a fierce military warship. We’d reached the bank of GravLifts. The left set of doors slid open. We both entered the lift. As with the rest of the ship, the car’s interior consisted of polished brass hardware, rich mahogany paneling, and crystal wall sconces. But it was the assigned, dedicated liftman that always made me uneasy upon entering any of the lifts. The legless hover-bot was fitted with a formal tux-with-tails attire. The bot greeted us both by name as it stood vigil over the lift’s virtual touchscreen controls like a guard at Buckingham Palace. I said, “HealthBay.” “Very good, sir … leaving Deck 13 for Deck 12.” Akari and I exchanged a look. She continued where she’d left off. “I suppose we could replicate the spikes. It’s not like there’s all that much to them.” “I’d get on that right away,” I said. “And our low stock of smart missiles?” She rubbed at the new piercing. “I think it’s infected … Does it look infected?” I just stared at her, then hitched one shoulder. “We’re headed to HealthBay. Have it looked at.” “Yeah, good point. Um, so … Maybe Boundless Wrath has an ample stock of smart missiles. They won’t be compatible, being of Varapin design, but we’ve jerry-rigged such compatibility issues before, right?” I nodded, letting her ramble. My mind was onto other things. Oddly, feeling nostalgic, I missed the way things used to be. And I missed those I’d become closest to over the years, like Stephan Derrota and Gail Pristy—both, undoubtedly, were back within the secure confines of Stratham Hold. My once-pirate hideaway was nestled there, one hundred and thirty light-years’ distance outside the Milky Way—on an M-class exoplanet called Genoma. It was a dangerous area of space where eight black holes had converged and, somehow, were keeping each other at bay. But all that was far away from here; hell, Genoma wasn’t even within this alternate universe. “Earth to Captain Distracted … Are you even listening to me?” I said, “Sorry,” but was cut off by the overly enthusiastic liftman. “Deck 12 … Please watch your step departing the lift.” We stepped out into the large, although much scaled-down version of the main Deck 13 corridor above. “Melted gun barrels … SWM would surely have metalworking facilities onboard, right?” | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 50 | horror of it. We had to defend King and country. So I did what I had to do.’ ‘What? Killing your own soldiers before the enemy could?’ ‘By making an example of their cowardice. Armies are ruled by fear. Do you think those men that volunteered understood the carnage that lay ahead of them? Don’t you think that every man out there wished with every fibre of their being that they could leave that hellish place? What do you think keeps men marching forward to their death?’ I didn’t know. ‘Duty. Honour. Those weasels that you now seem so bent on protecting had neither of those things. They were out-and-out cowards.’ ‘If you truly believe in honour, then you will know, somewhere in your heart, or if you do not possess one, which I doubt you do, then in your conscience, that you were wrong. The families of those men have carried the shame for too long and for what? Even if those men felt fear in the face of a formidable enemy, is it a crime punishable by death? You could have pardoned them. Most Commanding Officers did. But not you. Why must you crush anyone who does not meet your exacting standards? Why must you humiliate and torment—’ ‘Enough!’ He walked away from me and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter. I tried to steady myself, although my legs were shaking and I longed for a drink also. ‘It’s always your pain, your suffering. You never think about anyone else.’ I didn’t even bother replying. There was little point. ‘Can’t you imagine for a moment the suffering I have endured from this?’ He pointed to the side of his body that was burned. He took various bottles of pills from his pockets and threw them on the table. ‘They barely touch the surface,’ he said, calmly now. ‘I did my duty out there. I put my body on the line and what did I get in return?’ ‘They gave you medals, didn’t they?’ ‘Hah! Medals. I wanted respect. I wanted a future. A family. No woman would come near me when she saw this. I could no longer provide a wife with children, in any case. A useless specimen. I had to beg for a job. Do you know how humiliating that was? The one thing I asked you to do.’ ‘Marry Bingley?’ I asked. ‘And there you were, flaunting your freedom in front of me. The freedom I paid for!’ ‘Lyndon, if only you had spoken of this before, I could have helped.’ ‘What could you have done? You were only good for one thing and you wouldn’t even obey me in that.’ ‘Obey you?’ I almost laughed at the thought. What right did he have? He always acted like he had authority over me and I suppose our age difference normalised his behaviour. Not any more. ‘You make it sound as though I owe you something and believe me, Brother, I owe you nothing.’ ‘You owe me everything! You would be dead if it weren’t for | 0 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 31 | your email. How many planned something bigger than that. With a chill down my neck, down my arms, I remembered the guy who’d gone into a pizza place with a gun, looking for the nonexistent pedophile ring in the basement. I remembered how many people in America had guns. I was shocked to discover a very, very small part of me still loyal to you, a part that wanted to send you a message: Get in your car and drive. Change your last name, too. Don’t look back. 21 I tried to distract myself with a movie, but since the Calvin Inn wi-fi was too fatigued to continue the day, I was beholden to the offerings on my room’s bulky Panasonic. Here was Bus Stop, a movie I hated. Bus Stop is what happens when no women were involved in the writing process. We get, for instance, a woman who, when Marilyn Monroe sidles up to her on the bus and says she’s been kidnapped, replies: “It wouldn’t be so bad if you were in love with him.” I turned the TV off and checked email. Someone I didn’t know had sent a clip from a Boston station—part of an interview with Brad Keith, Thalia’s half brother. He’d gone gray in a thick-haired, dignified way. He wore a powder blue sweater. Last I knew, Brad Keith was a commodities trader. “But in the interest of justice—” the reporter across from him said. “Justice was served. He got his day in court, he got it again on appeal. I understand the right to a fair trial, but three trials? Four? Five? Where does it end? You can’t just keep rolling the dice till you get what you want.” The reporter didn’t point out the difference between a hearing and a trial. She said, “There’s been new evidence. We know now th—” “Nothing’s new. We have her old roommate with some baloney about dots. We have blood evidence that just moves the assault a few feet to the left. Omar Evans ruined all our lives, not just Thalia’s. And every time we get dragged back, he destroys us again. We’ve been through enough.” “Your sister Vanessa disagrees.” He shook his head, resigned. “She was so young when this happened.” Below the video link, the email read: Look what you’re doing you unconscionable bitch. 22 Geoff had ordered pizza for dinner, and we ate at the little table in his room. Geoff, who used to accept dares to mix chocolate milk, hot sauce, ranch dressing, and orange juice in a dining hall cup and drink it down, had ended up with sophisticated taste. He’d managed to order a very specific herb pizza via Grubhub from Hanover and get it delivered still hot, along with a bottle of excellent Syrah from a completely different place. We were planning to go through the hoarded Granby junk he’d brought for Britt and Alder. But first, carbs and cheese and wine. I decided to let myself eat as much as I wanted. He said something I didn’t get about | 0 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 70 | lower tooth that the orthodontist never could manhandle into place. Those ears that stick out a little too far. Those lines on either side of your smile that always look like parentheses. That slight dimple at your chin that’s just like your mom’s. Of course those aren’t the only things that make you you. You are also your whole life story. And your sense of humor. And your homemade doughnut recipe. And your love for ghost stories. And the way you savor ocean breezes. And the appreciation you have for how the colors pink and orange go together. You’re not just your face, is what I mean. But man, it sure is a big part of you. Like your shadow. So faithfully and constantly with you, you don’t even notice it. It’s just always there. But then one day it’s gone. Except it’s not just the shadow that’s gone. It’s the person making the shadow. You. You’re gone. And the idea that anything could just disappear at any moment is something you suddenly understand in a whole new way. The way I did for a long while after my mother died. “It’s like I’m not here,” I said to Dr. Nicole, my throat getting thick. “It’s like I disappeared.” “You’re right here,” she said, taking my hands and squeezing them before holding them up to show me. “You know these hands, right?” I nodded. “Here you are,” she said. “You haven’t gone anywhere.” Then she gave me a hug and said, “But let’s not look in the mirror again for a while.” She wanted to get down to business. She was organizing some tests for me to take on her laptop. While I waited, a random thought occurred to me: Peanut. “This doesn’t apply to animals, right?” I asked. “What?” Dr. Nicole asked. “I’m suddenly worried that when I get home, I won’t be able to see my dog.” “You’ll definitely be able to see your dog.” “His face, I mean,” I said. “I need that face. It’s my primary mood-lifter.” “I understand,” Dr. Nicole said, attention still mostly on her work. “This face thingy’s only for human faces, right?” At that, she paused. “Mostly,” she said, “yes.” “Mostly?” I asked. “What does mostly mean?” “There’s not a lot of research on animal faces. There has been some research on cars, though.” “Cars?” “Some people with this condition have trouble recognizing their cars. They can also have trouble with direction. But it hasn’t been studied enough to understand why or how.” “So…” Somehow this felt like the worst news of all. “You can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to see my dog’s face?” But she wasn’t going to let me descend into self-pity. “Guarantees are overrated.” I must have been spoiling for a fight. “Guarantees are underrated.” But she didn’t take the bait. “Let’s just take one question at a time.” * * * DR. NICOLE HAD queued up some facial recognition tests for me to take to see how bad it was. “This’ll give us a baseline,” she said. The tests—the | 0 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 56 | the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity. In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine; who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself. His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it; and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----; and to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them, from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding, ``I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me.'' Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him, without saying a word. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to any body. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause, added, ``My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?'' She was | 1 |
77 | Maame.txt | 50 | didn’t start until after he passed away. But everything else occurred before. That’s only because I was unhappy at work—another hard time. Comments: Dinah: It’s scary how many of these symptoms I’ve been displaying lately. Joel: This wasn’t helpful. Everyone feels all of these things some time or other. Frances: I have to say these symptoms are all very vague and the last note misleading and detrimental. To attribute the symptoms of depression solely to “hard times” may have you feeling like you should wait it out instead of seeking professional help. What if you’re going through a series of “hard times”? You’ll be waiting for the storm to pass until you’re dead. Depression varies from person to person. For example, I had extreme mood swings, which isn’t mentioned above and is rarely talked about regarding depression. I was on cloud nine one day and being tormented in hell the next, and things did not change until I got help. So you need to ask yourself (and answer truthfully): do you think you’re depressed? The answer is obviously yes, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this page. Do yourself a favor and seek help. Chapter Thirty-three On Wednesday, I join Penny in her office. She looks at me and smiles. She has on the same blue eye shadow she wore during my interview. Her blond hair is even shorter now and it sticks up in corners she maybe can’t see. “Maddie,” she says. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we have a counselor who comes into the building twice a month. I’d like you to see her, just to keep on top of things.” I frown. “Am I doing something wrong?” “Not at all,” she says. “You’re flying through your admin; I’ve just noticed you’ve been arriving early and staying late since your return. Allan in Facilities said he saw you leave at 9:30 Monday night. You’re very quiet in the office and sometimes, well, morose may be a little too far, but you’re certainly not yourself—understandably. You did seem perkier this morning, but I imagine your feelings during a time like this alternate in waves.” I’m burning with embarrassment at the idea of being the Girl Who Clearly Can’t Cope. I briefly put myself in Penny’s shoes. She must hate having this conversation as much as I hate hearing it. She shouldn’t have to deal with secondhand grief. I already know Kris and Eliza have lost someone and they didn’t mention needing a counselor brought in. “I’m fine,” I insist. “I can get my work done, same as every—” I cut myself off thinking of Katherine, crying in the toilets, working when her mental health was at risk, pretending everything was okay. I asked Claire if it mattered people thought her weak, so long as she got help. I’d no idea I’d struggle to take my own advice. Depression can do that to a person. I shake my head and say nothing. “We want to help you, Maddie,” Penny says. “Career longevity is our goal with you here at OTP—hence our | 0 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 1 | to the cold. And you keep it locked up under the ice as though it was a monster.’ ‘Perhaps it is a monster.’ ‘What is monstrous about it?’ ‘Do you imagine, Yotam, that the creature you have named Eitan loves you?’ ‘I doubt it feels love the way we do.’ ‘Why do you doubt that?’ ‘Because we built it to be tougher than us.’ ‘Is it manipulating you?’ ‘I don’t know. Zariffa believed so. She might be right.’ ‘In order that you might free it, by acting impetuously? I’m not trying to embarrass you. When I was a young woman, a long time ago, I fell in love with a handsome young man. We lived together while we were students. He was abusive. He stole from me. I couldn’t see past my infatuation. Love is very powerful.’ ‘What do you think that I’m blind to?’ ‘Song Fu wanted blind love to protect her creation. Because, it is my contention, she believed that was the only chance such a creature had of being released. On the sly, by a hopeless romantic.’ ‘Maybe you should ask a different question.’ ‘What would that be?’ ‘Why did she believe that ordinary people would be so narrow-minded they wouldn’t set them free?’ ‘Is this your view?’ ‘You’re nervous of admitting that we’ve created a superior race. But the whole purpose of the Cold People Project is to create a superior race. Because we’re dying. And that is exactly what we’ve done. Song Fu was unapologetic about it.’ ‘Is it superior to us?’ ‘On this continent, yes, and this continent is all we have.’ President Mues took a sip of water, uneasy with these answers. ‘Do you believe, if this species were released, they would live in harmony with us?’ ‘I see no reason why they wouldn’t.’ ‘The purpose of the Cold People Project is to create a species that can work with us, assist us, be our friends, our allies, our saviours.’ ‘With respect, Madame President, that is not the purpose of the Cold People Project.’ There was a reaction in the chapel audience and it took several moments for the assembly to settle down. ‘Your statement surprises us.’ ‘I’m not saying that such an outcome isn’t possible. I’m not saying that such an outcome wouldn’t be desirable.’ ‘The purpose of the project has always been to create a species that will help us survive. What other purpose could the project have?’ ‘The purpose of the project is that humankind will survive in some form.’ ‘In some form?’ ‘Ideally, we’d survive alongside them, as their friends, their allies, their partners, as you say. I believe that is possible.’ ‘What other possibilities are there?’ ‘That we can’t survive. That we won’t survive. That we will die out, even with their help. But some part of us will survive within the creatures we’ve created.’ ‘You’re saying that we’ll live on, not in any real sense, but inside the genetic make-up of this new species.’ ‘To Song Fu, that was always the most probable outcome.’ ‘That our time is over? | 0 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 9 | broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes--who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I am Griffin." Kempt thought. "It's horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It's no devilry. It's a process, sane and intelligible enough--" "It's horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth--?" "It's horrible enough. But I'm wounded an in pain, and tired --Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That's better. Thank Heaven, you're getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whisky. I'm near dead." "It didn't feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? There! all right. Whisky? Here. Where shall I give it you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is--this must be--hypnotism. You must have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It's frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility--" "Never mind what you've demonstrated!--I'm starving," said the Voice, "and the night is--chilly to a man without clothes." "Food!" said Kemp. The tumbler of whisky tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man, rapping it down. "Have you got a dressing gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful--" "Exactly. But it's | 1 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 66 | " I a m n o t y o u r d e a r ; I c a n n o t l i e d o w n ; s e n d m e t o s c h o o l s o o n , M r s . R e e d , f o r I h a t e t o l i v e h e r e . " " I w i l l i n d e e d s e n d h e r t o s c h o o l s o o n , " m u r m u r e d M r s . R e e d , s o t t o v o c e ; a n d g a t h e r i n g u p h e r w o r k s h e a b r u p t l y q u i t t e d t h e a p a r t m e n t . I w a s l e f t t h e r e a l o n e w i n n e r o f t h e f i e l d . I t w a s t h e h a r d e s t b a t t l e I h a d f o u g h t , a n d t h e f i r s t v i c t o r y I h a d g a i n e d ; I s t o o d a w h i l e o n t h e r u g , w h e r e M r . B r o c k l e h u r s t h a d s t o o d , a n d I e n j o y e d m y c o n q u e r o r ' s s o l i t u d e . F i r s t , I s m i l e d t o m y s e l f a n d f e l t e l a t e ; b u t t h i s f i e r c e p l e a s u r e s u b s i d e d i n m e a s f a s t a s d i d t h e a c c e l e r a t e d t h r o b o f m y p u l s e s . A c h i l d c a n n o t q u a r r e l w i t h i t s e l d e r s , a s I h a d d o n e , c a n n o t g i v e i t s f u r i o u s f e e l i n g s u n c o n t r o l l e d p l a y , a s I h a d g i v e n m i n e , w i t h o u t e x p e r i e n c i n g a f t e r w a r d t h e p a n g o f r e m o r s e a n d t h e c h i l l o f r e a c t i o n . A r i d g e o f l i g h t e d h e a t h , a l i v e , g l a n c i n g , d e v o u r i n g , w o u l d h a v e b e e n a m e e t e m b l e m o f m y m i n d w h e n I a c c u s e d a n d m e n a c e d M r s . R e e d ; t h e s a m e r i d g e , b l a c k a n d b l a s t e d a f t e r t h e f l a m e s a r e d e a d , w o u l d h a v e r e p r e s e n t e d a s m e e t l y m y s u b s e q u e n t c o n d i t i o n , w h e n h a l f a n h o u r ' s s i l e n c e a n d r e f l e c t i o n h a d s h o w n m e t h e m a d n e s s o f m y c o n d u c t , a n d t h e d r e a r i n e s s o f m y h a t r e d a n d h a t i n g p o s i t i o n . S o m e t h i n g o f v e n g e a n c e I h a d t a s t e d f o r t h e f i r s t t i m e ; a s a r o m a t i c w i n e i t s e e m e d , o n s w a l l o w i n g , w a r m a n d r a c y ; i t s a f t e r - f l a v o r , m e t a l l i c a n d c o r r o d i n g , g a v e m e a s e n s a t i o n a s i f I h a d b e e n p o i s o n e d . W i l l i n g l y w o u l d I n o w h a v e g o n e a n d a s k e d M r s . R e e d ' s p a r d o n ; b u t I k n e w , p a r t l y f r o m e x p e r i e n c e a n d p a r t l y f r o m i n s t i n c t , t h a t w a s t h e w a y t o m a k e h e r r e p u l s e m e w i t h d o u b l e s c o r n , t h e r e b y r e - e x c i t i n g e v e r y t u r b u l e n t i m p u l s e o f m y n a t u r e . I w o u l d f a i n e x e r c i s e s o m e b e t t e r f a c u l t y t h a n t h a t o f f i e r c e s p e a k i n g ; f a i n f i n d n o u r i s h m e n t f o r s o m e l e s s f i e n d i s h f e e l i n g t h a n t h a t o f s o m b e r i n d i g n a t i o n . I t o o k a b o o k s o m e A r a b i a n t a l e s ; I s a t d o w n a n d e n d e a v o r e d t o r e a d . I c o u l d m a k e n o s e n s e o f t h e s u b j e c t ; m y o w n t h o u g h t s s w a m a l w a y s b e t w e e n m e a n d t h e p a g e I h a d u s u a l l y f o u n d f a s c i n a t i n g . I o p e n e d t h e g l a s s d o o r i n t h e b r e a k f a s t - r o o m ; t h e s h r u b b e r y w a s q u i t e s t i l l ; t h e b l a c k f r o s t r e i g n e d , u n b r o k e n b y s u n o r b r e e z e , t h r o u g h t h e g r o u n d s . I c o v e r e d m y h e a d a n d a r m s w i t h t h e s k i r t o f m y f r o c k , a n d w e n t o u t t o w a l k i n a p a r t o f t h e p l a n t a t i o n w h i c h w a s q u i t e s e q u e s t e r e d ; b u t I f o u n d n o p l e a s u r e i n t h e s i l e n t t r e e s , t h e f a l l i n g f i r - c o n e s , t h e c o n g e a l e d r e l i c s o f a u t u m n , r u s s e t l e a v e s , s w e p t b y p a s t w i n d s i n h e a p s , a n d n o w s t i f f e n e d t o g e t h e r . I l e a n e d a g a i n s t a g a t e , a n d l o o k e d i n t o a n e m p t y f i e l d w h e r e n o s h e e p w e r e f e e d i n g , w h e r e t h e s h o r t g r a s s w a s n i p p e d a n d b l a n c h e d . I t w a s a v e r y g r a y d a y ; a m o s t o p a q u e s k y , " o n d i n g o n s n a w , " c a n o p i e d a l l ; t h e n c e f l a k e s f e l l a t i n t e r v a l s , w h i c h s e t t l e d o n t h e h a r d p a t h a n d o n t h e h o a r y l e a w i t h o u t m e l t i n g . I s t o o d , a | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 54 | deep and meaningful solidarity with these people, sharing the same anti-freeze blood pumped by the same oversized heart, she also felt a bond to the three ordinary-born humans huddled in the warmth below. They’re my family, she thought, still trying to grasp the dimensions of that word. Directly below her, in the trailer cabin, Atto and Liza were seated together with Tetu. Echo’s hearing allowed her to follow their conversation over the rumble of the motorized truck. Since leaving Survivor Town Station, Tetu had hardly said a word, missing his cues when Kasim asked about his family or ambitions. Though he was eighteen years old, this was his first trip in a motorized vehicle. Echo could tell that he was struggling with motion sickness, and she wondered why his discomfort troubled her so much. Perhaps it was because the others were unaware of it, since he hadn’t complained, not wanting to make a fuss, which was typical of him, never wanting to be a burden. Or did she have deeper feelings for him, feelings ordinary-born people called affections? She had no doubt that he wanted to be on the roof, seated beside her, and she wished he could be, too, that he could enjoy the cold rather than endure it. She wished that she could love him in the same way that he loved her, except she didn’t know how. * * * After they’d travelled across a wilderness too desolate and remote to sustain any human colony, there appeared on the horizon, like an acid-trip mirage, a collection of some of humanity’s most famous historic monuments. This area was known as Landmark Plateau. At the foot of Mount Vinson the tallest mountain on the continent, sat many of the greatest landmarks ever constructed, each scooped out of their original location by the alien occupiers and floated through the sky, only to be neatly deposited on this continent like a museum collection. From Beijing, the Forbidden City had been positioned next to the Pyramids of Cairo, which was now neighbours with the Palace of Versailles. From Florence, the Duomo had been parked next to Peru’s Machu Picchu, which in turn sat beside the gleaming steel of the Frank Gehry concert hall from downtown Los Angeles. The world’s most recognizable statues had been positioned in an orderly line as if they were waiting in an immigration queue – Christ the Redeemer standing in front of the Buddhas of Bayman, in front of the Angel of Independence with the Statue of Liberty at the very front. Behind them the sacred places of worship had been grouped like a theme-park zone – Saint Basil’s Cathedral, Notre-Dame, the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia and the great Mosque of Mecca huddled around the Tibetan monastery of Paro Taktsang, including a portion of the Himalayan mountain it had been nestled upon. There was no clear purpose to this, giving the impression that the alien occupiers were complying with some cumbersome interstellar legal obligation, a subsection of the planetary conquest lawbook stating that: ‘No indigenous species shall be relocated | 0 |
52 | A-Living-Remedy.txt | 4 | simple: Dad’s full name, his birth and death dates, and a line from the Paschal Troparion my mother had asked her friends to sing at his burial, though he had died in midwinter. Standing beside his grave, admiring the newly placed headstone, she told me she had chosen this plot for him because we could see the town high school across the street from where we stood. “There are always people coming and going over there, so I knew he wouldn’t be lonely,” she said, then added with a grin: “And he can hear the football games every Friday!” This was so ridiculous that I had to laugh, which of course was her intention. I liked it when she joked about him, spoke of him in the present tense. Our lives may be linear, finite, but our love for each other is not so easily confined. “Dad would have loved his headstone,” she told me. Again, I agreed. But what mattered most to me was that she liked it, that it was what she wanted for him. That, in the end, she had allowed me to do this one needful thing. 17 My mother’s living room was dark, though it was only 2:00 p.m. Storm clouds had been hanging over the valley since my arrival the night before. As I went to turn on more lights, I heard her say, “This is all happening so fast.” Her friend Paula looked up from her steno pad. Consider me your hands and feet in Oregon, she had told me. For the last two hours, she had been taking notes, creating lists of calls to make, emails to send, banks to visit, forms to have witnessed and notarized. The next day, she would type everything up in a spreadsheet and send it to me: I’ve listed all the to-do items in black and added progress notes in green. Feel free to choose a color and add your own notes. She reached over to touch my mother’s hand, offering her a reassuring smile. “We know it’s hard,” she said. “That’s why we’re here to help you.” Elizabeth, another friend from my mother’s church, nodded and leaned forward in her chair. “Remember, you’re not alone. We’re all with you.” “And think of what a good, loving daughter you have,” Paula added. I heard myself laugh, but there was little humor in it. “She’ll be ready to give me back after today,” I said. No one else chuckled. Paula and Elizabeth said, “No!” in unison. Mom only shook her head. I was joking, I wanted to say to her. Like you were when I was five or six and got so mad at you that I said I was going to find “my real mom”—remember, you pointed and said, “There’s the door”? Now that I thought about it, I wondered if she had been joking. I couldn’t believe that our Christmas visit was only a few weeks ago. Since then, the entire landscape of her illness had shifted, and the faint hope we’d once possessed seemed distant now, | 0 |
71 | Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt | 2 | up and going down again. Over and over.” She looked to the side, taking short, sharp breaths. “Then he just … stopped. He said something, I think, but I couldn’t tell what. He walked away.” I pictured the scene. The spot where I’d sat. The Grotto. I frowned. “I was pretty far from the boulder,” I said. Cass’s head tilted. “I guess.” “And he had his back to you.” Her brow furrowed. “Not completely. I could see the side of his face.” The side of his face, from what, fifty feet away? Sixty? More? “Do you remember exactly what you told the cops? The description you gave?” “Not exactly,” she said. “I would have told them he was big. Short, brown hair. White. No beard—I remember they asked about the beard, and I was sure he didn’t have one. But when Dougherty showed me the photo of Stahl, it looked just like him.” “Wait. Dougherty showed you a picture of Stahl? When, at the hospital?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, it was before the ambulance even got there.” On the side of the road. Before they even knew I was still alive. “Cass, I thought you gave the description to Chief Miller.” “I did,” Cass said slowly, a line appearing between her eyebrows in faint confusion. “He’s the one who asked me about the beard, so yeah, he’s the one I gave the description to.” “But Miller got there after the ambulance,” I said. You couldn’t live in Chester without knowing every step of that story. From Leo Cortland on down, everyone wanted you to know exactly where they’d been that day. And Miller always talked about rolling up to a scene already swarming with sirens and two little girls shivering in the back of an ambulance. “So Dougherty showed you the photo before you gave your description.” She wetted her lips. “Maybe. No. I told him—I told him there was a man, a big man. I told him about the brown hair.” “And the beard?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” “Was it Stahl you saw?” I pressed. “How am I supposed to answer that? I told them what I saw then. Now all I see when I think about his face is Stahl in the courtroom, glaring at us like he wanted to slit our throats.” I felt numb. There’d never been any chance of a genuine identification. Cass and Olivia might have seen anyone out there, but Dougherty shoving that photo in their faces while they were traumatized and panicking? Of course they’d thought it was Stahl. His face could have imprinted itself over any genuine memories. The truth had been trampled over before I ever woke up. “What’s going on, Naomi?” Cass asked. There was an edge of fear in her voice. I sat back in my chair. I felt that sense of vertigo again—teetering on the edge of a fall. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.” She gave me a tired smile. “There’s no chance of that, Naomi. I always worry about | 0 |
48 | Wuthering Heights.txt | 38 | to the boy his coward's eloquence. Catherine was near distraught; still she persisted that she must go home, and tried entreaty in her turn, persuading him to subdue his selfish agony. While they were thus occupied, our gaoler re-entered. "Your beasts have trotted off," he said, "and----- Now, Linton! snivelling again? What has she been doing to you? Come, come; have done, and get to bed. In a month or two, my lad, you'll be able to pay her back her present tyrannies with a vigorous hand. You're pining for pure love, are you not?---nothing else in the world; and she shall have you! There, to bed! Zillah won't be here to-night. You must undress yourself. Hush! hold your noise! Once in your own room, I'll not come near you. You needn't fear. By chance you've managed tolerably. I'll look to the rest." He spoke these words, holding the door open for his son to pass; and the latter achieved his exit exactly as a spaniel might which suspected the person who attended on it of designing a spiteful squeeze. The lock was re- secured. Heathcliff approached the fire, where my mis- tress and I stood silent. Catherine looked up, and in- stinctively raised her hand to her cheek. His neighbour- hood revived a painful sensation. Anybody else would have been incapable of regarding the childish act with sternness, but he scowled on her and muttered,--- "Oh! you are not afraid of me? Your courage is well disguised; you seem damnably afraid!" "I am afraid now," she replied, "because, if I stay, papa will be miserable; and how can I endure making him miserable when he---when he------ Mr. Heathcliff, let me go home! I promise to marry Linton; papa would like me to, and I love him. Why should you wish to force me to do what I'll willingly do of myself?" "Let him dare to force you!" I cried. "There's law in the land---thank God there is!---though we be in an out-of-the-way place. I'd inform if he were my own son. And it's felony, without benefit of clergy." "Silence!" said the ruffian. "To the devil with your clamour! I don't want you to speak.---Miss Linton, I shall enjoy myself remarkably in thinking your father will be miserable; I shall not sleep for satisfaction. You could have hit on no surer way of fixing your residence under my roof for the next twenty-four hours than in- forming me that such an event would follow. As to your promise to marry Linton, I'll take care you shall keep it, for you shall not quit this place till it is fulfilled." "Send Ellen, then, to let papa know I'm safe!" ex- claimed Catherine, weeping bitterly; "or marry me now. Poor papa!---Ellen, he'll think we're lost. What shall we do?" "Not he! He'll think you are tired of waiting on him, and run off for a little amusement," answered Heath- cliff. "You cannot deny that you entered my house of your own accord, in contempt of his injunctions to the contrary. And it is quite | 1 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 37 | if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.' 'The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me know,' said Rose firmly. 'If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle,' said Rose, 'but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear.' 'The disclosure of to-night,'--Harry began. 'The disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly, 'leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.' 'You harden your heart against me, Rose,' urged her lover. 'Oh Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, bursting into tears; 'I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.' 'Then why inflict it on yourself?' said Harry, taking her hand. 'Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.' 'And what have I heard! What have I heard!' cried Rose. 'That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all--there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.' 'Not yet, not yet,' said the young man, detaining her as she rose. 'My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home--a heart and home--yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.' 'What do you mean!' she faltered. 'I mean but this--that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church--mine, Rose, my own!--there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!' * * * * * * * 'It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,' said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. 'I had serious thoughts of eating my | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 61 | light.’ ‘What kind of light?’ ‘Not our kind.’ Tetu took off his backpack and pulled out a small antique mahogany box, an incongruous item set among emergency rations and survival equipment. As though presenting a gift, he opened the lid of the box and Echo leaned forward, peering at fragments of alien technology, a collection veined with capillaries of mauve and jade, which continued to pulse despite being broken and separate from any obvious power source. She picked up the largest of these shards, bringing the light close to her eyes. ‘The law states that all alien discoveries must be turned over to McMurdo.’ ‘That’s the whole point. I’m going to hand them over. And hope that they pick me.’ ‘Why wouldn’t they pick you? You’re one of the smartest people in Hope Town.’ ‘McMurdo is taking fewer ordinary-born people. They’re only interested in ice-adapted people now. And everyone will have told them how difficult I am. If they don’t take me… I can’t imagine my future on the Peninsula. I won’t survive in Hope Town.’ ‘What’s wrong with Hope Town?’ ‘For a start, everyone is under so much pressure to be happy all the time. Our only job is joy, planning the next music festival, or organizing sports leagues. What are the opportunities? Working on the algae farms, or the canneries, or the recycle plants? I get the survival strategy; life is to be enjoyed and it’s a smart approach. But I can’t be here, in this town, stitching seal pelts, looking forward to the next party. That can’t be my life.’ ‘What do you want your life to be?’ ‘Something bigger.’ What he didn’t say was that he couldn’t imagine a life without her. Tetu’s parents had both been taken by the cold when he’d been young and there were many orphaned children living with foster parents; it was rare for a family not to have at least one adopted child. He’d skipped from family to family over the years, never finding anyone he could settle with. Recently he’d stopped even unpacking his bag, certain that each placement would last only a few months. Since the death of his parents the only unbroken relationship in his life had been with Echo. They hiked together, explored the mountains together. They’d always watch the last sunset of summer and the first sunrise after winter. For the first time in his life, he’d experienced happiness. He was in love with someone who might not even experience love in the same way. Echo undressed, remarking: ‘These clothes are useless in the water.’ Trying not to stare, Tetu mumbled: ‘Yes, I guess they are.’ Standing naked, her scales giving her the appearance of wearing an elegant outer shell, she turned to Tetu. ‘Are you embarrassed by the fact I’m naked?’ Silent for a moment, he eventually overcame his awkwardness. ‘Echo, you don’t have to ask every question that comes into your head.’ ‘I’m curious.’ ‘No, I’m not embarrassed. I’m trying to be respectful.’ ‘You can look, I don’t mind.’ She thought to herself how thin-skinned | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 26 | retrieve the carpet of spiked chain-mail. He assumed it must be an adaptation of the nail-studded devices used by the Resistance against German staff-cars. Again he reflected on the efficiency of these people and the ingenuity of the equipment they used. Had M underestimated their resourcefulness? He stifled a desire to place the blame on London. It was he who should have known; he who should have been warned by small signs and taken infinitely more precautions. He squirmed as he thought of himself washing down champagne in the Roi Galant while the enemy was busy preparing his counter-stroke. He cursed himself and cursed the hubris which had made him so sure the battle was won and the enemy in flight. All this time Le Chiffre had said nothing. Directly the boot was shut, the third man, whom Bond at once recognized, climbed in beside him and Le Chiffre reversed furiously back on to the main road. Then he banged the gear lever through the gate and was soon doing seventy on down the coast. By now it was dawn - about five o'clock, Bond guessed - and he reflected that a mile or two on was the turning to Le Chiffre's villa. He had not thought that they would take Vesper there. Now that he realized that Vesper had only been a sprat to catch a mackerel the whole picture became clear. It was an extremely unpleasant picture. For the first time since his capture, fear came to Bond and crawled up his spine. Ten minutes later the Citron lurched to the left, ran on a hundred yards up a small side-road partly overgrown with grass and then between a pair of dilapidated stucco pillars into an unkempt forecourt surrounded by a high wall. They drew up in front of a peeling white door. Above a rusty bell-push in the door-frame, small zinc letters on a wooden base spelled out 'Les Noctambules' and, underneath, 'Sonnez SVP'. From what Bond could see of the cement frontage, the villa was typical of the French seaside style. He could imagine the dead blue-bottles being hastily swept out for the summer let and the stale rooms briefly aired by a cleaning woman sent by the estate agent in Royale. Every five years one coat of whitewash would be slapped over the rooms and the outside woodwork, and for a few weeks the villa would present a smiling front to the world. Then the winter rains would get to work, and the imprisoned flies, and quickly the villa would take on again its abandoned look. But, Bond reflected, it would admirably serve Le Chiffre's purpose this morning, if he was right in assuming what that was to be. They had passed no other house since his capture and from his reconnaissance of the day before he knew there was only an occasional farm for several miles to the south. As he was urged out of the car with a sharp crack in the ribs from the thin man's elbow, he knew that Le Chiffre could have | 1 |
39 | The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt | 3 | occasioned him by this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.' 'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,' said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate. They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at the moment, in any thing besides. After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough. The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had | 1 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 53 | Robart has married her off to a prince nearly sixty years her senior.’ Thrit stared at him. ‘Saint.’ He sat on his haunches. ‘That’s why you suspect Lord Robart.’ Wulf nodded stiffly. ‘Einlek told me to see her safe, and I will.’ ‘Saint, Wulf, I don’t think he meant to swive her.’ ‘It’s not about that,’ Wulf said quietly. Thrit raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, she’s bonny. I’m not claiming it would be some great hardship. But me and her – it’s not that way. We made a vow, as bairns, that we’d always be friends. What sort of friend would I be if I let some old man plough her?’ Thrit grimaced. ‘A sound argument,’ he said, ‘but for the love of the Saint, Wulf, be careful. Adultery with her is high treason. Your head is far too handsome to be on a spike.’ ‘I will. She may not choose me, either way.’ ‘I think we both know that’s a lie.’ Thrit hitched up a smile. ‘She’d be a fool not to.’ Wulf frowned as he looked into those dark eyes. Thrit cleared his throat and turned away. ‘We should both get some rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’ ‘Aye.’ Standing in the corridor, Wulf was left to wonder if he had just missed something. He thought of going to his own room to sleep off the long journey. Instead, he returned downstairs to find Mara tucked into the inglenook, as he had often found her in the past, with a tome in her lap. It occurred to him that this might be his last visit to Langarth. When Fýredel returned with its flock, there would be no mercy, and no end to the destruction. He sat beside his sister and wrapped her into his arms, planting a kiss on the crown of her head. ‘What was that for?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Nothing.’ Mara reached up to pat his cheek. ‘I love you as well,’ she said. ‘I wanted to tell you – because I never have, and I bitterly regretted that fact when I thought you’d gone and died – that the day Father brought a bairn from those trees was the best day of my life.’ Wulf swallowed, heat in his eyes. Mara leaned into him and slept. **** At first, he thought the row of hailstones on the shutters had woken him. Mara stirred at his side, eyes opening. They both stilled when they heard footsteps and voices in the entrance hall. ‘Let me talk to him first,’ Mara whispered. ‘He’ll go into a nervous shock if he sees you.’ She left to meet their father. ‘Mara,’ Lord Edrick said in surprise. ‘I thought you’d be with Lady Marian. How long have you been here?’ ‘Not long. I’ll explain later, I promise,’ Mara said. Wulf slowly followed their voices. ‘Father, I brought the most wonderful news, but I think you might want to sit down.’ Wulf could see Lord Edrick now. He looked even older, damp from the downpour. ‘I can’t imagine how there | 0 |
Subsets and Splits