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78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 77 | he was sad, because that was how alcoholism started, and he didn’t want to be like his father. It would be convenient if I’d picked up that phone one day and heard something useful, something incriminating. Heard someone threatening Thalia, for instance. Or heard something about you. But it was simply part of a broader habit: I collected information about my peers the way some people hoard newspapers. I hoped this would help me become more like them, less like myself—less poor, less clueless, less provincial, less vulnerable. Every summer, I’d bring home the yearbook and mark each student’s photo with a special code of colored checkmarks: whether I knew them, considered them a friend, had a crush. Sometimes, in the depths of summer isolation, I’d look up people’s families in the school directory to learn their parents’ first names, with the sole purpose of lifting me, for a minute, out of a bedroom I hated in a house that wasn’t my own in a town where I didn’t know anyone anymore. This doesn’t make me special, and I knew that then, too. I’m only saying it by way of explanation: I cared about details. Not because they were something I could control, but because they were something I could own. And there was so little that was mine. 3 Fran and Anne had invited me for a late dinner, so I put on the snow boots I’d purchased for the trip and headed across South Bridge to Lower Campus. It was nine degrees out, the snow hard enough to walk across without sinking. I wondered if I’d pass people I knew, but I seemed to be the only living thing outdoors. When I’d been back before, it was to limited parts of campus. I hadn’t crossed the bridges, entered academic buildings. The dimensions seemed off now; my memory, and my frequent Granby dreams, had moved things inch by inch. The statue of Samuel Granby had somehow moved ten feet uphill, for instance. I passed close, touched his foot with my glove for old times’ sake. That fall, right after I’d accepted the invitation to teach, I woke thinking about the main street through town, the one with all the businesses, but couldn’t remember its name, so I googled Granby School map. What I found, beyond the answer (Crown Street!), were detailed maps of campus as it was in March of 1995, maps people had marked with dotted lines representing their theories, the routes they’d charted through the woods. I knew Thalia’s murder had caught and held the public’s attention, but I hadn’t understood the sheer amount of time people were putting in. Diving down online rabbit holes was not great for my mental health. (The night after I watched the Camelot video, I stayed up googling Granby classmates and faculty, and I googled facts about drowning, and I rewatched part of the Dateline episode. Finally Jerome woke up and saw my eyes and made me stop, told me to take a NyQuil and spend the morning in bed.) So I allowed | 0 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 48 | The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for." I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him, "Come and look at her." Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! How beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat. And as for Arthur, he fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper, "Jack, is she really dead?" I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest, for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help, that it often happened that after death faces become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came. I left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said goodbye, so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the preperations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur's question, and he replied, "I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!" We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner time, but when we had lit our cigars he said, "Lord. . ., but Arthur interrupted him. "No, no, not that, for God's sake! Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It is only because my loss is so recent." The Professor answered very sweetly, "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you `Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur." Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you will," he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend. | 1 |
91 | The-One.txt | 11 | “Looks like we’ve got work to do.” Ethan can’t bring himself to move. “One more thing,” McKinnon says. “There’s already a ton of media attention surrounding her death. They’re going to go nuts when they learn we’re investigating her dating-app-founder husband for her murder. For now, we’re giving the media as few details as possible. We don’t want a media circus to hinder our investigation. And we need to get our hands on Chelsea’s phone to see if we can find those photos.” “Got it.” Jonah opens the door. “You okay, Marks?” Ethan realizes Jonah has gone back to his desk. He’s alone with McKinnon, who is eyeing him strangely. “Yeah.” He forces himself to stand and follow his partner back to their cubicle. Jonah turns to him when Ethan reaches his desk. “I’ll draft the affidavit for the warrant for Chelsea Carr’s phone.” He slaps Ethan on the arm. If Jonah notices his partner’s shock, he doesn’t show it. “You want to track down Brody Carr?” His lips lift into a wry smile. “Let’s see what he has to say.” Ethan and Jonah watch a yellow Ferrari speed into Brody Carr’s circle drive from the front seats of Jonah’s Fusion. After buzzing the intercom, they’d been let through the gated entrance to Carr’s waterfront Medina home. When they approached the front door, Ethan braced himself for coming face-to-face with the man who had been sleeping with his wife. But Carr’s housekeeper answered the door instead. She left them on the porch while she checked if her employer would see them. Moments later, she told them Carr’s attorney was on his way, and he would speak to them once the attorney arrived. There was no offer to come inside, so they returned to Jonah’s car while they waited. “Subtle car,” Jonah says as a tall man with slicked-back hair steps out of the Ferrari. The attorney smooths his suit before striding toward the house. Ethan folds a stick of gum into his mouth before climbing out of the car. The same housekeeper opens the door after Carr’s attorney rings the bell. This time, she holds the door open for Ethan and Jonah to follow. Ethan eyes the security camera above the front entry before going inside, thinking of Sloane’s visit after her award gala. The detectives move behind the attorney through the mansion’s main level, following in a trail of his strong cologne. While Jonah appears to take in the home’s opulent surroundings, Ethan’s thoughts are consumed with Sloane, envisioning her in this house—with Carr. An image of Sloane laughing in Carr’s arms before they stripped off each other’s clothes inundates his mind when Ethan enters a formal dining room with views of Lake Washington. Carr stands from the table and shakes hands with his attorney. Ethan stares at the app founder. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt with his brown wavy hair neatly combed back. Despite his wife dying yesterday, the billionaire’s eyes look fresh—more well-rested than Ethan’s. Jonah extends his hand. “I’m Detective Nolan from Seattle Homicide.” Carr accepts his | 0 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 36 | from the fishing-smack had fetched them away!- and now both ship and boat had disappeared! The motor-boat was still there, quite unusable. The inspector looked at it with a grin. "Fierce young lady, isn't she, that Miss Georgina?" he said. "Done this job pretty well- no one could get away in this boat. We'll have to get it towed into harbour." The police brought back with them some of the ingots of gold to show Uncle Quentin. They had sealed up the door of the dungeon so that no one else could get in until the children's uncle was ready to go and fetch the gold. Everything was being done thoroughly and properly- though far too slowly for the children! They had hoped that the men would have been caught and taken to prison- and that the police would bring back the whole of the gold at once! They were all very tired that night and didn't make any fuss at all when their aunt said that they must go to bed early. They undressed and then the boys went to eat their supper in the girls' bedroom. Tim was there, ready to lick up any fallen crumbs. "Well, I must say we've had a wonderful adventure," said Julian, sleepily. "In a way I'm sorry it's ended -though at times I didn't enjoy it very much- especially when you and I, George, were prisoners in that dungeon. That was awful." George was looking very happy as she nibbled her gingerbread biscuits. She grinned at Julian. "And to think I hated the idea of you all coming here to stay!" she said. "I was going to be such a beast to you! I was going to make you wish you were all home again! And now the only thing that makes me sad is the idea of you going away- which you will do, of course, when the holidays end. And then, after having three friends with me, enjoying adventures like this, I'll be all on my own again. I've never been lonely before- but I know I shall be now." "No, you won't," said Anne, suddenly. "You can do something that will stop you being lonely ever again." "What?" said George in surprise. "You can ask to go to the same boarding-school as I go to," said Anne. "It's such a lovely one- and we are allowed to keep our pets, so Tim could come too!" "Gracious! Could he really?" said George, her eyes shining. "Well, I'll go then. I always said I wouldn't-but I will because I see now how much better and happier it is to be with others than all by myself. And if I can have Tim, well that's simply wonderful!" "You'd better go back to your own bedroom now, boys," said Aunt Fanny, appearing at the doorway. "Look at Dick, almost dropping with sleep! Well, you should all have pleasant dreams tonight, for you've had an adventure to be proud of. George- is that Tim under your bed?" "Well, yes it is, Mother," said George, pretending to | 1 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 27 | be called sleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost matter of impossibility to separate the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon indcidental to such a state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the MERE SILENT PRESENCE of some external object; which may not have been near us when we closed our eyes: and of whose vicinity we have had no waking consciousness. Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him. 'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure enough. Come away.' 'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there?' The man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear, and started up. Good Heaven! what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move! There--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could have almost touched him before he started back: with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his: there stood the Jew! And beside him, white with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man who had accosted him in the inn-yard. It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help. CHAPTER XXXV CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE | 1 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 4 | for it, Mom,” Louise said. “Sounds cool,” Ella said. Maud stayed up late for weeks, thinking and taking notes, before pitching the project to the Alcatraz Foundation. Besides the website, they loved her idea of an interactive tour that could be downloaded to visitors’ phones. Maud helped the development office write a grant proposal, and amazingly the funding came through a week later. The donor wanted to remain anonymous, Maud’s boss told her, “though they say you’ll know who they are. They’re a serious piece of work.” Alice, Maud thought, the name soaring through her body. That night, as she wrote a thank-you note, she remembered standing together in the barn, looking at the basket. Something all your own. Something you saw in nothing and brought into the world. She was still learning from that friendship, even though it had ended. And, she thought, as she dropped the envelope in a mailbox, maybe one day she would learn that it hadn’t. The first entry that she completed was on the iris, which grew on Muslim graves and in the wild on the African continent. Which figured on the woodblock prints of the Japanese artist Hiroshige. Which was the fleur-de-lis on the French flag. Which was named in the Homeric Hymns, picked by Persephone before her abduction by Hades. In August, with her portion of the money from the sale of her parents’ property, Maud bought a condominium on the edge of the Presidio. The building had bad plumbing and warped facia, but it backed onto a eucalyptus grove and was a thirty-minute walk to Tennessee Hollow. Maud lined the balcony with planters of scarlet runner beans that curtained the rusted railings, and filled a blank spot in the living room with a Victorian loveseat to accompany her cheap Scandinavian furniture. Mornings, before leaving for work, she laced her hiking boots and looped through the park to Inspiration Point, sometimes joined by Maria. Below, in the misty crux of the valley, the vibrant jumble of the garden waited for another day of children. One hot weekend, she and the girls painted the condo, each room another bright color: blue, yellow, pink. Done, they were speckled from their hair to their ankles. “This place looks like a rainbow vomited,” Ella said, and they laughed. “I guess neither of you will be interior decorators,” Maud said. She wondered whether white primer could erase this mess. “If we do, it won’t be thanks to your genes,” Louise said. The girls were flopped on the floor against the tarped loveseat. Ella was picking paint off her knee as, next to her, Louise swigged lemonade straight from the bottle. Maud wanted to press the moment in the pages of time. She wasn’t sure of much, but she knew one thing: from now on, they were moving forward. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thank you to Zibby Owens, Kathleen Harris, Anne Messitte, and the rest of the wonderful Zibby Books team for giving Hedge a warm and innovative home. Thank you to Samantha Shea, agent extraordinaire, for her input on early drafts and | 0 |
11 | Emma.txt | 18 | to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come. In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather appearing exactly right. Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.-- Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser. It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family. She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered-- its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.--"The best fruit in England-- every body's favourite--always wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for one's self--the only | 1 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 37 | and he shook his fists in rage. “It’s the bomber.” Peter looked at Marion, his face white. “He’s back.” CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE We have to get out of here, now!” Peter grabbed Marion and together they ran through the vestibule and parlor, crouching low so as not to be seen through the windows at the front of the house. In the kitchen Marion bumped into a chair, knocking it over. She stopped to right it, but Peter grabbed her hand. “There’s no time.” She followed him out the door and down the back steps. They froze as the sound of coughing echoed in the air. It was a wretched noise, like Martinek’s lungs were straining to expel some kind of poison. That was what he lived with, every day, the chronic pain that had made him turn violent. “He’s on the front porch,” said Marion. A door slammed. He was inside the house. They crept carefully through weeds and up a cracked pathway that ran along the far side of the house, crouching low under Martinek’s bedroom windows. All was silent. They had to somehow get back to the car, which involved crossing in front of the house and possibly exposing themselves to Martinek’s view if he was near a window. Another slam of a door. This time it came from the back of the house. He was following their trail. “He’s seen the chair,” said Peter. “Quick, run!” They couldn’t risk passing in front of the house, so instead Marion and Peter sprinted down the street and around the block, where a man picking up the paper at the end of his driveway gave them a sharp look. They slowed to a more reasonable pace and sauntered by, Peter lifting his hat in greeting as they did so. “We’re a married couple, inspecting the neighborhood,” murmured Peter. “Put your arm in mine.” She did so, and he held it firmly against his body, the two of them breathing hard, walking in lockstep almost as if they were one. Up the hill, across, and then back down Brick Street, where there was no sign of Martinek. At the car, Peter opened the door for Marion and then jumped in the driver’s seat. He put it into reverse and backed all the way up the street until he reached the intersection. It was only once they were back on the highway that Marion remembered to breathe. They’d made it, but just barely. * * * They drove straight to police headquarters in downtown Manhattan. Peter parked across the street and the two of them ran inside. At the reception desk on the first floor, Peter explained who they were and that they had something to report about the Big Apple Bomber. “Captain Somers knows us.” “The captain is off today,” said the receptionist. “Is there anyone else I can call?” Just their luck. “Detective Ogden,” said Marion reluctantly. The woman picked up the receiver and dialed an extension. “I see . . . Yes . . . Will do.” She hung up and Marion | 0 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 69 | . . Nothing? She saw nothing? Great.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What about the other ‘residents’ and I use the term loosely . . . Unobservant lot, eh? . . . Yeah, I know they all get jittery around the cops, but someone saw something . . . Oh, yeah? Just left even though he’d paid in advance?” Her father stopped walking. “You got a name? . . . Crap, sounds like a phoney, but check it out and what? . . . A Harley? That he parked inside? What kind of a nutcase is he? Must have somethin’ to hide. Like a lot . . . Yeah, let’s find him. Who knows? He might be our guy.” Kristi listened to the conversation and her heart nearly stopped. Her mind was spinning as she remembered Cruz Montoya had looked like he’d just gotten off a motorcycle and she’d heard an engine fire up, though it was after her father and Montoya had arrived. And what about the time when he’d found Dave and brought the dog back to her—hadn’t she heard a big bike’s engine start? Was it a coincidence? Hell no. Because Cruz had come here looking for a place to stay. Because he couldn’t hide out at the motel any longer. So why didn’t she just blurt it out? Tell her father her suspicions? Because, damn it, he’d brought Dave to her. Because he’d been willing to tackle getting an angry water moccasin out of her trash bin. She was sure he hadn’t been playing her. Okay, pretty sure. But she wasn’t ready to give him up. Yet. Montoya tapped at the slider and she jumped. Again she thought of Cruz and how he resembled his brother. Same dark hair, same strong jaw, same attitude. She unlocked the door, letting him inside. “You okay?” Montoya asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Just still trying to settle my nerves,” she lied, and Montoya’s eyebrows drew downward. “I thought you’d, you know, gotten a hold of yourself.” “I did, but then . . . well, I’m fine now.” She drew in a long breath and told herself to be cool. “Find anything?” Bentz asked as he disconnected and pocketed his phone. “Nah.” “Just got a call from the motel where Stacy Parker was staying. No one saw anything, of course, but there are a few MIAs—one guy in particular. Left the day it all came down, didn’t return, and had prepaid in cash, of course. And get this, he drove a Harley and kept it in the room with him.” “Huh.” Montoya said, and Kristi saw that he, too, was digesting the info and probably wondering about his missing brother. Bentz went on, taking a seat at the island. “I called the lab. They’re picking up the garbage container and this.” Bentz pointed to the envelope and card with its damning rose drawing and Bible verse, tape still intact, now wrapped in a plastic bag. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he left a fingerprint on the tape | 0 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 11 | over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stab- board!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before break- fast. CHAPTER VIII. THE sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. I was powerful lazy and comfortable -- didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up -- about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped | 1 |
2 | A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt | 56 | for it, grace notes that he used to put in that I haven't got. That was the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if you like. Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during the meal he cross-examined the waiter for local news. For the most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name was mentioned, the waiter having in mind the present holder and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather. --Well, I hope they haven't moved the Queen's College anyhow, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster of mine. Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous porter across the quadrangle. But their progress across the gravel was brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by some reply of the porter's. --Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead? --Yes, sir. Dead, sir. During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the slow march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the quadrangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man, could be duped by the servile manners of the porter; and the lively southern speech which had entertained him all the morning now irritated his ears. They passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus, the porter aiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Stephen remained in the background, depressed more than ever by the darkness and silence of the theatre and by the air it wore of jaded and formal study. On the desk he read the word FOETUS cut several times in the dark stained wood. The sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the absent students of the college about him and to shrink from their company. A vision of their life, which his father's words had been powerless to evoke, sprang up before him out of the word cut in the desk. A broad-shouldered student with a moustache was cutting in the letters with a jack-knife, seriously. Other students stood or sat near him laughing at his handiwork. One jogged his elbow. The big student turned on him, frowning. He was dressed in loose grey clothes and had tan boots. Stephen's name was called. He hurried down the steps of the theatre so as to be as far away from the vision as he could be and, peering closely at his father's initials, hid his flushed face. But the word and the vision capered before his eyes as he walked back across the quadrangle and towards the college gate. It shocked him to find in the outer world a trace of what he had deemed till then a brutish and individual malady of his own mind. His monstrous reveries came thronging into his memory. They too had sprung up before him, suddenly and furiously, out of mere words. He had soon given | 1 |
69 | In the Lives of Puppets.txt | 69 | able to recharge her, she said, “Thank you. That is better. I can now assist you. Please show me where it hurts so I can heal you.” And here, now, he said, “It hurts. Here.” He pressed a hand to his chest as the tether jerked a final time. He was in his body once more, and it was dark and quiet inside. “Can you heal me?” Nurse Ratched said, “It is not physical, Victor. I cannot heal it.” He nodded. “I understand.” He looked around. His face was sore, and he realized he was still smiling. It wasn’t appropriate, but he couldn’t stop. He wondered if he should be crying. He felt sad, that ache in his chest only growing bigger, but the dirt in his eyes sucked up all the liquid and he was unable. “I’m erroring.” “I know,” Nurse Ratched said. “Okay,” he said, turning his head. The man—not a man, but Hap—looked at him suspiciously. “Hello.” “Vic,” he said, and Victor felt his smile shake. “Can you h-hear me?” “Yes,” he said. “Of course I can. I am working. Everything is in order.” “What’s wrong w-with him?” Hap asked. “He is in shock,” Nurse Ratched said. “He will recover, but it will take time.” “M-malfunction,” Hap said. “He is m-malfunctioning.” “No,” Nurse Ratched said. “But it can make certain functions more difficult.” “We c-can’t stay down here. He c-can’t.” “At least for now. We do not have a choice. There is more we need to see.” Victor felt something nudge against his leg. He looked down. The little machine was tugging on his pants. Rambo. His name was Rambo. “Vic?” Rambo whispered. “Can you hear me?” “Yes,” Vic said, stepping back, bumping into Hap. Vic recoiled sharply. “Don’t touch me.” Hap looked stunned. He raised a hand toward Vic, but he curled it into a fist before dropping it back to his side. “I w-won’t. I w-won’t touch you. I wwon’t hurt you.” Nurse Ratched said, “Butterflies.” The flutter of wings burst through the static in Vic’s head as spring bloomed on Nurse Ratched’s screen. The trees were green, the flowers blooming. It was almost as if he were there in the forest, breathing in the scents of new growth. Heady, this, and it filled his mouth as he sucked air down greedily, his lungs expanding, blood pumping, heart a furious drumbeat. On the screen, moving through the trees, a vast kaleidoscope of butterflies, their wings orange and black. They swirled in ordered chaos, and he could almost feel them alight upon his arms and shoulders, their wings brushing against his cheeks. He closed his eyes as a large butterfly landed on his face, the sensation uncomfortable as its legs touched his eyelids. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he heard Hap whispering it was nice, it was pretty, it was his. “What is this?” he whispered. Through the storm in his head, he heard Nurse Ratched. She said, “A program. Triggered by a code phrase. Gio installed it in me, hidden away. I did not know | 0 |
10 | Dune.txt | 81 | "Everything's so . . . " He shrugged. "Yes. Well, tomorrow we leave. It'll be good to get settled in our new home, put all this upset behind." Paul nodded, suddenly overcome by memory of the Reverend Mother's words: " . . . for the father, nothing." "Father," Paul said, "will Arrakis be as dangerous as everyone says?" The Duke forced himself to the casual gesture, sat down on a corner of the table, smiled. A whole pattern of conversation welled up in his mind -- the kind of thing he might use to dispel the vapors in his men before a battle. The pattern froze before it could be vocalized, confronted by the single thought: This is my son. "It'll be dangerous," he admitted. "Hawat tells me we have a plan for the Fremen," Paul said. And he wondered: Why don't I tell him what that old woman said? How did she seal my tongue? The Duke noted his son's distress, said: "As always, Hawat sees the main chance. But there's much more. I see also the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles -- the CHOAM Company. By giving me Arrakis, His Majesty is forced to give us a CHOAM directorship . . . a subtle gain." "CHOAM controls the spice," Paul said. "And Arrakis with its spice is our avenue into CHOAM," the Duke said. "There's more to CHOAM than melange." "Did the Reverend Mother warn you?" Paul blurted. He clenched his fists, feeling his palms slippery with perspiration. The effort it had taken to ask that question. "Hawat tells me she frightened you with warnings about Arrakis," the Duke said. "Don't let a woman's fears cloud your mind. No woman wants her loved ones endangered. The hand behind those warnings was your mother's. Take this as a sign of her love for us." "Does she know about the Fremen?" "Yes, and about much more." "What?" And the Duke thought: The truth could be worse than he imagines, but even dangerous facts are valuable if you've been trained to deal with them. And there's one place where nothing has been spared for my son -- dealing with dangerous facts. This must be leavened, though; he is young. "Few products escape the CHOAM touch," the Duke said. "Logs, donkeys, horses, cows, lumber, dung, sharks, whale fur -- the most prosaic and the most exotic . . . even our poor pundi rice from Caladan. Anything the Guild will transport, the art forms of Ecaz, the machines of Richesse and Ix. But all fades before melange. A handful of spice will buy a home on Tupile. It cannot be manufactured, it must be mined on Arrakis. It is unique and it has true geriatric properties." "And now we control it?" "To a certain degree. But the important thing is to consider all the Houses that depend on CHOAM profits. And think of the enormous proportion of those profits dependent upon a single product -- the spice. Imagine what would happen if something should reduce spice production." "Whoever had stockpiled melange could make a | 1 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 4 | and the disappeared again. Before Arthur was able to assimilate this the other man spoke and the word Phouchg appeared by his neck. "Seventy-five thousand generations ago, our ancestors set this program in motion," the second man said, "and in all that time we will be the first to hear the computer speak." "An awesome prospect, Phouchg," agreed the first man, and Arthur suddenly realized that he was watching a recording with subtitles. "We are the ones who will hear," said Phouchg, "the answer to the great question of Life ...!" "The Universe ...!" said Loonquawl. "And Everything ...!" "Shhh," said Loonquawl with a slight gesture, "I think Deep Thought is preparing to speak!" There was a moment's expectant pause whilst panels slowly came to life on the front of the console. Lights flashed on and off experimentally and settled down into a businesslike pattern. A soft low hum came from the communication channel. "Good morning," said Deep Thought at last. "Er ... Good morning, O Deep Thought," said Loonquawl nervously, "do you have ... er, that is ..." "An answer for you?" interrupted Deep Thought majestically. "Yes. I have." The two men shivered with expectancy. Their waiting had not been in vain. "There really is one?" breathed Phouchg. "There really is one," confirmed Deep Thought. "To Everything? To the great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything?" "Yes." Both of the men had been trained for this moment, their lives had been a preparation for it, they had been selected at birth as those who would witness the answer, but even so they found themselves gasping and squirming like excited children. "And you're ready to give it to us?" urged Loonquawl. "I am." "Now?" "Now," said Deep Thought. They both licked their dry lips. "Though I don't think," added Deep Thought, "that you're going to like it." "Doesn't matter!" said Phouchg. "We must know it! Now!" "Now?" inquired Deep Thought. "Yes! Now ..." "Alright," said the computer and settled into silence again. The two men fidgeted. The tension was unbearable. "You're really not going to like it," observed Deep Thought. "Tell us!" "Alright," said Deep Thought. "The Answer to the Great Question ..." "Yes ...!" "Of Life, the Universe and Everything ..." said Deep Thought. "Yes ...!" "Is ..." said Deep Thought, and paused. "Yes ...!" "Is ..." "Yes ...!!!...?" "Forty-two," said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. ================================================================= Chapter 28 It was a long time before anyone spoke. Out of the corner of his eye Phouchg could see the sea of tense expectant faces down in the square outside. "We're going to get lynched aren't we?" he whispered. "It was a tough assignment," said Deep Thought mildly. "Forty-two!" yelled Loonquawl. "Is that all you've got to show for seven and a half million years' work?" "I checked it very thoroughly," said the computer, "and that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is." "But it was the Great Question! The Ultimate Question | 1 |
52 | A-Living-Remedy.txt | 26 | with her about my daughter, I could feel her hand pressing down on mine, the warmth of her fingers, the grain of the wooden table at which we sat. I could hear her voice, as clear as it was in life. You can tell me all about it, she said. And then you’ll figure out how to help her, like you always do. When I woke, it occurred to me that perhaps my mind is trying to mother me, now that my mother is gone. 25 At around eight by ten, my office is the smallest of our small bedrooms, squished between the master bedroom and my older daughter’s room. I claimed it as my work space when we moved into this, the first residence of my adult life that has felt semipermanent. I pushed an old table up against the room’s only window, pleased to find that during the day, at least, there is no need for a lamp. We painted the walls a soft blue green that reminds me of sea glass, and I hung up original art and carefully arranged the bookshelves. I hadn’t had a dedicated writing space all to myself, with a door I could close, since I took over the spare bedroom in my childhood home. For our first two years in the house, the study was my primary work space, the backdrop for all my video meetings, the place where I went to brainstorm and to write. Then we got a dog, and I pretty much stopped working there altogether. For years, whenever one of our children asked us if we could get a puppy, Dan or I would offer up a vague response: Maybe someday, when you’re old enough to help. Several friends who also had autistic children had gotten them therapy dogs—mostly Labradors or goldendoodles—and we had thought about doing the same. Both of us had grown up with dogs and cats and were generally pro-pets, but we also knew how much extra work it would mean. Then came the pandemic. Sometime between my mother’s funeral in the spring and back-to-school that never quite happened in the fall, maybe gave way to yes and someday became as soon as possible. Saying yes to the dog was very much about saying yes to our kids in the worst year of their lives. They’d lost so much in such a brief space of time: another grandparent, visits with family, familiar routines, a sense of stability and safety. Their schools were still closed, which meant they spent five hours a day in front of their Chromebook screens, being reminded to sit up straight and keep their cameras on. Their world had shrunk to the four walls of our house, our yard, and the neighborhood we meandered through day after day. We knew that we were luckier than many. We were trying our best. But none of us were doing well, and the first long pandemic winter was on the way. This dog, I decided, was going to be the family comfort animal. The kids picked out | 0 |
11 | Emma.txt | 35 | 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 rather have it only in one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's-- I do not know--No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?" "That | 1 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 64 | said with a crooked smile. The door opened, but before Ryder could step out, I took his arm. “You look around, you evaluate the drives, and then you get to the bridge, pronto. Got that?” “Copy that.” He winked at Akari and left. Waiting for the GravLift’s doors to open, I anticipated being disappointed. Having skippered multiple Hamilton-class dreadnoughts, I knew what they each had in common was a massive main deck, affectionately called Whale’s Alley because of the high arching metal girders above resembling a whale’s huge inner rib cage. The lift slowed, stopped, and the doors slid open. I was the first to step out onto the main deck, which for this vessel was Deck 15. Looking about, craning my neck to see above, I was delighted to see the Whale’s Alley ship architecture was intact, even here on this SpaceWing design. “This is one big fucking main deck,” Wanda said, standing with hands on hips, appraising our surroundings. Akari was already hurrying toward the entrance to the bridge. “Holy shit!” we heard her say. Upon entering the bridge, my jaw dropped open. I knew Akari wasn’t commenting on the fight that went down in here. This was some command center. Far more advanced than what I was used to. There again, this was a prototype vessel of things to come. Things that had yet to materialize, other than here onboard USS Lincoln. I was immediately struck by the advanced technology on display. The console stations were sleek and modern-looking, with touchscreens and holographic displays. Akari, having found the tactical station near the front of the compartment, said, “Each station is immediately customizable to the needs of its user, with different readouts and controls depending on their role on the ship. No one-size-fits-all here, Captain.” With a few taps, she gestured to the front. It was the centerpiece of the bridge, the 3D halo display. Currently it was projecting a detailed map of the surrounding space. “Looks like this celestial map is updating in real time. No nearby alien ships; you can see Adams there,” Akari said, gesturing with an extended finger. “I think the captain knows how to view a halo display, Akari,” Wanda said with a smirk. “Oh, shut up. I’m just excited.” On either side of the halo display were rows of monitors, displaying a dizzying array of data and video feeds. I could see there were sensors monitoring everything from radiation levels to gravitational fluctuations, while cameras provided live feeds from all around the ship. Wanda, having ventured over to a bulkhead, was playing with a wall-mounted display. “Cool! The lighting here on the bridge is totally adjustable.” The compartment was suddenly bathed in aqua-hued illumination. “I guess the different colors are used to indicate different levels of alert or activity.” I crossed my arms, assessing it all. Overall, the bridge of this warship was a marvel of high-tech design and well-thought-out engineering. Akari turned and looked at me. “Well, aren’t you going to try it out?” I raised my brows. “Try what out?” Her eyes | 0 |
99 | spare.txt | 56 | folding my underwear and watching “The One with<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Monica and Chandler’s Wedding.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Besides my own laundry (often laid out to dry on my radiators) I did my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">own chores, my own cooking, my own food shopping. There was a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">supermarket by the Palace and I went there, casually, at least once a week.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">267<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.me/Afghansalarlibrary<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Of course I’d plan each trip as carefully as a patrol around Musa Qala.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I’d arrive at different times, randomly, to throw off the press. I’d wear a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">disguise: low baseball cap, loose coat. I’d run along the aisles at warp speed,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">grabbing the salmon fillets I liked, the brand of yogurt I liked. (I’d<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">memorized a map of the store.) Plus a few Granny Smith apples and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bananas. And, of course, some crisps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Then I’d sprint to the checkout.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Just as I’d honed my preflight checks in the Apache, I now honed my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">grocery shopping time down to ten minutes. But one night I got to the shop<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and began to run up and down the aisles and everything...had moved.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I hurried over to an employee: What's happened?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Excuse me?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Where is everything?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Where is—?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Why has everything moved?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Honestly?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Yes, honestly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">To keep people here longer. So they'll buy more stuff.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I was gobsmacked. You can do that? By law?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">A bit panicky, I resumed running up and down the aisles, filling my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">trolley as best I could, keeping an eye on the clock, then rushed to the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">checkout. That was always the trickiest part, because there was no honing<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the checkout: it all depended on others. More, the checkout counter stood<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">right beside the news racks, which held every British tabloid and magazine,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and half the front pages and magazine covers were photos of my family. Or<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">my mum. Or me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">More than once I watched customers read about me, overheard them<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">debating me. In 2015 | 0 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 55 | glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: "You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about himself." Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. "Here's Mr. Philip, sir." The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the Hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. "He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him. "How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed since you were here last?" "I think you look stronger than you did last summer." "It was the heat. That always upsets me." Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. "On the seventh of November, sir." Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information. "But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." "I don't seem to put on flesh though." Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia. "It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's bill." Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip. "That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage." Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him He must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said: "Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were." When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if | 1 |
30 | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt | 46 | the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once long frock now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms, revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning. L She plunged into the chilly equinoctial darkness as the clock struck ten, for her fifteen miles' walk under the steely stars. In lone districts night is a protection rather than a danger to a noiseless pedestrian, and knowing this Tess pursued the nearest course along by-lanes that she would almost have feared in the day-time; but marauders were wanting now, and spectral fears were driven out of her mind by thoughts of her mother. Thus she proceeded mile after mile, ascending and descending till she came to Bulbarrow, and about midnight looked from that height into the abyss of chaotic shade which was all that revealed itself of the vale on whose further side she was born. Having already traversed about five miles on the upland she had now some ten or eleven in the lowland before her journey would be finished. The winding road downwards became just visible to her under the | 1 |
37 | The Hunger Games.txt | 49 | thered to tell me your strategies. But I’ve done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you’ve both successfully struggled to over- come the barbarism of your district.” Barbarism? That’s ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what’s she basing our success on? Our table manners? “Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!’“ Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it’s wrong. Coal doesn’t turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that’s untrue, too. I’ve heard they have some sort of machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. But we don’t mine graphite in District 12. That was part of District 13’s job until they were destroyed. I wonder if the people she’s been plugging us to all day ei- ther know or care. 74 “Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that,” says Effie grimly. “But don’t worry, I’ll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.” Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has a certain determination I have to admire. My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many auto- matic gadgets that I’m sure I won’t have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hun- dred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain. I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there’s a knock on the door. Effie’s calling me to dinner. Good. I’m starving. Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room. I’m glad 75 to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Haymitch will be joining us. A meal presided over by just Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster. Besides, din- ner isn’t really about food, it’s about planning out our strate- gies, and Cinna and Portia have already proven how valuable they | 1 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 59 | sand and went away. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE When the district commissioner arrived at Okonkwo's compound at the head of an armed band of soldiers and court messengers he found a small crowd of men sitting wearily in the obi. He commanded them to come outside, and they obeyed without a murmur. "Which among you is called Okonkwo?" he asked through his interpreter. "He is not here," replied Obierika. "Where is he?" "He is not here!" The Commissioner became angry and red in the face. He warned the men that unless they produced Okonkwo forthwith he would lock them all up. The men murmured among themselves, and Obierika spoke again. "We can take you where he is, and perhaps your men will help us." The Commissioner did not understand what Obierika meant when he said, "Perhaps your men will help us." One of the most infuriating habits of these people was their love of superfluous words, he thought. Obierika with five or six others led the way. The Commissioner and his men followed their firearms held at the ready. He had warned Obierika that if he and his men played any monkey tricks they would be shot. And so they went. There was a small bush behind Okonkwo's compound. The only opening into this bush from the compound was a little round hole in the red-earth wall through which fowls went in and out in their endless search for food. The hole would not let a man through. It was to this bush that Obierika led the Commissioner and his men. They skirted round the compound, keeping close to the wall. The only sound they made was with their feet as they crushed dry leaves. Then they came to the tree from which Okonkwo's body was dangling, and they stopped dead. "Perhaps your men can help us bring him down and bury him," said Obierika. "We have sent for strangers from another village to do it for us, but they may be a long time coming." The District Commissioner changed instantaneously. The resolute administrator in him gave way to the student of primitive customs. "Why can't you take him down yourselves?" he asked. "It is against our custom," said one of the men. "It is an abomination for a man to take his own life. It is an offence against the Earth, and a man who commits it will not be buried by his clansmen. His body is evil, and only strangers may touch it. That is why we ask your people to bring him down, because you are strangers." "Will you bury him like any other man?" asked the Commissioner. "We cannot bury him. Only strangers can. We shall pay your men to do it. When he has been buried we will then do our duty by him. We shall make sacrifices to cleanse the desecrated land." Obierika, who had been gazing steadily at his friend's dangling body, turned suddenly to the District Commissioner and said ferociously: "That man was one of the greatest men in Umuofia. You drove him to kill himself | 1 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 77 | to serve Donald Trump. White House Chief of Staff Reince Priebus waxed poetic about how the president’s agenda was “a blessing.” UN Ambassador Nikki Haley gushed about the New York tycoon’s “strong voice” on the international stage. The two generals at the table, John Kelly and Jim Mattis, kept straight faces, declining to fawn over the president before, during, or after the meeting. When Trump turned to them expecting tribute, they said little about the man. Mattis praised “the men and women of the Department of Defense,” while Kelly noted the honor of representing a “quarter of a million men and women that serve the country in DHS.” Afterward, I told Kelly that two spectators would notice his choice of words: a grateful DHS workforce and a seething Donald Trump. He smiled. Privately, deputies to the president were questioning more than just Trump’s thirst for adulation. They worried about the commander in chief’s mental state. Trump was becoming more irascible in meetings, lashing out at staff, frequently repeating himself, and displaying a maddening inability to focus. On June 23, Kirstjen and I went with General Kelly to the White House for a series of meetings. Kelly, Mattis, and Tillerson planned to confront Trump about the creeping state of chaos inside the West Wing, and the scene that morning appeared to prove the point. Unable to get the conversation on track as aides darted in and out of the Oval Office, Secretary Kelly raised his voice, demanding that anyone who wasn’t confirmed by the U.S. Senate needed to leave to room. Staffers shuffled out into the hallway where I was waiting, until the only people left in the Oval were the cabinet members. The president bristled at criticisms of how the West Wing was run, Kelly later recounted. “If it’s so screwed up,” Trump shot back at the general, “come fix it yourself.” It was at least the second time Trump had suggested that John Kelly become his chief of staff at the White House. The secretary declined, in addition to turning down Trump’s request that Kelly take Comey’s place as FBI director. Kelly reassured us he was closer to resigning than accepting a role at Trump’s side, but someone needed to take command soon, or the ship would sink. Trump’s shortcomings stood out particularly during emergencies. I remember briefing the president in the Oval Office on the projected storm track of an Atlantic hurricane. At first, he seemed to grasp the devastating magnitude of the Category 4 superstorm, until he opened his mouth. “Is that the direction they always spin?” the president asked me. “I’m sorry sir,” I responded, “I don’t understand.” “Hurricanes. Do they always spin like that?” He made a swirl in the air with his finger. “Counterclockwise?” I asked. He nodded. “Yes, Mr. President. It’s called the Coriolis effect. It’s the same reason toilet water spins the other direction in the Southern Hemisphere.” “Incredible,” Trump replied, squinting his eyes to look at the foam board presentation. We needed him to urge residents to evacuate from the Carolinas, where it | 0 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 45 | the back seat, there is no way I can carry Juno to the doorstep. Truthfully, I’m not even sure I could get myself to the door right now. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve written sexual tension that could peel wallpaper, and none of it comes close to the last twenty minutes in the car with Connor. “I’ve got her.” Connor ducks around me, bending to unbuckle Juno’s seat belt. His thighs flex beneath his jeans and his shoulders strain against the soft cotton of his new T-shirt as he easily lifts the floppy kid from his back seat. “I really don’t think my ovaries can take any more,” I mumble. He turns, adjusting her weight over his shoulder. “What’s that?” I cough delicately into a fist. “Clear night, don’t think there’s rain in store.” Connor looks skeptical, but seems to trust that if I’m filtering myself, it’s probably a good thing. He turns and heads up when I gesture that he should lead the way. The door opens as we approach. Jess stands in the frame, backlit by a warm, golden glow, and seems to entirely miss the mental flare gun I repeatedly fire into the air. River comes up behind her, reaching to take Juno from Connor, who murmurs a soft “Got her?” as he passes her off. My heart launches itself out a tenth-story window. The little girl reveals her level of consciousness by snaking her arms around her dad’s neck and mumbling, “Thank you, Mr. Prince.” I get it together enough to frown in feigned offense. “Hey, what about me? Ticket hookup, hello?” Her response is a sleepy grunt as she’s carried down the hall to her room. With Juno situated and Stevie asleep in the back seat, Connor jogs down a couple of front steps, and then looks back at me expectantly. “Ready?” I start to follow, propelled like there’s a silken rope connecting us, but hesitate. I think about the warmth of the car and the soothing mood of the music. I think about Connor’s big hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gripping it like it was a vine tethering him to the top of a cliff. I think about his forearms that are corded with veins and muscle, and how when he’s two steps below me we’re finally at eye level. I think about how his eyes lit up with joy tonight watching his daughter in her element, and I think about how his shoulders felt beneath my legs earlier when he lifted me. I think about the defeated growl of his My new best friend and I think about being in the front seat beside him for one second longer and I’m not sure I can do it. I am but a mortal woman after all, and once again I want Connor Prince III to crush me beneath him like a delicate flower under a fallen tree. But sexily. “I think I’ll crash here tonight,” I tell him. “It’s not out of my way,” he assures me. “Really.” “It’s not that.” His | 0 |
49 | treasure island.txt | 31 | know the men ashore had a musket, and before they could get within you are a good man at bottom, and I dare say not one of the range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves we should be lot of you’s as bad as he makes out. I have my watch here in able to give a good account of a half-dozen at least. my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join me in.” The squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his There was a pause. faintness gone from him. He caught the painter and made it “Come, my fine fellow,” continued the captain; “don’t hang fast, and we fell to loading the boat for our very lives. Pork, so long in stays. I’m risking my life and the lives of these powder, and biscuit was the cargo, with only a musket and a good gentlemen every second.” cutlass apiece for the squire and me and Redruth and the There was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped over- burst Abraham Gray with a knife cut on the side of the cheek, board in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see and came running to the captain like a dog to the whistle. the bright steel shining far below us in the sun, on the clean, “I’m with you, sir,” said he. sandy bottom. And the next moment he and the captain had dropped By this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship aboard of us, and we had shoved off and given way. was swinging round to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly We were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our halloaing in the direction of the two gigs; and though this stockade. reassured us for Joyce and Hunter, who were well to the east- ward, it warned our party to be off. Redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the boat, which we then brought round to the Contents ship’s counter, to be handier for Captain Smollett. “Now, men,” said he, “do you hear me?” Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 136 137 rippling current running westward through the basin, and then south’ard and seaward down the straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we were swept out of our true course and away from our proper land- ing-place behind the point. If we let the current have its way we should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at any moment. “I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir,” said I to the captain. I was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, Chapter 17. were at the oars. “The tide keeps washing her down. Could Narrative Continued by the Doctor: The Jolly-boat’s you pull a little stronger?” Last Trip. “Not without | 1 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 8 | the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added, partly to distract her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! Her Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. Have you heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?" Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in question, and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common property. A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort, and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private life; but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies. Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations; but in business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty. It was a long time since any well- known banker had failed discreditably; but every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the firm when the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful speculations. The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated trend. "Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know, everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's last reception." It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions: conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age. There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish. "I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed. "Such things have to be, I suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to countenance Mrs. Struthers." A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--." It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances; but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was most in the tone of her environment. | 1 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 92 | since Bùsọ́lá was taken; more than once he’d raised his fist to strike Ẹniọlá but so far had never let it land. Ẹniọlá welcomed the curses as deserved punishment. His mother still hadn’t responded to any of his apologies. Anytime he told her that he was sorry about Bùsọ́lá, she looked elsewhere. To the door of their room, off into the street, towards the ceiling or the skies, her brows arched in almost constant expectation that Bùsọ́lá would return, appear, even descend. * * * When she was a child, Ọ̀túnba would sometimes ask Wúràọlá to sit beside him when he noticed she was in a bad mood. Most times, he did not even ask what she was upset about; he would just put his hand on her shoulder until of her own accord she lay her head on his lap. Then he would rock her to sleep. Wúràọlá felt her phone vibrate. Láyí was calling her. She pressed the power button until the phone went off. He had been right to insist they check the morgues. Did that mean he would be better prepared to handle the news? Should she tell him first? Was it best to inform everyone at the same time? Now Mọ́tárá might finally spill the tears she’d been close to shedding in the last few days. Wúràọlá looked out the window. What she had seen was real, but it did not feel true just yet. It would when she told Yèyé, she was sure of it. * * * Until this afternoon, Ẹniọlá and his parents had obeyed Holy Michael’s warnings. They had told no one about what happened. Not even the landlord or their neighbours. Ẹniọlá did not go to the Honourable’s house. He did not go anywhere. Not to Glorious Destiny or United. He sat by his mother all day and fetched her things she did not ask for: water, food, a hand fan when the room was too hot. He watched the door with her while his father hovered around in the room, asking Ẹniọlá questions about Holy Michael and Sàámú. More alert and involved than he’d been for years, he surprised Ẹniọlá by thinking through the options available and eliminating courses of action that might endanger Bùsọ́lá. Meanwhile, his mother was a deflated version of herself. It felt as though his parents had traded places. Ẹniọlá glanced at his father. Something in his eyes made Ẹniọlá wonder if he might start cursing him again right here in the cab. He looked away from his father to the woman beside him. She was glaring at him, unblinking. He recognised her after a minute. There was a fading bruise on her cheek that wasn’t there the last time he saw her. But it was her. Yèyé’s daughter, the doctor. She would not stop glaring at him. Yèyé must have recognised him somehow that night, this was why her daughter was staring at him. Any moment now she would grab him and drag him to a police station. “I did not know that it was your | 0 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 97 | It makes me work harder because I’m so scared of slipping behind. But no matter how hard I work I’ll never be able to match their passion, because if I’m honest – if I was brave – I should drop out and figure out what I really want to do.’ ‘You don’t want to be a doctor?’ ‘It’s one of the best jobs in the world. No one ever asks, “Why do you want to be a doctor?”, including me. I never really asked myself the question, so it’s like, I never really made the decision, it just kind of happened. I wanted to do something that mattered. I’m on this path but I don’t know if it’s my path.’ Bewildered at how this confession had tumbled out of her, she added: ‘I’m sorry… I don’t know what that was.’ ‘It was the truth, no?’ ‘If my mom heard me talking about dropping out, she’d have a heart attack and I’d have to revive her, and the first thing she’d tell me, when she opened her eyes, is that I’d saved her life, how could I possibly be thinking of dropping out of medical school.’ Atto asked: ‘Maybe she’d understand?’ ‘My mom? She wouldn’t understand dropping out. She’s never dropped out of anything in her life. She’s like… the fourth most powerful woman in New York.’ ‘For real?’ ‘For real, no. For real, she’s the ninth most powerful woman in New York.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Glossy magazines write these lists – top ten restaurants in New York, top ten most powerful people, top ten restaurants chosen by the top ten most powerful people.’ ‘And your dad?’ ‘He’s a teacher. An English literature teacher. He’s the kindest, most gentle man in the world. I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.’ ‘Liza, can I ask you a question? Do you trust your feelings?’ ‘No.’ ‘Except for today.’ ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be in this boat.’ TORRE DE BELÉM SAME DAY TORRE DE BELÉM WAS A renaissance fortification on the north bank of the river shaped like a giant tooth, located just before the Tagus opened into the Atlantic Ocean. As they passed the tower, Atto dropped the sails, allowing them to drift towards the sunset as though it were an entertainment he’d specially arranged. There were only a few other boats in the vicinity – a tourist shuttle shaped like a squirt of toothpaste returning from the beaches and, in the distance, a cruise ship lumbering on to its next port. Gesturing at the tower, he said: ‘Picture this stretch of water five hundred years ago. Torre de Belém was the gateway to the city. We’re at the spot where the world’s most legendary explorers set sail – Gaspar Corte-Real, Vasco da Gama, Bartolomeu Dias. Right now, we’re at the starting line for some of the most famous adventures in history – the first voyage to India, Southern Africa and Brazil. To our right, there would’ve been trading galleons weighing a thousand tonnes or more. To | 0 |
83 | Romantic-Comedy.txt | 4 | been able to bring myself to go for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I’d either stayed in New York or traveled far away, once to the Seychelles with Viv and once, with Viv and also that time with Henrietta, to Mexico City. Jerry spent the holidays with his sister. “I saw on the Internet that your host this week is also the musical guest,” Jerry said. “That sounds awfully tiring.” My mother and I had debriefed about each show on Sunday afternoons, and in her absence, Jerry had, on Sunday afternoons, taken to emailing me two formally written paragraphs sharing his feedback. The kindness of this impulse almost made up for the fact that, apart from appreciating Sugar’s antics, Jerry didn’t have much of a sense of humor and wasn’t familiar with almost any of the pop cultural phenomena or people that TNO satirized. Though he and my mother had been in the studio audience twice, he’d never have even watched it on TV if I didn’t write for it. “You’ve probably heard Noah Brewster’s songs playing in the background in a restaurant or department store,” I said. “And I’m sure it is really tiring to host and be the musical guest, but he gets to promote his new album.” “I meant to tell you,” Jerry said. “I ran into Mrs. Macklin at Hy-Vee, and she said to give you her best. She said Amy just had another baby, which I believe is her third.” Who’s Mrs. Macklin? I thought. Who’s Amy? Then I remembered a high school classmate named Amy Macklin, a girl I’d worked with on the student newspaper. (I’d been the copy editor, not a reporter, because reporting would have required interacting with other humans in a way I couldn’t then have managed.) I said, “Good for Amy.” A third child inspired in me more gratitude for my own circumstances than envy for Amy’s. Jerry described a tapas restaurant he’d eaten at the previous Friday with his sister and her husband, which had featured a garbanzo-bean-and-spinach dish he thought I’d like (though I didn’t perceive myself as having a special relationship with garbanzo beans, Jerry’s belief that I did arose from the fact that when I was staying with him, I often bought hummus). Then we circled back to Sugar. A family with two daughters had moved in next door the month before, and Sugar had taken to sitting on Jerry’s back deck, facing the other house, and barking, as if to summon the sisters. “I think she likes it when they tell her how adorable she is,” Jerry said. “Who wouldn’t?” I said, and Jerry laughed. “All right then,” he said. “Be careful on the subway, honey.” This was how he always ended our conversations. After I’d hung up, I refrigerated the leftovers and took a shower. I still rented the seven-hundred-square-foot apartment I’d moved into almost ten years before, when I’d arrived in New York. The difference was that for the first two years, I’d had a roommate who slept in the real bedroom while I slept in a | 0 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 7 | I w a s b o u n d , t h a n o f t h e c h a r m s o f l e a a n d w a t e r . M y o s t e n s i b l e e r r a n d o n t h i s o c c a s i o n w a s t o g e t m e a s u r e d f o r a p a i r o f s h o e s ; s o I d i s c h a r g e d t h a t b u s i n e s s f i r s t , a n d w h e n i t w a s d o n e , I s t e p p e d a c r o s s t h e c l e a n a n d q u i e t l i t t l e s t r e e t f r o m t h e s h o e m a k e r ' s t o t h e p o s t - o f f i c e ; i t w a s k e p t b y a n o l d d a m e , w h o w o r e h o r n s p e c t a c l e s o n h e r n o s e , a n d b l a c k m i t t e n s o n h e r h a n d s . " A r e t h e r e a n y l e t t e r s f o r J . E . ? " I a s k e d . S h e p e e r e d a t m e o v e r h e r s p e c t a c l e s , a n d t h e n s h e o p e n e d a d r a w e r , a n d f u m b l e d a m o n g i t s c o n t e n t s f o r a l o n g t i m e s o l o n g t h a t m y h o p e s b e g a n t o f a l t e r . A t l a s t , h a v i n g h e l d a d o c u m e n t b e f o r e h e r g l a s s e s f o r n e a r l y f i v e m i n u t e s , s h e p r e s e n t e d i t a c r o s s t h e c o u n t e r , a c c o m p a n y i n g t h e a c t b y a n o t h e r i n q u i s i t i v e a n d m i s t r u s t f u l g l a n c e i t w a s f o r J . E . " I s t h e r e o n l y o n e ? " I d e m a n d e d . " T h e r e a r e n o m o r e , " s a i d s h e ; a n d I p u t i t i n m y p o c k e t a n d t u r n e d m y f a c e h o m e w a r d : I c o u l d n o t o p e n i t t h e n ; r u l e s o b l i g e d m e t o b e b a c k b y e i g h t , a n d i t w a s a l r e a d y h a l f - p a s t s e v e n . V a r i o u s d u t i e s a w a i t e d m e o n m y a r r i v a l . I h a d t o s i t w i t h t h e g i r l s d u r i n g t h e i r h o u r o f s t u d y ; t h e n i t w a s m y t u r n t o r e a d p r a y e r s ; t o s e e t h e m t o b e d : a f t e r w a r d I s u p p e d w i t h t h e o t h e r t e a c h e r s . E v e n w h e n w e f i n a l l y r e t i r e d f o r t h e n i g h t , t h e i n e v i t a b l e M i s s G r y c e w a s s t i l l m y c o m p a n i o n : w e h a d o n l y a s h o r t e n d o f c a n d l e i n o u r c a n d l e s t i c k , a n d I d r e a d e d l e s t s h e s h o u l d t a l k t i l l i t w a s a l l b u r n e d o u t ; f o r t u n a t e l y , h o w e v e r , t h e h e a v y s u p p e r s h e h a d e a t e n p r o d u c e d a s o p o r i f i c e f f e c t ; s h e w a s a l r e a d y s n o r i n g b e f o r e I h a d f i n i s h e d u n d r e s s i n g . T h e r e s t i l l r e m a i n e d a n i n c h o f c a n d l e : I n o w t o o k o u t m y l e t t e r : t h e s e a l w a s a n i n i t i a l F . ; I b r o t e i t ; t h e c o n t e n t s w e r e b r i e f : " I f J . E . , w h o a d v e r t i s e d i n t h e s h i r e H e r a l d o f l a s t T h u r s d a y , p o s s e s s e s t h e a c q u i r e m e n t s m e n t i o n e d , a n d i f s h e i s i n a p o s i t i o n t o g i v e s a t i s f a c t o r y r e f e r e n c e s a s t o c h a r a c t e r a n d c o m p e t e n c y , a s i t u a t i o n c a n b e o f f e r e d h e r w h e r e t h e r e i s b u t o n e p u p i l a l i t t l e g i r l , u n d e r t e n y e a r s o f a g e ; a n d w h e r e t h e s a l a r y i s t h i r t y p o u n d s p e r a n n u m . J . E . i s r e q u e s t e d t o s e n d r e f e r e n c e s , n a m e , a d d r e s s , a n d a l l p a r t i c u l a r s , t o t h e d i r e c t i o n , ' M r s . F a i r f a x , T h o r n f i e l d , n e a r M i l l c o t e , s h i r e . " ' I e x a m i n e d t h e d o c u m e n t l o n g ; t h e w r i t i n g w a s o l d - f a s h i o n e d a n d r a t h e r u n c e r t a i n , l i k e t h a t o f a n e l d e r l y l a d y . T h i s c i r c u m s t a n c e w a s s a t i s f a c t o r y ; a p r i v a t e f e a r h a d h a u n t e d m e t h a t , i n t h u s a c t i n g f o r m y s e l f , a n d b y m y o w n g u i d a n c e , I r a n t h e r i s k o f g e t t i n g i n t o s o m e s c r a p e ! a n d , a b o v e a l l t h i n g s , I w i s h e d t h e r e s u l t o f m y e n d e a v o r s t o b e r e s p e c t a b l e , p r o p e r , e n r g l e . I n o w f e l t t h a t a n e l d e r l y l a d y w a s n o b a d i n g r e d i e n t i n t h e b u s i n e s s I h a d o n h a n d . | 1 |
44 | Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt | 67 | don’t like no hospital at all. He’d think Ah wuz tired uh doin’ fuh ’im, when God knows Ah ain’t. Ah can’t stand de idea us tyin’ Tea Cake lak he wuz uh mad dawg.” “It almost amounts to dat, Janie. He’s got almost no chance to pull through and he’s liable to bite somebody else, specially you, and then you’ll be in the same fix he’s in. It’s mighty bad.” “Can’t nothin’ be done fuh his case, doctah? Us got plenty money in de bank in Orlandah, doctah. See can’t yuh do somethin’ special tuh save him. Anything it cost, doctah, Ah don’t keer, but please, doctah.” “Do what I can. Ah’ll phone into Palm Beach right away for the serum which he should have had three weeks ago. I’ll do all I can to save him, Janie. But it looks too late. People in his condition can’t swallow water, you know, and in other ways it’s terrible.” Janie fooled around outside awhile to try and think it wasn’t so. If she didn’t see the sickness in his face she could imagine it wasn’t really happening. Well, she thought, that big old dawg with the hatred in his eyes had killed her after all. She wished she had slipped off that cow-tail and drowned Their Eyes Were Watching God 209 then and there and been done. But to kill her through Tea Cake was too much to bear. Tea Cake, the son of Evening Sun, had to die for loving her. She looked hard at the sky for a long time. Somewhere up there beyond blue ether’s bosom sat He. Was He noticing what was going on around here? He must be because He knew everything. Did He mean to do this thing to Tea Cake and her? It wasn’t anything she could fight. She could only ache and wait. Maybe it was some big tease and when He saw it had gone far enough He’d give her a sign. She looked hard for something up there to move for a sign. A star in the daytime, maybe, or the sun to shout, or even a mutter of thunder. Her arms went up in a desperate supplication for a minute. It wasn’t exactly pleading, it was asking questions. The sky stayed hard looking and quiet so she went inside the house. God would do less than He had in His heart. Tea Cake was lying with his eyes closed and Janie hoped he was asleep. He wasn’t. A great fear had took hold of him. What was this thing that set his brains afire and grabbed at his throat with iron fingers? Where did it come from and why did it hang around him? He hoped it would stop before Janie noticed anything. He wanted to try to drink water again but he didn’t want her to see him fail. As soon as she got out of the kitchen he meant to go to the bucket and drink right quick before anything had time to stop him. No need to worry | 1 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 36 | hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s an- other boy, who’s smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mis- matched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket. Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty. Christian nods. “That’s me.” “Welch brought these photos?” “Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless. “Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?” “I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm.” My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw. “Is Jack in this picture?” “Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight- or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me. “When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.” Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!” “You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?” “Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.” “Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job inter- view. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my throat. 473/551 “I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP. Bar- ney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more. Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various con- versations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack. Jeez—I could have ended up on some | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 53 | known as Germany, with an industrial heartland, a bohemian Berlin, the financial city of Frankfurt and the spa towns in the mountains. Kasim stepped forward to address the crowds: ‘My name is Kasim. We are here to collect the last of the ice-adapted students. And those ordinary-born who have been chosen to work at McMurdo.’ Liza declared: ‘I’m the mother of one of those ice-adapted children you’ve come to collect. All we’re asking is to travel with them. To see the kind of life they will have in McMurdo. To make sure they are going to be okay. We want to know what’s going on in McMurdo. You tell us nothing. You ask for everything.’ Kasim gestured at his vehicles. ‘I understand the request. But you can see our convoy. We have four vehicles. We have a limited amount of space. Visits can be arranged another time.’ ‘That’s what you always say. But there are never any visits.’ Kasim read the list of names. None of them stepped forward. One of the security officers walked towards Liza, correctly identifying that she was at the heart of this resistance. ‘Please tell the students to get in the convoy.’ ‘I’m going with my daughter.’ The officer turned to Echo, putting a hand on her arm. Atto raised the harpoon gun, levelling the tip at his chest. ‘Let go.’ In response, the officer raised his gun. As he brought the muzzle up, Echo grabbed it, stepping in front of the barrel to protect her parents. In the muddle, an accidental shot was fired, directed at her stomach, the terrible sound of a gunshot reverberating across the vast plateau. Liza stared at her daughter’s body, searching for streams of blue blood. Her scale skin was tough but surely no match for a bullet fired at point-blank range. Echo unclenched her fist, revealing that the officer’s weapon was frozen from the muzzle to his mittens. With a single blow it cracked, breaking like a glass sculpture. She brought the bullet, embalmed in ice, up to her eye and, in the manner of a professional baseball player, threw the ball of ice at the front window of the convoy, punching a hole straight through. Kasim assessed the damage and the strength of this resistance. Liza thought this a good moment to repeat her claim: ‘These families will not be broken up.’ Kasim shrugged. ‘Tell me how four snow vehicles can carry all these people.’ THE TRANS-ANTARCTICA FREEWAY WEST ANTARCTIC ICE SHEET LANDMARK PLATEAU NEXT DAY ECHO SAT ON THE ROOF of the snow vehicle together with the other ice-adapted students. Her solution to the lack of space was inspired by a photo she’d once seen of a crowded Himalayan bus – a beautifully painted multi-coloured bus so crowded there must have been fifty or more people on the roof as it cornered a hairpin bend. The ice-adapted students didn’t need to be inside the convoy; they could easily tolerate the prolonged exposure. Indeed, they much preferred to sit together on the roof compared to the stuffy cabins, which | 0 |
17 | Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt | 22 | nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -- ' " With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go." Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. *** The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door -- "AAAAARRRGH!" Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive! Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. "I want -- " he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. "See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up." "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon." "Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him. *** On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 76 | like breathing. But the second she broke things off with William she had felt the change. Break wasn’t even the right word. A break was a clean thing. And this was different. She felt him twisting away from her. “I just need a little time,” she said. “To put some affairs in order. It’s not that much to ask.” He shook his head, disbelieving. “You broke things off between us, Dinah.” “For heaven’s sake.” Mrs. King governed herself. “I said we should wait. That’s all.” “We aren’t people who wait. You don’t wait.” His voice was low. “I bought you a ring.” “Oh, enough,” she said, rising to her feet. Mrs. King felt her anger burst through, breaking its bonds. She’d proposed a pause, a temporary suspension of things between them, just until this business was concluded. She needed to concentrate. And to him this represented a schism, a betrayal, an irrevocable parting. It was so completely foolish of him. Her rage passed as quickly as it came, and left the usual shame behind. He was right to judge her. She hadn’t been straight with him; she hadn’t shared one iota of the truth. She would have been furious at him if he’d done the same to her. “Look,” she said. “I’ve got plans. Come with me—if you like.” A long moment passed. William was silent. Then, slowly, he said, “Miss de Vries’s new girl. Alice.” Mrs. King felt her skin tightening. “Who?” she said. Those eyes shimmered. “Don’t ‘who’ me. What’s the connection?” Mrs. King was caught off guard. “Well?” And then, impatient, “She told me she comes from up your way. Same neighborhood. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me.” Mrs. King shut her eyes. “Dinah?” “How do you remember which neighborhood I come from?” “You told me.” She frowned. “Ages ago. Years back.” Some understanding crossed his face. “I remember everything when it comes to you,” he said. Mrs. King remembered how it used to be, when she was a house-parlormaid, back when William arrived. Of course the girls went mad for him—half of the men, too, come to that. William knew this, and he handled it gently. He didn’t let it turn his head. He kept himself to himself—he was hard to read, same as she was. The first time their hands touched, they were both buttoned up in their gloves. He’d taken a breath, a deep one, as if steadying himself. They kept it secret, whatever it was between them. They didn’t even call it love for years. It was their thing, theirs alone. On their night walks they skirted Whitechapel, and he pressed her, curious: tell me who you are, tell me where you come from. “Who cares?” she said, laughing. “Let me be a mystery.” She led him down the old street, right past Mr. Parker’s house, in silence. Yellow-gray brick, and a broken lamppost, and a shadowy boy flipping ha’pennies at the end of the lane. She must have gone silent, fretting, remembering Mother. He’d clocked it, yet he didn’t say anything; he | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 27 | fit these studies around your work here?’ she interrupted. ‘Of course. I’m thinking I might just start with a part-time course.’ Shit. I hadn’t thought about how to ask her about it. Would I still be able to keep my job? A roof over my head? I tried to quieten my thoughts and read her story. Most of the time you could predict someone’s behaviour by their past. Most of the time people didn’t change. Most of the time. I realised she was staring at me. ‘Croissants, Martha. And fresh coffee. Chop-chop!’ And with that, she went back upstairs. ‘So, when did you buy this house?’ I tried to act as casually as possible; as if the answer mattered little, one way or the other. I knew if she thought I was fishing, she wouldn’t bite. Perhaps it was her acting skills that made her so difficult to read. ‘Martha, a person such as myself does not buy a house, one acquires a house.’ It took all of my willpower not to roll my eyes. ‘Okay, well, when did you acquire number 12?’ ‘Oh, it’s hard to say really. I feel as though I’ve always been here. In fact, it’s hard to remember a time when I lived anywhere else.’ I dusted the picture frames on the mantelpiece and picked up the black and white wedding photo. ‘It was 1965,’ she began, settling down to the cosmopolitan-style breakfast I had laid on the dining table. ‘I was a beautiful bride. Many of the guests likened me to Grace Kelly. Oh, you mightn’t think so now, but I was a natural blonde.’ A natural liar, I thought. It was hard to tell if her stories were real or mere fabrications of the truth – stories she had picked up along the way and made her own. I looked at the woman in the picture. It was true, she did look like an old Hollywood starlet, but I couldn’t see the resemblance at all. The man was tall, dark and handsome with the look of someone who had captured the moon in his pocket. ‘He was a pilot,’ she said, slathering butter on her croissant. ‘Far too old for me, or at least that’s what my mother told me. But I was hopelessly in love with him. I thought he was so dashing. He was an American, you know, and to a twenty-something Irish girl, well, he was like Clark Gable.’ She lost herself in the past for a moment. ‘He adored this strange little house. But he was a perfectionist, always trying to fix things. You have to understand, old houses have their quirks. Some things are meant to be flawed. Therein lies beauty.’ She was a captivating storyteller. I knew there was a peculiar history within these walls and whatever it was, it must have happened long before Madame Bowden arrived. ‘What happened to your husband, if you don’t mind me asking?’ ‘Plane crash. We were only married a year when his plane went down over Gibraltar.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I | 0 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 13 | a frantic effort of will that I dragged myself back to the apparatus and completed the process. "I slept during the forenoon, pulling the sheet over my eyes to shut out the light, and about midday I was awakened again by a knocking. My strength had returned. I sat up and listened and heard a whispering. I sprang to my feet and as noiselessly as possible began to detach the connections of my apparatus, and to distribute it about the room, so as to destroy the suggestions of its arrangement. Presently the knocking was renewed and voices called, first my landlord's, and then two others. To gain time I answered them. The invisible rag and pillow came to hand and I opened the window and pitched them out on to the cistern cover. As the window opened, a heavy crash came at the door. Some one had charged it with the idea of smashing the lock. But the stout bolts I had screwed up some days before stopped him. That startled me, made me angry. I began to tremble and do things hurriedly. "I tossed together some loose paper, straw, packing paper and so forth, in the middle of the room, and turned on the gas. Heavy blows began to rain upon the door. I could not find the matches. I beat my hands on the wall with rage. I turned down the gas again, stepped out of the window on the cistern cover, very softly lowered the sash, and sat down, secure and invisible, but quivering with anger, to watch events. They split a panel, I saw, and in another moment they had broken away the staples of the bolts and stood in the open doorway. It was the landlord and his two step-sons, sturdy young men of three or four and twenty. Behind them fluttered the old hag of a woman from downstairs. "You may imagine their astonishment on finding the room empty. One of the younger men rushed to the window at once, flung it up and stared out. His staring eyes and thick-lipped bearded face came a foot from my face. I was half minded to hit his silly countenance, but I arrested my doubled fist. He stared right through me. So did the others as they joined him. The old man went and peered under the bed, and then they all made a rush for the cupboard. They had to argue about it at length in Yiddish and Cockney English. They concluded I had not answered them, that their imagination had deceived them. A feeling of extraordinary elation took the place of my anger as I sat outside the window and watched these four people--for the old lady came in, glancing suspiciously about her like a cat, trying to understand the riddle of my behaviour. "The old man, so far as I could understand his patois, agreed with the old lady that I was a vivisectionist. The sons protested in garbled English that I was an electrician, and appealed to the dynamos and radiators. They were all | 1 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 88 | Committee of, 21, 140 Judiciary Committee of, 114 Puerto Rican nationalists in attack on, 296 Trump’s first impeachment trial in (2020), 37, 211–12 see also Congress, U.S. Housing and Urban Development Department, U.S., 81 Hummelberg, Hannah, 101, 214–15, 249–52, 282–85, 289, 293–94 Hurricane Dorian (2019), 83–84 Hurricane Lane (2018), 126, 130, 131 Hurricane Maria (2017), 126, 127 Hutchinson, Cassidy, 88 Hwasong-15 missile, 96 I “I Am Part of the Resistance Inside the Trump Administration” (Anonymous; New York Times op-ed), 4–5, 132–33, 135–40, 144, 164, 196, 197–98, 200–201, 231, 249 Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), 190–91 Independents, 7, 11, 38, 244, 299, 300, 301 Indiana, 13, 229–30, 231, 276 Indiana University, 18 Insiders, The: A Warning from Former Trump Officials (CNN special), 242, 244, 246–48 Instagram, 81, 237, 287 Insurrection Act (1807), 9, 225–26, 263 Internal Revenue Service, 156 Iran, 223 Iraq war, 30, 217 ISIS, 50, 55–57, 59, 66, 94, 110, 111, 146, 188, 192, 261 J Jackson, Andrew, 123 Jackson, Ronny, 113 January 6th insurrection (2021), 8, 40, 116, 291–93, 295–96, 305 Japan, 97, 220 Jay, John, 47 Jayapal, Pramila, 260 Jordan, 53, 56, 57 Justice Department, U.S., 2, 5, 78, 79, 105, 106, 111–12, 113, 115, 130, 138, 156, 168, 184, 207, 271 family separation policy of, 107–9, 171–72, 191 as tool against political rivals, 117–20, 123–24, 137 Justice w/ Judge Jeanine (TV show), 233–34 K Karloutsos, Michael, 87 Kelly, John, 6, 28, 60–62, 72, 81–82, 91, 95, 96, 101, 103, 105, 107, 130, 131, 132, 134, 138–39, 140, 146, 184, 232, 240, 244, 253–54 in abrupt appointment to chief of staff, 67–70 Comey’s firing and, 58–59 in departure from Trump administration, 145, 147–48, 217 as DHS secretary, 29–33, 48, 49, 50–51, 52–53, 55, 56, 57, 58–59, 60–61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 92, 93 in first briefing with Congress, 30–32 ISIS threat and, 56, 57, 66 London attacks (2017) and, 50–51, 53 near-resignation of, 142–43 in public opposition to Trump, 247, 250 son’s death and, 30, 64–65 at Trump’s first cabinet meeting, 61 Trump’s immigration fixation and, 52, 108, 142, 216–17 in 2017 trip to Middle East, 55, 56 Kelly, Karen, 65 Kelly, Robert, 64, 65 Kennedy, John F., 26 Kerry, John, 119, 139 Khashoggi, Jamal, 222 Kilauea volcano, 126 Kim Jong Un, 96, 98, 173 Kinzinger, Adam, 154, 307–8, 309 Kinzinger, Sofia, 308 Kislyak, Sergey, 59 Kobach, Kris, 178 Kolbe, Jim, 49, 295–97, 305 Krebs, Chris, 51, 52, 53, 60, 69, 133, 184, 243–44, 287–88 Kristol, Bill, 243 Kushner, Jared, 27, 69, 142, 162–63, 173 L Lane, Hurricane (2018), 126, 130, 131 La Porte, Ind., 13, 229–30 Las Vegas shooting (2017), 94 Latimer, Matt, 196–97, 200, 201, 205, 213–14, 216 Latin America, 151, 163, 166, 167, 172, 217 Lavrov, Sergey, 59 Lee, Mike, 260 Libertarian Party, 38 “Liberty and Its Enemies” (seminar), 298 Lincoln, Abraham, 42, 123, 253, 285 Lincoln Memorial, 285 London: author in cybersecurity trip to (2019), 174–76 2017 terrorist attacks in, 49, 50–51, 52, 53 Longwell, Sarah, 243 Loudermilk, Barry, 112 M Madison, James, 33, 89, 151, 153, 267 MAGA movement, 8–9, 10, 11, 34–35, | 0 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 61 | No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day." Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'' explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters, example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said | 1 |
31 | The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt | 79 | tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. "Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes. "You have but to name it." "This photograph!" The King stared at him in amazement. "Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it." "I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honor to wish you a very good-morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honorable title of the woman. ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially. "I was afraid that you were engaged." "So I am. Very much so." "Then I can wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed. "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination." "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting." "You did, Doctor, but none the | 1 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 99 | out. “You don’t want to tell them?” I leaned closer. “Never. I never want to tell anyone.” “Why not?” Sue asked. “It’s humiliating.” “Why? It’s not your fault.” “Trust me. Having your brain malfunction is humiliating.” “If you say so.” But Sue was realizing now that she hadn’t exactly thought this through. “Look,” I said. “The only people in the entire world who know about this are you and my dad and Lucinda … and Parker.” “Parker knows?” “Lucinda told her.” “Then it’s not a secret anymore. She’ll tell everyone.” “Not yet. I think she’s enjoying lording it over me.” “But she will.” “Maybe it’ll fix itself before then.” Sue sighed. “Okay,” she said then. “Here’s the plan. First, you’re going to change out of those wet clothes.” “No argument there.” “And then just stick close to me. Whenever anyone talks to us, I’ll say their name right away, so you’ve got it.” That wasn’t a bad idea. “That could work,” I said. “It’ll totally work.” “Just promise me,” I said then, holding out my hand so we could shake on it, “that you won’t leave my side.” “I promise,” Sue said, pumping my hand up and down, “that I will never ever leave your side.” * * * GUESS WHAT? She left my side. Not on purpose. She just got dragged away. I went into the bathroom to change, and I never saw her again. I was left alone, as Picasso-faced person after Picasso-faced person came up to me and forced me to Sherlock Holmes one theory after another about who I was talking to. Looking back, I could have just left. I could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 51 | and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I know it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe didn't hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk enough." Tom said nothing -- went on thinking. Presently he whispered: "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?" "What's the reason he don't know it?" "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?" "By hokey, that's so, Tom!" "And besides, look-a-here -- maybe that whack done for him!" "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's the same with --------------------------------------------------------- -111- Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono." After another reflective silence, Tom said: "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "Tom, we got to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another -- that's what we got to do -- swear to keep mum." "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we -- " "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things -- specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff -- but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood." Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 69 | who aided and abetted it all... “I’m innocent,” she said again, and surveyed all the gray-faced, gray-suited men ranged out before her. “I’ve harmed no one. I know nothing.” Lockwood made his face a mask. “About...?” Miss de Vries wished then very badly to be alone. She stood up from her seat, and went to the vast bay windows overlooking the park. Lockwood moved away from her, as if she were infectious, as if she carried plague. She put her hands on the window ledge and surveyed the road. In the old days Papa would drive up in his carriage, and later in his gigantic motor car, and she would wave to him. He’d squash his hat down over his head, pretending not to see her. It made her laugh in delight. He was always playing jokes and games. All the things she loved, when she was small. Before she understood that he wasn’t joking. That he wasn’t looking, that he hardly thought of her at all. It would have been easier if she felt any self-pity. If she felt the urge to weep. It might have made her able to exist inside her own skin. But the only thing she felt was dread. Nothing had changed yet. Lockwood was grim-faced but clear. Any question of illegal business would need to be properly charged, and in due course clear the courts, and the implicated parties had the best attorneys in London. Yes, there would be newspapermen outside the house from dawn to dusk, and inspectors pouring in from Scotland Yard, and not a single neighbor would call on her. The house would be tainted by gossip, speculation, all things horrid. But surely it would pass? “Go for a walk,” said Lockwood. “Let the neighbors see you. No use hiding away indoors.” Why not? She still had her chauffeur, and her motor, and her faithful footman. And her trousseau, come to that. She picked out the crepe with jet. Alice never did take it, she supposed, throat tightening. The girl had vanished. She remembered the pressure of Alice’s fingers, the scent of her skin, and she felt something hollowing in her chest. She put on her gloves, and a hat, and William walked behind her down the road, saying nothing. A small, rackety motor carriage drew up beside them, incognito—and evidently, by design. She saw the dark maroon-colored leather, stains all over the silverwork. Everything is tarnished, she thought, laughing inwardly. Everything in the world is spoiled. “Lord Ashley,” she said, voice steady. She was astonished to see him. If she were him, she would have stayed home. She would have preserved the greatest possible distance from this house, for safety, for reputation. William was watching her. He put out a hand to her, a tiny bit of kindness. She brushed him away and stepped into Lord Ashley’s motor with a smile. * * * Lord Ashley wore a dangerous expression as he steered the Victoriette. He didn’t ask her how she was, what she was feeling. Didn’t speak a word about the | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 49 | crossed my threshold in the form of Matthew, coming to collect the rent. I had to tell him. In another month or so he would see for himself. In another six months, there would be two of us living here. It all suddenly felt quite weighty. What would he think of me now? I wished the shop could close in around us and keep us safe, keep the world outside. I wished we could hide within these walls for ever. Chapter Twenty-Six MARTHA Once the autopsy was concluded, the body would be released for burial in a matter of weeks. It was decided that I would have to attend the funeral, to avoid any suspicion. These plans were not mine but Madame Bowden’s. I really did start to wonder if she had, in fact, seen off her husbands, such was her calm approach. And I realised how forward-thinking she had been to ensure I had alibis to corroborate my whereabouts. ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I asked her later that night when, despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I would replay the scene. ‘Doing what? I’m simply making sure that justice is done.’ ‘But, that’s not how it happened.’ I still couldn’t say for sure what had happened. Had he been so drunk that he lost his footing and fell? Every time I replayed it in my head, I could still see him being pushed, but by whom or what? Some invisible force? Was there more to Madame Bowden than met the eye? I couldn’t decide whether she was my guardian angel or a devil in disguise. Reading her was difficult; there were so many stories distracting me, too many for one lifetime. She told me once that, as an actor, she had to embody her characters. Perhaps they were all still living inside of her, like ghosts. ‘Martha, the facts are that Shane arrived here drunk and abusive with ill-intent. He was the architect of his own demise and that is the only truth worth remembering of that day.’ She sounded so convincing that I tried to hold on to her words like flotation devices every time I felt like I was drowning in the darkness. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face the funeral. My family. Shane’s parents. I thought about asking Henry to come with me, but it would have been wrong on so many levels. Besides, I still hadn’t contacted him. The shock of Shane’s death had paralysed my senses. I tried to text him, but what could I say? I had to see him in person. I took the bus to Rialto and found the bed and breakfast he had taken me to. It felt like a lifetime ago now. ‘Ah, howya love, looking for a room, is it?’ A short man with a comb-over answered the door, with his foot across the threshold as a barking dog attempted to make a dash for freedom. ‘No, actually I’m looking for someone staying here. Henry Carlisle? He’s | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 98 | had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away. And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a failing tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness. John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak. "If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed to say in a choking voice. "It's my dog," Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. "Get out of my way, or I'll fix you. I'm going to Dawson." Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed. cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal's knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes cut Buck's traces. Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms, rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out from the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between were Joe and Teek. They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was riding the loaded sled. Hal guided at the gee-pole, and Charles stumbled along in the rear. As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly hands searched for broken bones. By the time his search had disclosed nothing more than many bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man watched it crawling along over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into a rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air. Mercedes's scream came to their | 1 |
39 | The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt | 55 | say, 'is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.' It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry. Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint. This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 92 | Iphigenia was never jealous or unkind. She was unlike anyone else in this world. Electra stares at her as if trying to pierce her skull, listen to the thoughts inside. Then she speaks the words that Clytemnestra has hoped she’d never hear: “Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived.” * * * She stumbles out of the megaron and into the courtyard. The guards move aside to let her pass, and when she looks at their faces, they are ugly, disfigured. She moves past them, past the griffins that seem to be bleeding. Everything is breaking down around her, losing shape. The columns become blades, the servants wild animals. The jars and baskets they are holding are like corpses. Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived. She finds her way to Chrysothemis’s room. The light is bright in this part of the palace, and contours fall back into place. She clutches her chest, feeling her heart beat wildly. Chrysothemis is still in bed, sleeping with her hair spread around her. Aileen is sitting by the window, polishing some jewels. She stands when she sees her. “You are feeling unwell,” she says. Clytemnestra gestures her to sit and takes the place beside her. She catches her breath as Aileen cleans the gems, giving her space. Holding each to the light to make sure it is shining, she rubs it gently with a cloth whenever she finds an opaque spot. Chrysothemis’s rhythmic breathing behind them is as soothing as a cradle song. Sometimes I think you wish I had died and Iphigenia had lived. “My daughter despises me,” Clytemnestra says. Aileen puts the tiara and cloth down, looking at her with her gentle eyes. “Surely she didn’t use those words.” “She said worse.” “You know how Electra is,” Aileen says, taking her hand. “She harbors sadness in her heart and makes it come out as hatred. But she loves you.” “I don’t think she does.” “Electra has grown up in the shadows. Iphigenia was older, better than her at everything, and Orestes was a boy. They had all the attention. It has been difficult for her.” Clytemnestra draws away her hand. “You know what is difficult? Losing a child. I gave my life to these children. I made them strong, fought so that they could learn how to rule.” And I expect their loyalty in return. “Electra lost a sister.” Aileen sets down the tiara and picks up a pair of earrings. “When you came back from Aulis, she would spend every night outside your room, listening to you as you cried. When she couldn’t bear the sound and wanted to hurt herself, Leon would find her and stay with her until dawn.” She gives her a small, sad smile. “He might not have been her father, but she loved him.” Clytemnestra feels a rot inside her body. “He left, and I did nothing to stop him.” “You had no choice. If you had stopped him, he would have stayed here and hated you. | 0 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 41 | and it always looks pretty on a summer morning -- so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore -- I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quick- silver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread" -- what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry- boat, and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing -- that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. Where the log forked I could peep through. By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so, anyway." "I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watch- ing with all their | 1 |
29 | Tarzan of the Apes.txt | 73 | weapon from Tarzan's grasp. Kerchak aimed a terrific blow at the ape-man's head with the flat of his hand, a blow which, had it landed, might easily have crushed in the side of Tarzan's skull. The man was too quick, and, ducking beneath it, himself delivered a mighty one, with clenched fist, in the pit of Kerchak's stomach. The ape was staggered, and what with the mortal wound in his side had almost collapsed, when, with one mighty effort he rallied for an instant--just long enough to enable him to wrest his arm free from Tarzan's grasp and close in a terrific clinch with his wiry opponent. Straining the ape-man close to him, his great jaws sought Tarzan's throat, but the young lord's sinewy fingers were at Kerchak's own before the cruel fangs could close on the sleek brown skin. Thus they struggled, the one to crush out his opponent's life with those awful teeth, the other to close forever the windpipe beneath his strong grasp while he held the snarling mouth from him. The greater strength of the ape was slowly prevailing, and the teeth of the straining beast were scarce an inch from Tarzan's throat when, with a shuddering tremor, the great body stiffened for an instant and then sank limply to the ground. Kerchak was dead. Withdrawing the knife that had so often rendered him master of far mightier muscles than his own, Tarzan of the Apes placed his foot upon the neck of his vanquished enemy, and once again, loud through the forest rang the fierce, wild cry of the conqueror. And thus came the young Lord Greystoke into the kingship of the Apes. Chapter 12 Man's Reason There was one of the tribe of Tarzan who questioned his authority, and that was Terkoz, the son of Tublat, but he so feared the keen knife and the deadly arrows of his new lord that he confined the manifestation of his Chapter 12 objections to petty disobediences and irritating mannerisms; Tarzan knew, however, that he but waited his opportunity to wrest the kingship from him by some sudden stroke of treachery, and so he was ever on his guard against surprise. For months the life of the little band went on much as it had before, except that Tarzan's greater intelligence and his ability as a hunter were the means of providing for them more bountifully than ever before. Most of them, therefore, were more than content with the change in rulers. Tarzan led them by night to the fields of the black men, and there, warned by their chief's superior wisdom, they ate only what they required, nor ever did they destroy what they could not eat, as is the way of Manu, the monkey, and of most apes. So, while the blacks were wroth at the continued pilfering of their fields, they were not discouraged in their efforts to cultivate the land, as would have been the case had Tarzan permitted his people to lay waste the plantation wantonly. During this period Tarzan paid many nocturnal visits | 1 |
11 | Emma.txt | 6 | of wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with you." Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last! CHAPTER IV Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs. Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing. Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same situation she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration. | 1 |
37 | The Hunger Games.txt | 67 | can see by his expression that he’s been talking to Haymitch. That he knows how dreadful I am. “I’m awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn’t do it. I just can’t be one of those people he wants me to be,” I say. Cinna thinks about this a moment. “Why don’t you just be yourself?” “Myself? That’s no good, either. Haymitch says I’m sullen and hostile,” I say. “Well, you are . . . around Haymitch,” says Cinna with a grin. “I don’t find you so. The prep team adores you. You even won 121 over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can’t stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your spirit.” My spirit. This is a new thought. I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it suggests I’m a fighter. In a sort of brave way. It’s not as if I’m never friendly. Okay, maybe I don’t go around lov- ing everybody I meet, maybe my smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some people. Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. “Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you’re addressing a friend back home. Who would your best friend be?” asks Cin- na. “Gale,” I say instantly. “Only it doesn’t make sense, Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about me. He already knows them.” “What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?” asks Cinna. Of all the people I’ve met since I left home, Cinna is by far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn’t disappointed me yet. “I think so, but —” “I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re asked a ques- tion, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible,” says Cin- na. “Even if what I think is horrible?” I ask. Because it might be, really. “Especially if what you think is horrible,” says Cinna. “You’ll try it?” 122 I nod. It’s a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at. Too soon it’s time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I’m in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem. As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. “Cinna . . .” I’m completely overcome with stage fright. “Remember, they already love you,” he says gently. “Just be yourself.” We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it’s a relief not to be dressed identically. Hay- mitch and Effie are all fancied up for the occasion. I avoid Haymitch, but accept Effie’s compliments. Effie can be tire- some and clueless, but she’s not destructive | 1 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 60 | shone with an icy blue radiance . . . Ghost leapt. Man and wolf went down together with neither scream nor snarl, rolling, smashing into a chair, knocking over a table laden with papers. Mormont's raven was flapping overhead, screaming, 498 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "Corn, corn, corn, corn. " Jon felt as blind as Maester Aemon. Keeping the wall to his back, he slid toward the window and ripped down the curtain. Moonlight flooded the solar. He glimpsed black hands buried in white fur, swollen dark fingers tightening around his direwolf's throat. Ghost was twisting and snapping, legs flailing in the air, but he could not break free. Jon had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight. Ghost wrenched free of the other hand and crept away, red tongue lolling from his mouth. The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jon slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Jon knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead. He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jon pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing. The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jon held the longsword before him. "Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill. "Corn, " screamed the raven, "corn, corn. " The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Ghost pounced and got it between his teeth. Finger bones crunched. Jon hacked at the corpse's neck, felt the steel bite deep and hard. Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. Jon's breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into Jon's mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Frost covered its eyes, sparkling blue. Jon raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He tried to bite, tried to punch, tried to breathe . . . And suddenly the | 1 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 1 | he said, still looking down at his bandages, 'when one's young, it seems very easy to distinguish between right and wrong, but as one gets older it becomes more difficult. At school it's easy to pick out one's own villains and heroes and one grows up wanting to be a hero and kill the villains.' He looked obstinately at Mathis. 'Well, in the last few years I've killed two villains. The first was in New York - a Japanese cipher expert cracking our codes on the thirty-sixth floor of the RCA building in the Rockefeller centre, where the Japs had their consulate. I took a room on the fortieth floor of the next-door skyscraper and I could look across the street into his room and see him working. Then I got a colleague from our organization in New York and a couple of Remington thirty-thirty's with telescopic sights and silencers. We smuggled them up to my room and sat for days waiting for our chance. He shot at the man a second before me. His job was only to blast a hole through the windows so that I could shoot the Jap through it. They have tough windows at the Rockefeller centre to keep the noise out. It worked very well. As I expected, his bullet got deflected by the glass and went God knows where. But I shot immediately after him, through the hole he had made. I got the Jap in the mouth as he turned to gape at the broken window.' Bond smoked for a minute. 'It was a pretty sound job. Nice and clean too. Three hundred yards away. No personal contact. The next time in Stockholm wasn't so pretty. I had to kill a Norwegian who was doubling against us for the Germans. He'd managed to get two of our men captured - probably bumped off for all I know. For various reasons it had to be an absolutely silent job. I chose the bedroom of his flat and a knife. And, well, he just didn't die very quickly. 'For those two jobs I was awarded a Double O number in the Service. Felt pretty clever and got a reputation for being good and tough. A double O number in our Service means you've had to kill a chap in cold blood in the course of some job. 'Now,' he looked up again at Mathis, 'that's all very fine. The hero kills two villains, but when the hero Le Chiffre starts to kill the villain Bond and the villain Bond knows he isn't a villain at all, you see the other side of the medal. The villains and heroes get all mixed up. 'Of course,' he added, as Mathis started to expostulate, 'patriotism comes along and makes it seem fairly all right, but this country-right-or-wrong business is getting a little out-of-date. Today we are fighting Communism. Okay. If I'd been alive fifty years ago, the brand of Conservatism we have today would have been damn near called Communism and we should have been told to go and | 1 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 33 | were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills. The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart's-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boul- ders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an excla- mation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking count- less questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the countryside, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation -- sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles. "Halloa!" cried Dr. Mortimer, "what is this?" A steep curve of heath-clad land, an outlying spur of the moor, lay in front of us. On the summit, hard and clear like an equestrian statue upon its pedestal, was a mounted soldier, dark and stern, his rifle poised ready over his forearm. He was watching the road along which we travelled. "What is this, Perkins?" asked Dr. Mortimer. Our driver half turned in his seat. "There's a convict escaped from Princetown, sir. He's been out three days now, and the warders watch every road and every station, but they've had no sight of him yet. The farmers about here don't like it, sir, and that's a fact." "Well, I understand that they get five pounds if they can give information." "Yes, sir, but the chance of five pounds is but a poor thing compared to the chance of having your throat cut. You see, it isn't like any ordinary convict. This is a man that would stick at nothing." "Who is he, then?" "It is Selden, the Notting Hill murderer." I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin. The commutation of his death sentence had been due to some doubts as to his complete sanity, so atrocious was his conduct. Our wagonette had topped a rise and in front of us rose the huge expanse of the moor, mottled with gnarled and craggy caims and tors. A cold wind swept | 1 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 53 | to move the official location fifty yards. “What I’m saying,” he says, and he should wipe the sweat off his forehead, “is the pockets are deep, and the conspiracies run deeper.” #6: ARI HUTSON We all know there’s a man who lurks at the edge of the campus, who lives in a lacrosse goal in the woods. Everyone knows someone who’s seen him, and we’ve assigned him various names—Lurch, the Hermit. Fran and I joke he’s the one adding notes to the Kurt shrine. According to one story, he’s a Granby student who left school one credit shy of graduation. Geoff Richler says, “He’s out there trapping raccoons. Them’s good eats.” The story that sticks: He’s Barbara Crocker’s convicted boyfriend, out of prison, returning to the scene of the crime. He has an apartment in Kern but camps out at Granby in warmer months. Ari Hutson was released in 1989; it isn’t impossible. I’ve found photos of him online, featuring a mop of friendly hair and a scraggly beard. In one, he wears a striped turtleneck and laughs with someone at a party. To be honest, I can see the appeal. In a 1975 way. On March 3, he’s in the dark by the gym when Thalia appears. She’s there to wait for you. She took off fast after curtain call, but you have things to oversee, percussion to lock up, stage managers to talk to. By the time you get to the meeting point, Thalia’s not there. You try the front gym door and it’s open, which it shouldn’t be. You look around inside, not wanting to call her name, but everything in the building is dark. You go home to your wife and your kids. The next morning you look for Thalia at brunch, but it’s the weekend and kids sleep in, so you’re not worried, only irritated, and you wish you could call her. You think of ringing the Singer-Baird pay phone, asking for her in a disguised voice. Maybe you even do it, but the girl who answers just tells you Thalia isn’t in her room. You’ll see her at dinner, and if not, certainly you’ll see her that night for Camelot. Of course you don’t tell the police she was there to meet you. You don’t tell them where she might have been standing when someone came across her. You don’t tell them that you know she wasn’t sleeping with Omar. You know the older guy her friends heard about was you. You don’t tell the police anything at all, except to give your own alibi and tell them what a lovely girl she was, what a promising student. A great kid, a great kid, a great kid. You’ve had to live with yourself for a quarter century. 50 I must have slept a few minutes at least, because I woke having dreamed about Yahav. I felt like I could turn and he’d be there—hadn’t he just been spooning me?—but no, that pillow was cold, with none of the dark, soft hairs I’d always find after he’d | 0 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 13 | and contemplate, a trick that she and Gabriel had discussed over dinner the previous night. She leaned her forehead against the windowpane, scrutinizing the view. Honey-colored light filled the conservatory and bounced off the grass. The beds were right there; they had to be. She could see them, swimming their way past the black locust trees that sentried the lawn, blooming and tufting, whooping with color. Women in silk dresses shaped like calla lilies and mustached men in top hats strolling the paths, sipping sherry from crystal glasses. In the conservatory, a harpist playing under the dripping eaves of banana fronds. And once the guests had gone, the garden still, the chirping of robins replaced by the hooting of owls, Alexander Gilson, the estate’s head gardener, would sit alone on the steps to watch night fall. He was the person Maud most wished she could talk to. He would know everything she needed to know. He could point out each bed and tell her its secrets. As the sun dissolved and the moon appeared, she’d walk behind him in the gloaming, taking notes, asking questions, and writing down plant names. And with that thought, an idea flashed. A trick used somewhere—where had that been? The Lost Gardens of Heligan, where she’d worked one summer during graduate school in England: a two-hundred-acre estate much like this one, left to bramble and ivy when the laborers sailed for the French front in 1914 and didn’t return. The depressions of garden beds, invisible in daylight, could be seen in shadow at night. The archaeology team used spotlights at Heligan, but here she could try the headlight beams of her rental car. It might not work. But it might. To know, she’d need the grass cut shorter so she could make out the topography of the ground. She rushed down the stairs, past Harriet, who was in the kitchen squeezing lemons into a plastic pitcher on a table covered with cheese knives, grape scissors, treacle spoons, and porcelain pie birds. Hurrying out the back doors of the mansion, she whipped off a text to Gabriel (Idea! Will tell you at dinner), then followed the high-pitched whine of a weedwacker that would lead her to the groundskeeper. She rounded a pond fringed by pussy willows and passed through a gateway of rhododendrons that opened into a cave of ferny shade. She only realized as the brick under her feet became gravel that she was still wearing the velvet slippers. Frazer was exactly where she thought he’d be, trimming an enormous boxwood hedge—a scraggly anachronism, added in the twentieth century, which separated the estate’s formal grounds from the forest. An atoll of gray hair ringed his otherwise bald head and his unruly eyebrows peaked like meringues. His son, Chris, a squat, thirtyish man with a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, was plowing the ivy that throttled a hydrangea. “I have an idea about how to find the missing beds,” Maud said breathlessly. “Could the two of you mow the grass from the conservatory to the mansion | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 46 | his head. ‘Do you know she came down to the barge to talk with my da, to tell him I needed to go to school? She had a proper ding-dong with him. Da said all I needed was to learn to shoot a gun and kill a rabbit. She told him I’d need to add up any money I earned and to spell the word rabbit. He listened to her, my da did, and after that he sent me to school. Well, I think it was probably Ma who told him straight that I had to go. I took Miss Hamilton a pheasant by way of a thank you.’ ‘I remember it well,’ Josie said with a smile. Lin’s shrieks had filled the classroom before she burst into tears. Lin had always been sentimental and kind-hearted. Her relationship with Neil had probably started then with the packet of Love Hearts, the sweet that proclaimed: Be Mine. They walked along the riverside for an hour or two, Fergal telling stories of Ros, their courtship, and the larks they’d had with their boys when they were younger. Josie smiled fondly at the memories. They made their way to the village green where the activities were just beginning. A huge crowd of people were watching the Morris dancers who were dressed in bright yellows, greens and reds, clacking sticks and skipping around each other. Josie recognised a few of the dancers. Jack Lovejoy and Bobby Ledbury were among them, twirling and leaping energetically. Fergal pointed to Devlin and Finn, who were helping Dickie at the drinks stall, wearing floral hats. He pressed her arm. ‘Can I get you something to wet your whistle? There’s fruit punch.’ ‘That would be lovely,’ Josie answered. Fergal shuffled towards the stall while Josie gazed around. The Morris dancers were jigging to the accordion, pipe and tabor. Gerald Harris was standing, hands in his pockets, face glum, watching. Penny Ledbury was selling jams and chutneys; there were craft stalls and face painting. A hog was roasting on a spit; there was a cake stall, pies. Josie felt a gentle pressure on her arm and found Lin next to her with Neil. ‘It’s a nice day for it, Josie,’ Lin said cheerily. ‘The whole village has turned out. Oh, hi…’ She waved to Florence, who had arrived with Dangerous Dave. ‘I think Cecily’s coming too.’ Neil grinned. ‘Lin told me about the Shakespeare and the picnic. You must have had a great time.’ Josie nodded. ‘It’s a shame Minnie couldn’t have stayed on. She was May Queen once…’ ‘We all were,’ Lin recalled. ‘I was Miss Middleton Ferris 1964.’ ‘I remember.’ Neil pecked her cheek. ‘You’re still as lovely.’ Lin flushed with pleasure. Fergal arrived with two glasses of fruit punch for 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 | 0 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 7 | of there and back into his house, where it was safe. And he didn’t need to wait long to reassure himself she was all right, because Natalie was running toward him in her nightshirt. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his entire life—and easily the most terrifying. They were still in a volatile situation with the rain continuing to come down at an alarming rate. If the road behind him could be flooded in seconds, the one they were standing on could, too. Don’t get him started on landslides and falling trees and power lines coming down. “Get back in the truck,” he called, his voice hoarse from shouting. Of course she kept coming. Didn’t slow down at all. The nightshirt clung to her, black hair stuck in damp curlicues to her neck and cheeks. No shoes. Was she hoping to round off this fine fucking morning with a tetanus shot? Or was she more of a hypothermia girl? If only she wasn’t the most beautiful sight he’d ever beheld in his life, maybe he could hold on to his anger. But he was aching everywhere, all over his body, for her touch, because he’d had the same recurring thought during the rescue. What if the last time I saw her, I was shouting at her? What if that’s how she remembers me? After all, there was always risk involved with every mission, no matter how big or small. Around ten yards away from August, she stubbed her toe on the road and the dinner they’d eventually gotten around to eating around midnight nearly came back up. “Natalie,” he growled, ready to admonish her for leaving the safety of the truck when he was damn well on his way to be with her, anyway. But the lecture died in his throat when she leapt into his arms with a sob, her body shaking like a washing machine during the spin cycle. “Hey.” He kept his voice as soft as possible, but it was thicker than pancake batter. “Everyone is okay, princess. Everything is fine.” “What the hell,” she strangle-whispered into his neck. “Like, what the hell?” August carried her over to the open passenger-side door of the truck, but he walked slowly, because there was nothing in the goddamn universe better than holding this woman, except for maybe holding her in a safe, dry location. “What’s the matter? You’ve never seen a flash flood before?” She clung harder. “No!” “Civilians.” He sighed, tickling her ribs a little. “Stay off this road during storms. The elevation puts it lower than the creek bed.” She said nothing, so he poked her. “Promise me, Natalie.” “Okay. I promise.” She leaned back a little and her puffy eyes and red-tipped nose nearly made him stumble. “Of course, if I ever got stuck out there, you’d just strap on a harness and come rescue me. Totally calm and casual, as if you’re heating up a microwave dinner.” He took stock of his body, cataloging the chaotic buzz at the base of his throat, the | 0 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 74 | he had lived many years in England. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew that he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank now, for his first thought was that Miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. The waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it. "I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on her face of real distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all." "Why?" said Philip. "Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault. My aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go and sit with her. She can't be left alone, can she?" "It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead." "But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them." He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up. "What are you doing that for?" "You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself, do you? I only took seats there for your sake." "You can't see me home if that's what you mean?" "You've made other arrangements." "I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as all the rest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my fault if my aunt's queer." She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little about women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most transparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see for certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an unhappy passion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not going home. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and then came straight up to him. "What are you doing here?" she said. "Taking the air," he answered. "You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a gentleman." "Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?" he murmured. There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. He wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him. "I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to come out with you. | 1 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 94 | She’s even harsher at the sentence level. The rhythm’s off. That imagery doesn’t work. Seriously? Another em dash? I’ve tried to block her out and push through, to write in spite of and to spite her. But it’s in those moments that her laughing grows louder, her taunts meaner. My doubts only ever intensify. Who am I to imagine I can achieve anything without her? I’ve put on a stiff upper lip in public, but Geoff’s Twitter antics rattled me more than I let on. Athena Liu’s Ghost. A grotesque choice of name; surely chosen to surprise and provoke, but there’s more truth to it than even Geoff knew. Athena’s ghost has anchored itself to me; it hovers over my shoulder, whispering in my ear every waking moment of my day. It’s maddening. These days I’ve started dreading the thought of trying to write, because I can’t write without thinking of her. Then, of course, my thoughts inevitably spiral beyond the writing to the memories: the final night, the pancakes, the gurgling sounds she made as she thrashed against the floor. I thought I’d gotten over her death. I was doing so well mentally. I was in a good space. I was fine. Until she returned. But isn’t that what ghosts do? Howl, moan, make themselves into spectacles? That’s the whole point of a ghost, is it not? Anything to remind you that they’re still there. Anything to keep you from forgetting. I MUST CONFESS: I DOUBLE-DIPPED. That night in Athena’s apartment, I didn’t only take The Last Front. I also took a smattering of papers lying across her desk, some typewritten, some covered in Athena’s looping, nearly illegible scrawl, accompanied by abstract line doodles whose significance I still haven’t figured out. I swear it was only out of curiosity. Athena was always so cagey about her creative process. The way she described it, it was like the gods dropped award-winning stories into her mind fully formed. I just wanted to get a look inside her head, to see if her early-stage brainstorming was anything like mine. It turns out, we create in very similar ways. She starts with random words or phrases, some original, some clearly song lyrics or minor modifications of other, more famous lines of literature—Rook was already dead when I arrived; the boy from nowhere; it was a dark yet brilliant night; if I hit you, would it feel like a kiss? I place them out on my desk now, staring at them, hunting for a shred of inspiration. I can’t get Athena’s voice out of my head, but maybe I can work with it. Maybe I can force her ghost back into service and resurrect that same unholy chemistry that fueled The Last Front. There are only a few completed sentences and only one completed paragraph, written out by hand, which begins like this: In my nightmares she walks into a dark and never-ending hallway, and as many times as I call her name, she never turns around. Her dress leaves wet streaks on the carpet. Her | 0 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 80 | a first lieutenant. Our platoons sailed together, trying to outrun the Jhorr and capture the Lola—that’s what we called the iceberg. A hundred-megaton rank, it could irrigate the entire valley for years. I remember one night, just after we found out the Jhorr had taken the Lola, and that we would have to engage to take it from them, he kept the entire ship up with story upon story, joke upon joke.” The Iceberg Wars had begun when the world all but ran out of drinkable water. Each city-nation on this continent—Alante, Nanzy, Rossk, Jhorr—sent forces up north, hunting the loose icebergs around the pole. Especially icebergs of higher ranks, such as the hundred-megaton Lola, which could provide some much-needed unpolluted water to their residents for years. The wars had lasted on and off for three decades, and even now, four years after the last bout, sightings of the odd iceberg floating in the ocean would set off the violence again. “Did you take it?” Io asked. “The Lola?” A shadow played on Amos’s face. “We did. We had three keres-born sisters in our service, as did every platoon. After weeks on the Jhorr’s tail, we woke up to the sisters barking directions. Our captain sailed us straight to the slaughter: the Lola had capsized during the night, right into the Jhorr’s biggest ship. The gals said they could see the death from miles away.” Io fidgeted at the thought of the keres-born and their creepy powers but kept it to herself. Amos talked about them with reverence; she didn’t want to be rude, especially about the wars. “So you think he’s a good guy,” she asked, “Saint-Yves?” Amos lifted their shoulders. “He was a good lieutenant to his soldiers.” A good lieutenant was also a good killer, though. Io didn’t think he would hurt Thais—she was essential to his Initiative—but she was worried her sister might get caught in the crossfire of whatever Bianca Rossi was planning. I’ll take care of it, the mob queen had said; Io held no illusions that Bianca’s plans wouldn’t involve violence. She rubbed her temples, weighing her options. “Amos, do you have a Hill pass?” They gave her a much-deserved appraising look. The Hill was a walled community, separated from the rest of Alante by a tide trench and heavy security. Entrance was allowed only to residents and their staff, including freelancers who carried special Hill passes. “Yes,” Amos replied hesitantly. “I sometimes deliver up there.” Io looked at her friend with big puppy eyes. “Can I borrow it?” “Tell me what I’m getting into, first.” What, indeed? That was the million-note question. The gist of it was this: “Thais lives up there. I think she might be in danger.” CHAPTER XXIII CREPES IO GOT OFF at the Acropolis stop and stood ramrod straight as the guards checked Amos’s pass. The Hill sprouted before her like a lush oasis in the middle of the driest desert. Green coated every surface: trees lining the streets, flowers spilling from every windowsill, climbing vines hanging on to balconies | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 88 | the result. “Are you a Rockette?” I ask. “Gosh, no.” She says it with a rush of air, as if I asked if she were the Queen of England. “I’m an assistant to the events coordinator, Ms. Burris. I was told that you were precious cargo and to make sure you made it to the theater in one piece.” “Precious cargo.” What a strange phrase. “I’m sorry to make you come all this way, but it’s not a good day. I’m moving, you see.” “Oh.” Her face is crestfallen. “Ms. Burris will be very upset. She’ll think I did or said something wrong.” She digs into her bag, hands shaking. “I brought the program for you, so you can see that it’s going to be terrific. Won’t you reconsider?” She looks like she might cry. I take it from her without looking at it. “I’m sure you’ll have a bevy of current and former dancers in attendance. Why do I have to go?” “It’s because of the book. I hope you won’t think me insensitive—I mean, I still can’t believe what you went through—but the book is the reason they want you there. Everyone is so eager to know more about what happened when you were a Rockette.” Right. A recent nonfiction account of the events of 1956, published a couple of months ago, has stirred up interest in a time I’d rather not dwell on. Since it came out, I’ve had all kinds of former friends and foes resurface, not to mention reporters who looked up my address and stopped by unannounced, hoping for an interview. It was a time when I was at my best as a dancer, yet the worst happened. I haven’t been in that theater, that beautiful, majestic space, since. “That was long ago. I don’t wish to talk about it. Or think about it.” “Oh.” Her eyes flit to the windowsill, where several family photos sit in silver frames. “Of course.” She pauses. “I just need to call and let Ms. Burris know. Do you mind if I use your phone?” I show her into the hallway, where it sits on a narrow table. As she murmurs into the phone, I go back into the living room, where the young mover has left another box on the coffee table, this one marked with my mother’s handwriting. Inside are her treasures, objects that she touched and worried over, pages she leafed through and scribbled on in pencil. I remember the time when, as far as I was concerned, the programs and diaries might as well have been dusted with cyanide. Piper comes back into the room, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. Her chin trembles. “Ms. Burris is so disappointed. And I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll excuse myself now and head back.” Just then, the young mover bounds down the stairs carrying a dress on a hanger across his arms as if it were a sleeping maiden. “Do you want to keep this, Ms. Brooks? Or donate?” He holds the hanger | 0 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 8 | so ill-timed and extravagant,--accompanied, too, with a look that showed more like joy than any other kind of excitement,--compelled Hepzibah to dread that her stern kinsman's ominous visit had driven her poor brother to absolute insanity. Nor could she otherwise account for the Judge's quiescent mood than by supposing him craftily on the watch, while Clifford developed these symptoms of a distracted mind. "Be quiet, Clifford!" whispered his sister, raising her hand to impress caution. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, be quiet!" "Let him be quiet! What can he do better?" answered Clifford, with a still wilder gesture, pointing into the room which he had just quitted. "As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now!--we can sing, laugh, play, do what we will! The weight is gone, Hepzibah! It is gone off this weary old world, and we may be as light-hearted as little Phoebe herself." And, in accordance with his words, he began to laugh, still pointing his finger at the object, invisible to Hepzibah, within the parlor. She was seized with a sudden intuition of some horrible thing. She thrust herself past Clifford, and disappeared into the room; but almost immediately returned, with a cry choking in her throat. Gazing at her brother with an affrighted glance of inquiry, she beheld him all in a tremor and a quake, from head to foot, while, amid these commoted elements of passion or alarm, still flickered his gusty mirth. "My God! what is to become of us?" gasped Hepzibah. "Come!" said Clifford in a tone of brief decision, most unlike what was usual with him. "We stay here too long! Let us leave the old house to our cousin Jaffrey! He will take good care of it!" Hepzibah now noticed that Clifford had on a cloak,--a garment of long ago,--in which he had constantly muffled himself during these days of easterly storm. He beckoned with his hand, and intimated, so far as she could comprehend him, his purpose that they should go together from the house. There are chaotic, blind, or drunken moments, in the lives of persons who lack real force of character,--moments of test, in which courage would most assert itself,--but where these individuals, if left to themselves, stagger aimlessly along, or follow implicitly whatever guidance may befall them, even if it be a child's. No matter how preposterous or insane, a purpose is a Godsend to them. Hepzibah had reached this point. Unaccustomed to action or responsibility,--full of horror at what she had seen, and afraid to inquire, or almost to imagine, how it had come to pass,--affrighted at the fatality which seemed to pursue her brother,--stupefied by the dim, thick, stifling atmosphere of dread which filled the house as with a death-smell, and obliterated all definiteness of thought,--she yielded without a question, and on the instant, to the will which Clifford expressed. For herself, she was like a person in a dream, when the will always sleeps. Clifford, ordinarily so destitute of this faculty, had found it in the tension of the crisis. "Why do you delay so?" cried | 1 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 9 | Samech, Ayin, Pei, Tzadik, Kuf, Reish, Shin, and Tav." Teabing dramatically mopped his brow and plowed on. "In formal Hebrew spelling, the vowel sounds are not written. Therefore, when we write the word Baphomet using the Hebrew alphabet, it will lose its three vowels in translation, leaving us-" "Five letters," Sophie blurted. Teabing nodded and began writing again. "Okay, here is the proper spelling of Baphomet in Hebrew letters. I'll sketch in the missing vowels for clarity's sake. B a P V o M e Th "Remember, of course," he added, "that Hebrew is normally written in the opposite direction, but we can just as easily use Atbash this way. Next, all we have to do is create our substitution scheme by rewriting the entire alphabet in reverse order opposite the original alphabet." "There's an easier way," Sophie said, taking the pen from Teabing. "It works for all reflectional substitution ciphers, including the Atbash. A little trick I learned at the Royal Holloway." Sophie wrote the first half of the alphabet from left to right, and then, beneath it, wrote the second half, right to left. "Cryptanalysts call it the fold-over. Half as complicated. Twice as clean." A B G D H V Z Ch T Y K Th Sh R Q Tz P O S N M L Teabing eyed her handiwork and chuckled. "Right you are. Glad to see those boys at the Holloway are doing their job." Looking at Sophie's substitution matrix, Langdon felt a rising thrill that he imagined must have rivaled the thrill felt by early scholars when they first used the Atbash Cipher to decrypt the now famous Mystery of Sheshach. For years, religious scholars had been baffled by biblical references to a city called Sheshach. The city did not appear on any map nor in any other documents, and yet it was mentioned repeatedly in the Book of Jeremiah-the king of Sheshach, the city of Sheshach, the people of Sheshach. Finally, a scholar applied the Atbash Cipher to the word, and his results were mind-numbing. The cipher revealed that Sheshach was in fact a code word for another very well-known city. The decryption process was simple. Sheshach, in Hebrew, was spelled: Sh-Sh-K. Sh-Sh-K, when placed in the substitution matrix, became B-B-L. B-B-L, in Hebrew, spelled Babel. The mysterious city of Sheshach was revealed as the city of Babel, and a frenzy of biblical examination ensued. Within weeks, several more Atbash code words were uncovered in the Old Testament, unveiling myriad hidden meanings that scholars had no idea were there. "We're getting close," Langdon whispered, unable to control his excitement. "Inches, Robert," Teabing said. He glanced over at Sophie and smiled. "You ready?" 215 She nodded. "Okay, Baphomet in Hebrew without the vowels reads: B-P-V-M-Th. Now we simply apply your Atbash substitution matrix to translate the letters into our five-letter password." Langdon's heart pounded. B-P-V-M-Th. The sun was pouring through the windows now. He looked at Sophie's substitution matrix and slowly began to make the conversion. B is Sh... P is V... Teabing was grinning like | 1 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 17 | any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern. Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing. 22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well. 24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. 28 July.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier. 29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause. 30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship. 1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for | 1 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 24 | ordered at seven fifty, but Roddy Tebbit never took it inside. Receipt printout is eight fifteen. When you stand in the hallway and smell the cold food, you realise you’ve been breathing death in the apartment. It’s not a stink of blood or bowel, but any dying leaves a trace in the air. I feel it as a kind of thinness, like the flavour of a bone broth taken off the cooker before it’s time, or the empty pages of a new colouring book. Apartment 363 where Roddy Tebbit lived is the corner, with big picture windows. 362 is a mid-floor and 364 is pretty much the whole of the other side of the hall, although the building on that side is stepped like a pyramid, so in terms of your square meters it isn’t any bigger than the other two, but it probably has a hell of a terrace. I go along to 362. There’s a bucket outside. I knock. When no one answers, I ring the bell, and then knock again. Finally the door opens and a guy in a janitor coat looks out. He has greasy hair and muttonchop sideburns and no beard, and he wears a badge which says his name is Rufus. I say hi to Rufus. “Hi,” Rufus says. “You part of—” He waves at the cops. “External contractor.” Meaning I don’t care about whatever his hustle is. You got to know a guy like Rufus has a hustle. “These nice people?” Gesturing to the apartment behind him. He shrugs. “Moved out last week. Going to the west coast.” “I hear it’s cold as hell.” “Well, they sure didn’t leave anything behind.” He sighs. Figure some people leave stuff he can sell on. “You ever see the nerd next door?” “The doctor guy?” He raises his hand up way over his head. Not everyone that big is a Titan. In fact right around one in every one million people is naturally over seven feet tall, for a global total of maybe eight thousand; the number of Titans in the world is a quarter of that, even if a lot of them are here, in Chersenesos. But it’s not really about the numbers: Titans are red carpet, VIP lounge and champagne. They wear perfect clothes and shoes without orthotics. They’re hard money walking. So, sure, maybe Roddy Tebbit was not “that Titan guy” to Rufus. He was tall, and he was a doctor. “Yeah,” I say. Rufus shrugs. “Sure. You can’t miss him.” To be honest I have been wondering if anyone will. “He okay?” I ask. “Decent fella?” Rufus nods. “Sure. Just some guy. Shy maybe.” “He date?” Rufus shrugs. “There was a girl sometimes. A lady, I guess.” “He social with anyone?” “No.” His eyes flick across and down at the floor, but his body twitches a little towards 364. “I mean just neighbourly. Maybe chips and dips. He’s a quiet guy.” “Any visitors? Loud music? Like that?” Rufus laughs. “I think one time some of his students came round and they played him something | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 22 | Style while burning to a crisp under the summer sun, walking and walking and walking around booths packed with tie-dye dresses and woven hemp bags I was never gonna buy, and the second we walked back to the building I had to pee. I had to piss so bad my vision got wavy. I could barely get my ass on his toilet seat before the floodgates opened, and it was one of those orgasmic pees, the rapturous kind where you’ve held so much for so long that you almost weep when it comes torrential downpouring out of you. Little did I know, that orgasm was reciprocal; I’d looked up to find dude jerking off into the sink as I reached for his one-ply toilet paper. From that day forward, he always just happened to have a six-pack around whenever I came over, and drunk jerking off to the sound of me pissing became a regular sexual event. If I were smarter, I would have known that eventually he was gonna ask me to urinate on him. That hadn’t even occurred to me? Because even though I’d had sex, I wasn’t exactly having, like, adventurous sex. The dog collar/doughnut thing was an anomaly, suggested by the same person who I thought had just watched too many dirty movies and had a vivid imagination. I didn’t know people outside of porn apartments in the San Fernando Valley were pissing on each other and doing other freaky stuff. When he finally made the casual suggestion—“What would you think about making me your toilet?” in the same exact tone he might’ve said, “What would you think about getting nachos and burritos?”—it took a minute for me to conceptualize how this might physically happen. It wasn’t even that I thought it was gross, I’ve just taken enough unnecessary pregnancy tests to know what messy business targeted urination is when you don’t have the luxury of a penis. I’ve pissed all over my hand and down the back of my pants and on the floor of every hospital bathroom I’ve ever fumbled that disposable sippy cup in. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I was going to get urine anywhere near this dude. Well. Things sort of crystallized for me as I stood over his naked body stretched the length of his crumbling, lead-painted Rogers Park bathtub, Lamaze breathing while relaxing my pelvic floor in an attempt to produce a strong, steady flow instead of weak spluttering droplets. It’s kind of impossible to contort a human body without some sort of funnel attached to it into whatever position is optimal for spraying urine into a dude’s face within the confines of a coffin-sized apartment bathtub. I almost broke my fucking teeth on the edge of the sink falling out of the tub trying to make sure the piss ended up somewhere in the vicinity of where he wanted it rather than running down the insides of my legs before pooling along the sides of his torso. Over the course of many unsuccessful attempts, I mangled three shower | 0 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 16 | about attorney-client privilege. I know I could tell Rachelle Graham the truth: that I was having an affair. That my lover and I were planning to murder my husband. And she would be legally bound to keep my secrets. But when I begin to speak, more lies come out. “I have no idea. He must hate me.” “Why? Were you cheating on him?” “No!” The word flies from my lips so easily. “Then why would he hate you? What did you do?” “I… I’ve been more assertive lately,” I say, which is only true of the day he confronted me about Jesse. “I’ve been less obedient. Just… not doing as I’m told. Talking back. It infuriated him.” She exhales through her nose. “I’ll be a stronger advocate if I know the truth, Hazel. As your lawyer—” But I cut her off. “That is the truth.” My words sound firm, convincing in my own ears, but her brown eyes meet mine with suspicion. For a moment, I fear she’ll dismiss me, tell me she can’t work with a dishonest client, but eventually she breaks her gaze and changes course. “You have a right to know the case the prosecution is building,” she says, setting her laptop aside. “I’ll find out what evidence they have and who they’re calling as witnesses. You’ll likely have to testify.” My chest clutches at the thought of facing Benjamin in a courtroom. Of the questions his legal team will ask me and the lies I will be forced to tell. “I can’t.” “In Washington State, they can subpoena you. If you refuse, you could be charged with contempt.” And if I testify, I could be charged with perjury. “But I didn’t know Benjamin wanted me dead,” I try. “There’s no point! I have nothing to say!” “I might be able to arrange video testimony so you don’t have to see your husband,” she offers. “But I’m not going to lie to you. A trial will be ugly. Benjamin Laval is known to be a barracuda. His team will come at you. They’ll disparage your character, bring your credibility into question. And they will be vicious.” My heart palpitates as I imagine the assault. I am no match for David Vega and the other attorneys at my husband’s firm. They will interrogate me, badger me, and I will crumble. Fall apart. Incriminate myself. I will be caught out as a liar. A slut. And an attempted murderer myself. This whole situation feels like a runaway train, and every time I open my mouth, I stoke its engine. “There’s a chance this won’t even get to trial,” she says. “Your husband’s team will be working every legal angle to make this go away.” “Go away?” I struggle to take a breath. “If he gets out…” I trail off, press my fingers into my eye sockets, feel the dampness of the tears welling there. Rachelle’s voice is calm, soothing. “For now, he’s behind bars.” “But I could still be in danger. Who was he conspiring with? I need to know.” “I’ll | 0 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 39 | paper and handed it to Gettum. You seek the orb that ought be on his tomb. It speaks of Rosy flesh and seeded womb. Gettum gave an inward smile. The Grail indeed, she thought, noting the references to the Rose and her seeded womb. "I can help you," she said, looking up from the slip of paper. "Might I ask where this verse came from? And why you are seeking an orb?" "You might ask," Langdon said, with a friendly smile, "but it's a long story and we have very little time." 255 "Sounds like a polite way of saying 'mind your own business.' "We would be forever in your debt, Pamela," Langdon said, "if you could find out who this knight is and where he is buried." "Very well," Gettum said, typing again. "I'll play along. If this is a Grail-related issue, we should cross-reference against Grail keywords. I'll add a proximity parameter and remove the title weighting. That will limit our hits only to those instances of textual keywords that occur near a Grail-related word." Search for: KNIGHT, LONDON, POPE, TOMB Within 100 word proximity of: GRAIL, ROSE, SANGREAL, CHALICE "How long will this take?" Sophie asked. "A few hundred terabytes with multiple cross-referencing fields?" Gettum's eyes glimmered as she clicked the SEARCH key. "A mere fifteen minutes." Langdon and Sophie said nothing, but Gettum sensed this sounded like an eternity to them. "Tea?" Gettum asked, standing and walking toward the pot she had made earlier. "Leigh always loves my tea." 256 CHAPTER 93 London's Opus Dei Centre is a modest brick building at 5 Orme Court, overlooking the North Walk at Kensington Gardens. Silas had never been here, but he felt a rising sense of refuge and asylum as he approached the building on foot. Despite the rain, Rmy had dropped him off a short distance away in order to keep the limousine off the main streets. Silas didn't mind the walk. The rain was cleansing. At Rmy's suggestion, Silas had wiped down his gun and disposed of it through a sewer grate. He was glad to get rid of it. He felt lighter. His legs still ached from being bound all that time, but Silas had endured far greater pain. He wondered, though, about Teabing, whom Rmy had left bound in the back of the limousine. The Briton certainly had to be feeling the pain by now. "What will you do with him?" Silas had asked Rmy as they drove over here. Rmy had shrugged. "That is a decision for the Teacher." There was an odd finality in his tone. Now, as Silas approached the Opus Dei building, the rain began to fall harder, soaking his heavy robe, stinging the wounds of the day before. He was ready to leave behind the sins of the last twenty-four hours and purge his soul. His work was done. Moving across a small courtyard to the front door, Silas was not surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the minimalist foyer. A muted electronic chime sounded | 1 |
96 | We-Could-Be-So Good.txt | 35 | but want and need and too much fondness to even think about. Nick rolls them so Andy is on top, then hooks a leg around Andy’s hip to keep him close. This makes Andy’s damp hair fall in his eyes, and into Nick’s eyes, too. He moves his hips so they rock together, and then after that there’s nothing but gasped names and soft words, the two of them sheltered together in a warm safe place. * * * Afterward, Nick lies boneless and warm, Andy half on top of him and apparently insensate. His face is smashed into the pillow beside Nick’s head, an arm and a leg flung heavily across Nick’s body. Nick reaches out and gropes around on his nightstand for a pack of cigarettes. Andy must hear the click of the lighter because he lifts his hand and makes a grabbing motion. Nick puts the cigarette into his hand and Andy shifts over, sitting up against the headboard. Nick cranes his neck to look. Andy is still flushed, pink and rosy from what they did together. His hair is rumpled and his jawline and neck are red from rubbing against Nick’s stubble. He looks gently debauched. “You’re staring,” Andy says. “Mm-hmm.” Andy rolls his eyes. “Want me to stop?” Nick asks. “Knock yourself out,” Andy says, making a sort of help yourself gesture. When they first met, Nick thought Andy was at best generically handsome, like models in the Sears catalog or ads for soap. He thought Andy’s looks were bland, forgettable, boring WASPy straight-nosed pale-skinned dullness. And then he started to notice the other things: the way Andy’s ears stick out a little, the way his smile tilts to the side, how his expression never stays the same for more than five seconds and instead acts like a television screen, displaying everything that passes through his head. None of that is in the least boring. Now when he looks at Andy, he doesn’t even see his component parts unless he makes himself pay attention. Instead it all coalesces into the shape of Nick’s favorite person. Even when he looks at the parts he doesn’t usually get to see—strong shoulders covered in the freckles of a dozen sunburns, the soft insides of his thighs, pink nipples and a dusting of dark blond chest hair—it’s all still Andy. “Jesus,” says Andy, looking away. Another part of him that Nick doesn’t usually get to see is taking renewed interest. “You’ve been looking at me for weeks,” Nick points out, stealing the cigarette from Andy’s hand. “You walk around half naked! It’s impossible not to look.” “Is that so?” Nick crawls over Andy’s lap and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. “You like what you saw?” “Fishing for compliments is beneath you,” Andy says, even as he smooths his hands down Nick’s shoulders. “I want to know what made you have your gay awakening.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I want to know what about me is so powerfully attractive that it contributed to your degeneracy.” Andy suddenly looks serious. “I | 0 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 22 | space ahead. The path leads us right into it. The blazing torch casts a hazy orange glow all around. I scan the area again, listening. There’s no one here, but somebody had to have been, and recently. The torch snaps and crackles as the fire consumes the end of it. “Charity,” Bezi says, her voice nothing more than a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here. This is all wrong.” I climb onto the crescent-shaped platform and walk from one side to the other. The trunk of the giant oak that stands directly behind it is carved—a pattern of overlapping triangular eaves. The torchlight illuminates only the very bottom part of the tree, so I switch on my flashlight and swing the light up where a pair of shining black eyes stares back at me. I stumble back and Bezi gasps. The tree trunk has been carved into the likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is paved and much narrower than the others. The trees and shrubbery that run alongside it are neatly trimmed. Ahead, a large structure unfolds out of the darkness. Bezi and I find ourselves in the shadow of a massive lodge. Three stories high, it looks similar to the Western Lodge but is triple the size, and its entrance is flanked by two massive carved owls. The upper windows are dark and some are boarded up. A tangle of twisted thorny vines snakes its way up the facade of the building. The path leading to the front steps is smooth and even. Lying directly in the center of it is a shoe. I rush forward and snatch it up. It’s covered in mud and the laces are undone, but I recognize it as soon as I wipe it off with the hem of my shirt. It’s a red sneaker with a yellow swoosh on the side. “Porter.” I take a step toward the building, but Bezi grabs my arm and pulls me back. “We cannot | 0 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 7 | that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick for me. 'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table, 'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth and appiness!' I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. 'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty, - now, suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!' I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle between his shame in Uriah's deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing it. 'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of her sex.' Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow-chair. 'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah, 'but I admire - adore her.' No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands. 'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what the nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her usband -' Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her father rose up from the table! 'What's the matter?' said Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. 'You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope? If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other man!' I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 13 | older? Look, I’m sitting on the table. Let’s be friends. “Who would agree? Show of hands.” It takes a few seconds of exchanged Is this a trap? looks, but 80 percent of the hands are up in no time. That’s when I raise my own, too. They laugh. “Aren’t you a theorist, Dr. Hannaway?” someone asks. “Yes, but I get it. And please, call me Elsie.” I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist. Yikes. Erwin Schrödinger, avert your eyes. “It is unfair that most of the physicists who win Nobel Prizes or become household names are theorists. Newton. Einstein. Feynman. Kaku. Sheldon Cooper got the seven-season spin-off show, but Leonard? Nothing.” People chuckle— including Volkov. Jack’s slim smile doesn’t waver. “The advantage of theory is that we trade in ideas, and ideas are cheap and fast. Experimental physicists need expensive equipment to troubleshoot every step, but theorists can just sit there and write”—I add a calculated shrug—“science fan fiction.” It’s an actual insult I got when I went to a Harvard social as Cece’s plus-one. From a philosophy grad who, after three beers, decided to mansplain to the entire bar why my publications didn’t really count. The things I do for free food. “Theorists hide behind fancy math,” Cole says. Sweet summer STEMlord. I promise you’re not as edgy as you think. “What I don’t get is . . . what’s the point of building abstract theories that are not even bound by the laws of nature?” says the guy next to Cole. He’s wearing a long-sleeved tee that reads “Physics and Chill” in the Shrek font. I kinda love it. “Experiments are way more useful.” Another dude. In the first row. “You only care about what might be, but not what actually is.” Dude, of course. This time from the third row. “The possible applications are always an afterthought.” Many students nod. So do I, because I can read them like a large-print edition. I know the exact Elsie they want. Time to bring this home. “What you guys are saying is that theoretical physics doesn’t always end in a product. And to that, all I can say is . . . I agree. Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s not why we do it.” At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh. “How many of you are experimentalists?” Almost all hands shoot up, and Cole’s the highest. I’m depressingly unsurprised. “The truth is, you guys are right. Theorists do focus on mathematical models and abstract concepts. But they do it hoping that experimentalists like you will come across our theories and decide to prove us right.” Ugh. I want a shower and a bar of industrial-strength soap. “And that’s why I want to talk with you guys about my theories on Wigner crystallization. So that I can hear your opinions and improve through your feedback. I don’t know when theorists and experimentalists | 0 |
30 | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt | 58 | passionate, and her present letter, showing that her estimate of him had changed under his delay--too justly changed, he sadly owned,--made him ask himself if it would be wise to confront her unannounced in the presence of her parents. Supposing that her love had indeed turned to dislike during the last weeks of separation, a sudden meeting might lead to bitter words. Clare therefore thought it would be best to prepare Tess and her family by sending a line to Marlott announcing his return, and his hope that she was still living with them there, as he had arranged for her to do when he left England. He despatched the inquiry that very day, and before the week was out there came a short reply from Mrs Durbeyfield which did not remove his embarrassment, for it bore no address, though to his surprise it was not written from Marlott. SIR J write these few lines to say that my Daughter is away from me at present, and J am not sure when she will return, but J will let you know as Soon as she do. J do not feel at liberty to tell you Where she is temperly biding. J should say that me and my Family have left Marlott for some Time.---- Yours, J. DURBEYFIELD It was such a relief to Clare to learn that Tess was at least apparently well that her mother's stiff reticence as to her whereabouts did not long distress him. They were all angry with him, evidently. He would wait till Mrs Durbeyfield could inform him of Tess's return, which her letter implied to be soon. He deserved no more. His had been a love "which alters when it alteration finds". He had undergone some strange experiences in his absence; he had seen the virtual Faustina in the literal Cornelia, a spiritual Lucretia in a corporeal Phryne; he had thought of the woman taken and set in the midst as one deserving to be stoned, and of the wife of Uriah being made a queen; and he had asked himself why he had not judged Tess constructively rather than biographically, by the will rather than by the deed? A day or two passed while he waited at his father's house for the promised second note from Joan Durbeyfield, and indirectly to recover a little more strength. The strength showed signs of coming back, but there was no sign of Joan's letter. Then he hunted up the old letter sent on to him in Brazil, which Tess had written from Flintcomb-Ash, and re-read it. The sentences touched him now as much as when he had first perused them. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else.... I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you.... Please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me! ... If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! ... | 1 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 11 | 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 them both to himself, undisturbed, for several hours. Again his skin crawled. Le Chiffre opened the door with a key and disappeared inside. Vesper, looking incredibly indecent in the early light of day, was pushed in after him with a torrent of lewd French from the man whom Bond knew to himself as 'the Corsican'. Bond followed without giving the thin man a chance to urge him. The key of the front door turned in the lock. Le Chiffre was standing in the doorway of a room on the right. He crooked a finger at Bond in a silent, spidery summons. Vesper was being led down a passage towards the back of the house. Bond suddenly decided. With a wild backward kick which connected with the thin man's shins and brought a whistle of pain from him he hurled himself down the passage after her. With only his feet as weapons, there was no plan in his mind except to do as much damage as possible to the two gunmen and be able to exchange a few hurried words with the girl. No other plan was possible. He just wanted to tell her not to give in. As the Corsican turned at the commotion Bond was on him and his right shoe was launched in a flying kick at the other man's groin. Like lightning the Corsican slammed himself back against the wall of the passage and, as Bond's foot whistled past his hip, he very quickly, but somehow delicately, shot out his left hand, caught Bond's shoe at the top of its arch and twisted it sharply. Completely off balance, Bond's other foot left the ground. In the air his whole body turned and with the momentum of his rush behind it crashed sideways and down on to the floor. For a moment he lay there, all the breath knocked out of him. Then the thin man came and hauled him up against the wall by his collar. He had a gun in his hand. He looked Bond inquisitively in the eyes. Then unhurriedly he bent down and swiped the barrel viciously across Bond's shins. Bond grunted and caved at the knees. 'If there is a next time, it will be across your teeth,' said the thin man in bad French. A door slammed. Vesper and the Corsican had disappeared. Bond turned his head to | 1 |
54 | Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt | 30 | boy took the tea tray and began backing out of the room. “I do,” Miss de Vries said. Her eyes were lizard like, unreadable. Then she added, with a tiny twist in her voice, “Was it considered—an impertinence?” “An impertinence?” “My invitation, my letter to the palace. Did it cause offence?” Something was moving in Miss de Vries’s eyes. Something uneasy. She was doubting herself. “Good heavens,” said Hephzibah. “All approaches to the palace must be considered an offence. To request the attention of Their Royal Highnesses is an impertinence by its very nature. It cannot be helped. Now, tell me, I hear this is a costumed ball, correct?” “Indeed.” “But that is too enchanting. As what shall you go? A Van Dyck? A masked temptress?” Miss de Vries’s smile grew colder. “I shall have to keep it a secret, Your Grace.” “But you must confide in me. I’m dying to know. Will you be a sorceress? A sea serpent? A succubus?” Miss de Vries stared at her. “Oh, don’t let me torture you. I’m being such a gorgon. But tell me you’ll make the papers. Did you go to the Devonshires’ ball?” “I did not.” “No? A pity. It’s helpful to measure the competition, I find. People bore so easily. Have you hired Whitman for the entertainments?” Mrs. King had told her exactly how to put the question. Gently, gently, almost like it was nothing at all... Miss de Vries frowned. “I’ve not heard of Whitman.” Whitman was one of Hephzibah’s greatest gifts to Mrs. King: a costumier and impresario who came from the Rookery in Spitalfields, and who kept a splendid side business in pickpocketing. Between Whitman, Hephzibah and the Janes, there wasn’t a music-hall troupe or traveling fair they couldn’t hire for this job. “Of course you haven’t. He doesn’t advertise.” Hephzibah fiddled in her reticule, drew out a card. “I doubt you’d get him now. Not worth asking. Perhaps next year.” She tossed the card on the table, then sipped her tea. “He does the most stupendous entertainments. And by the by, in case you’re wondering, I did mention your ball to the Princess Victoria.” “You did?” “But of course! She was dreadfully shocked.” Miss de Vries considered this. Said, slowly, “I do not think there is anything about it that should shock Her Royal Highness.” “Oh, but it’s such a deliciously loathsome thing to do! To hold a ball, when you’re in full mourning, not even half. We’re agog with it.” Miss de Vries’s face was immobile. “Have I said something amiss?” Hephzibah patted her on the hand. “Don’t fret. It’s a new century, dear. We’re all ripe for a shake-up. And you needn’t stand on ceremony about HRH. She’s slipping down the pecking order every year, poor thing. One day you’ll be able to drag her to any old bazaar or rose sale you like. I can’t see her making any great marriage, can you?” Hephzibah shifted in her seat. “But for now, of course, things are managed terribly, particularly in her household.” “Of course.” “It’s | 0 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 40 | needed a green card? Or the Smith money.” “She was a grad student. It’s a move I can respect.” “For sure.” His smile is fond. And has me asking, “Do you miss her?” A long pause. “I don’t think you can miss someone you’ve never met, but . . .” He organizes his thoughts. Orders his feelings. “It’s easy to look at how dysfunctional my family is and laugh it off now that I have my own life. But when I was in my teens, there were times when things got really bad at home. And I’d read her diaries and think that maybe if she’d been around, everything could have been . . .” His throat works. “But she wasn’t.” I’ve felt out of place my entire life, and nothing anyone ever said made me feel any less so. So I stay silent and just lean forward, hide my face in Jack’s throat, press a kiss to his Adam’s apple right as it moves. His hand comes up to cup my head, keep it there, and I feel him turn to the screen again. Bella’s pregnancy complications are getting alien-like, and he groans into my hair. “Elsie. I can’t watch this.” “But it’s the best part. The emotional roller coaster of her transformation. The inappropriate Jacob plotline. Her face when she drinks blood.” “No way.” “Fine. You may amuse yourself otherwise. But stay close, because you’re a space heater disguised as an organic life-form.” “Perfect.” He lifts me like I’m a pliant little thing, flips us around, braces himself over me. I can only watch him in confusion while he lowers himself down my body with a concentrated frown between his brows and then lifts my hoodie as though . . . Is he . . . He’s not . . . Is he actually? “What are you doing?” “You told me to amuse myself.” I sit up on my elbows. “I meant take another nap, or do today’s Wordle —” “Just watch your movie, Elsie.” “But—” He takes my hips within his hands and holds me like I’m a precious artifact, at once firm and gentle. His kisses between my legs are long, savoring, messy, slow licks that have me arching up against the couch and trembling into his mouth. There is something shameless about this—the way he enjoys it, the sounds he makes, the fact that he seems to go away at moments, like he does this for his pleasure more than for my own. “Oh,” I say, clawing my nails into his scalp. His arms wrap around my thighs, palms holding my knees open, and for a while I manage to swallow down the begging, moaning sounds in my throat. Then no more. “Oh. Oh, Jack” and I come once, then once again, then some more, and then his shirt is off and he’s above and inside me, patient thrusts as he kisses me endlessly and tells me how beautiful I am, how much he loves this. Breathless laughter against my gasps as he reminds me of when | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 71 | again.’ Charlotte said. ‘And you’re right, Darryl doesn’t matter. Not now.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m not thinking about him.’ ‘Nor am I.’ Florence said. ‘It’s Adam and Elsie and me and my dad… that’s my family.’ ‘I have my job and good friends…’ Charlotte was thoughtful. ‘I’m a more confident person without him. I’m happier.’ ‘I’m glad for you, I really am.’ Florence glanced at Elsie, who had started to open her mouth and turn her small head. ‘She’s getting hungry…’ ‘I won’t keep you.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I’m pleased I’ve seen you, though – I’ll just pop in and say thanks to Cecily and Josie and Lin, then I’ll be off…’ She put out a finger and touched the baby’s cheek. ‘Good luck.’ ‘You too,’ Florence said, picking up the bag and moving upstairs, feeling suddenly light and happy. Inside the kitchen, Odile was handing everyone cake and rum punch. Josie moved to Lin and wrapped an arm around her. ‘The girl did good.’ ‘She did.’ Lin gazed around, taking in the food and her guests. ‘We did well, Josie.’ ‘We’re a team, we have been for so many years.’ Josie grinned. ‘The Silver Ladies,’ Lin suggested. ‘The whole village are Silver Ladies now.’ Josie hugged Lin closer. ‘One big family. “Friends show their love in times of trouble, so we share lunch as friends.” Remember?’ ‘We’ve come a long way since Miss Hamilton’s class.’ Lin smiled at the memory. ‘It seems a lifetime ago.’ ‘And yet it has passed in the blink of an eye…’ Josie replied. ‘Oh – I forgot…’ She leaned over to the chair where she’d left her bag. ‘The postman gave me a package earlier. I ought to open it.’ She pulled out the small brown paper parcel and Lin said, ‘It’s a book.’ ‘It must be,’ Josie agreed. It was the right size and shape. She unwrapped it with deft fingers and held out a paperback. The book had a bright cover, with turquoise sea and sky and a golden sun, and a dapper man in a smart suit with a red dicky bow standing on a beach holding a small gun. The title was in bold letters: The St Lucia Sleuth by David J. Ellis. Josie was delighted. ‘Oh, he’s done it – he’s written the whole book and had it published.’ ‘The man you met on the cruise last spring?’ Lin asked. ‘Yes, I’m so pleased for him.’ Josie opened the first page, touching the creamy white paper. Then she glanced at the dedication: For Alan, the man I love, and for Josie, who saved my life. Josie and Lin turned to each other. ‘That’s so nice,’ Lin whispered. ‘I’ll treasure this,’ Josie said, feeling suddenly emotional. ‘Like I’ll treasure the Silver Ladies’ lunches, and every precious moment we have together.’ Lin wrapped her friend in a hug and saw tears glisten in Josie’s eyes. She waited for her own to fill up, and was surprised when they didn’t. But Lin was calm now; she was in control. She turned to the guests | 0 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 21 | of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite the door, and this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank it. it was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde, heaping jewels of ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese. Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered very vividly | 1 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 73 | with were no longer his schoolmates, and though he missed them, it did not matter. He was going to be like Collins soon. That would make up for everything; all he had to do was wait. And then, at the end of his first term in primary six, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, his father and over four thousand teachers in the state were sacked. At first, everything at home went on as usual. His father continued to leave the house at seven in the morning on weekdays, tie knotted, hair shining where globs of Morgan’s Pomade had not been combed in thoroughly, side parting still in place. Ẹniọlá went on believing he would still proceed to the Unity school in Ìkìrun as planned. After all, it was only a matter of time before the governor realised that he was destroying public schools and all the teachers would be reinstated with a personal apology from him. At the very least, some teachers had to be reinstated, and Ẹniọlá’s father, with his experience and qualifications, would definitely be one of those who would be called back because they were needed. It had to happen soon. How would the school run its syllabus without history? How? Night after night, Ẹniọlá fell asleep next to Bùsọ́lá on the sofa while their parents continued this conversation instead of saying the bedtime prayers. On the radio, one of the governor’s aides explained that most of the teachers who had been retrenched taught subjects—fine arts, Yorùbá, food and nutrition, Islamic and Christian religious studies—that would do nothing for the nation’s development. What will our children do with Yorùbá in this modern age? What? You see, what we need now is technology, science and technology. And how will watercolours be useful to them? Isn’t that what the fine arts teachers teach them about? Watercolour. The man on the radio laughed. Christmas had come and gone. It was the first day of the new year, and some of his parents’ friends, many of whom had also lost their jobs, had come over for dinner. As the man continued to laugh, Ẹniọlá found that although the bowl in front of him was filled with pepper soup, he could no longer feel the sting from the peppers or taste the meat. He felt as though he was drinking water with a spoon. When he returned to school after the holidays, he listed retrenchment and reinstatement among the new words he had learnt during the Christmas break. A few months later, his father’s blue Beetle sped past him as he returned home from school. It was being driven by a bald man he did not recognise. When he got home, his mother responded to his questions about the car by demanding that he finish his homework before asking foolish questions, sweep the kitchen floor before disturbing her peace, wash the front yard with a broom before frustrating her in this life. It took her a week to tell him that the car had been sold. By then his father had stopped | 0 |
67 | How to Sell a Haunted House.txt | 41 | has issues, and I’ve learned from experience you do not want to put a problematic piece of real estate on the market. Not if you want to keep your reputation.” “What issues?” Louise asked, but she knew. “I told Louise to leave the art up,” Mark said. “Bare walls make rooms look smaller.” Mercy ticked off the points on her fingers. “The weird noises in the attic, whatever was in the bathroom vanity, you freaked out way too much over those dolls, and the place has some seriously weird vibes.” “I told you we meant to get more done before you got here,” Louise said. “I’ll come right out and say it,” Mercy told them. “Strange noises, bad vibes, your mom and dad recently passed— Your house is haunted and I’m not selling it until you deal with that.” “Holy shit,” Mark said. “That’s . . .” Louise tried to think of the right word. “That’s crazy.” And it did feel crazy. Really crazy. i’m not crazy “You’re upset,” Mercy said. “I get it. No one likes bad news. But my business is houses, and half of selling a house is psychological. Can’t you guys feel how off this place is?” “Yes,” Mark said. “No,” Louise said. “I’d be a fool to ignore my gut,” Mercy said. “It’s no big deal. I’ve handled two problematic properties before.” Louise felt like her cousin had betrayed her. Turned on her. Become the enemy. “This is in really bad taste,” she said. “Our parents just died.” “This can’t come as a total surprise. Your family’s always been weird.” “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Louise asked. “There’s clearly something here you need to deal with,” Mercy said. “But there are people who can help. You get a blessing, do a cleansing, they’re real discreet. They understand how publicity can affect the sale.” “Who does it?” Mark asked. “I used Mom,” Mercy said. Louise remembered that her aunt Gail had a guardian angel named Mebahiah who watched over her and helped her find good parking spaces. “Oh my God,” she said. “Exactly,” Mercy said. “She’s super churched up and, honestly, all she’ll ask y’all for is a donation because they’re building a new adult education center. What’s the downside, Louise? Let’s say you don’t believe it’s haunted, fine. You still get a nice feeling of closure. Both troubled properties I handled wound up getting five percent over asking after they got cleansed.” “Is it Mom and Dad?” Mark asked, his voice low. “Is that who’s in there?” Mercy turned into their cousin again, not a Realtor. “I wish I knew,” she said and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Mark.” “Do you think—” Mark started, and swallowed hard. “Do you think we can see them?” Louise knew she needed to head this off. It was dangerous to even think for a second that dead didn’t mean forever. just a chance to see them again, even for a second “I think we might consult another Realtor,” she said. “No offense.” “None taken,” Mercy said. “But | 0 |
64 | Happy Place.txt | 54 | Cleo says. The others have moved on to a milk-bottle toss game. She jerks her head toward the lobster beanbags and the bottles painted to look like nervous lobstermen. “What do you think the narrative is here? The lobsters fighting back?” “Let’s hope it’s not prophetic, or this town’s the first to go,” I say. She turns back to me. “I guess I feel like . . . this week’s already half-over, and we’ve all barely gotten to catch up. And I know how important this is to her—to everyone. Doing all these things one last time, and I get that. “But it’s also been a long time since we’ve been together, and today just felt like kind of a bummer. Sitting through hours of movies when we could be talking.” I grab her hand. “I’m sorry. That makes complete sense.” She glances back, to where Sabrina and Parth are taunting each other in front of the game, and smiles a little. “I just want this week to be perfect for them.” “Me too.” I squeeze her hand. “But hey, the night is young and so are we. What do you want to do? I’ll go on any ride or play any game. I’ll even let you monologue about mushrooms.” She laughs and tucks her head against my shoulder. “I just want to be here with you, Har.” The weed must be hitting me hard, because I instantly tear up a little. It’s that happy-sad feeling, that intense homesick ache. It makes me think of my semester abroad. Not the old cobbled streets or tiny pubs overstuffed with drunk university students, but Sabrina and Cleo FaceTiming me at midnight to sing me “Happy Birthday.” The feeling of being so grateful to have something worth missing. We walk, we talk, we sweat and frizz and eat. Funnel cakes and lobster rolls, overstuffed whoopie pies and battered-and-fried fiddlehead ferns, caramel corn and salted popcorn. “Does anyone else feel like time’s moving really fast?” I ask when I realize it’s full dark. Cleo and Sabrina look at each other and burst into laughter. “You’re so high,” Sabrina says. “Says the woman who spent like nine minutes making us stand in one place while she googled whether corn is a nut or a vegetable,” I say. “I wanted to know!” Sabrina cries, eyes shrunken. “A nut, babe,” Cleo says. “You thought corn was a nut.” “Well, they look like little nuts before you pop them,” Parth says, coming to Sabrina’s defense. Cleo is now laughing so hard she’s doubled over. Wyn is wandering toward the Ferris wheel, saucer-eyed. “Dude, Wyn’s about to be beamed up,” Kimmy says, and I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it makes me laugh anyway. Wyn looks over his shoulder and says, “Look at it. It’s beautiful.” Sabrina stares at him for one second, then throws her head back and cackles. But he—and his not-quite-tiny gummy—is right. Everything looks soft around the edges, dreamy. Parth leads us into the Ferris wheel line. I try to pair up with Sabrina, | 0 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 9 | cousins," she said. "I hope they like you!" "Oh yes!" said Anne, eagerly, anxious to stick up for her strange cousin. "We do like George, and we like Ti ..." She was just about to say that they liked Timothy too, when she got such a kick on her ankle that she cried out in pain and the tears came into her eyes. George glared at her. "George? Why did you kick Anne like that when she was saying nice things about you?" cried her mother. "Leave the table at once. I won't have such behaviour." George left the table without a word. She went out into the garden. She had just taken a piece of bread and cut herself some cheese. It was all left on her plate. The other three stared at it in distress. Anne was upset. How could she have been so silly as to forget she mustn't mention Tim? "Oh, please call George back!" she said. "She didn't mean to kick me. It was an accident." But her aunt was very angry with George. "Finish your meal," she said to the others. "I expect George will go into the sulks now. Dear, dear, she is such a difficult child!" The others didn't mind about George going into the sulks. What they did mind was that George might refuse to take them to see the wreck now! They finished the meal in silence. Their aunt went to see if Uncle Quentin wanted any more pie. He was having his meal in the study by himself. As soon as she had gone out of the room, Anne picked up the bread and cheese from George's plate and went out into the garden. The boys didn't scold her. They knew that Anne's tongue very often ran away with her- but she always tried to make up for it afterwards. They thought it was very brave of her to go and find George. George was lying on her back under a big tree in the garden. Anne went up to her. "I'm sorry I nearly made a mistake, George," she said. "Here's your bread and cheese. I've brought it for you. I promise I'll never forget not to mention Tim again." George sat up. "I've a good mind not to take you to see the wreck," she said. "Stupid baby!" Anne's heart sank. This was what she had feared. "Well," she said, "you needn't take me, of course. But you might take the boys, George. After all, they didn't do anything silly. And anyway, you gave me an awful kick. Look at the bruise." George looked at it. Then she looked at Anne. "But wouldn't you be miserable if I took Julian and Dick without you?" she asked. "Of course," said Anne. "But I don't want to make them miss a treat, even if I have to." Then George did a surprising thing for her. She gave Anne a hug! Then she immediately looked most ashamed of herself, for she felt sure that no boy would have done that! And she | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 59 | promise. Nothing bad is —” “He told me.” Jack straightens his back, eyes once again on the print. “I should have known.” “Known what?” “When he was . . . I’m not sure. Fifteen? He was still in high school. I came back from college during break.” His throat works. “He took me aside and said that he was worried. That he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be in a romantic relationship. And I told him he shouldn’t worry. That it was still early and he’d find someone. That it was normal to be nervous before becoming sexually active. That he should just keep an open mind. And then I . . .” Something jumps in Jack’s jaw. He closes his eyes. “And then I asked to watch Battlestar Galactica together. Like a total fucking asshole.” I never came out to anyone in my family, Greg once told me. I think I tried, once. Kind of. But then I chickened out and . . . I don’t know. It’s better this way. “Have you ever heard of the ace/aro spectrum?” I ask gently. I’m being gentle to Jack, apparently. He shakes his head, eyes still closed. “It’s . . . well, some of it is what Greg told you. But there’s more. Lots of complexities. There are good resources online that you might want to look up before you guys have another talk. And he . . . I think he’s still trying to figure himself out.” Many of us are, I nearly add. But it’s more of myself than I’d rather show. “Fuck.” Jack turns to me. His expression is . . . Devastated is the only word that comes to mind. If he started slapping himself, I wouldn’t be surprised. “He should have punched me in the face.” I open my mouth. Close it. Then think, What the hell. “Would it make you feel better if I punched you in the face?” His eyebrow lifts. “Would it make you feel better?” “Oh, a lot.” He lets out a silent, wistful laugh, and my heart squeezes for both Smith brothers. “Jack, you were a kid. And ignorant. And an asshole. And . . . okay, you’re still two of these things.” I lift my hand. It hovers for a few seconds by his shoulders while I contemplate the insanity of me voluntarily offering physical and emotional comfort to Dr. Jonathan Smith-Turner. Endothermic hell must be supercooling. “Your apology isn’t mine to accept, but I know Greg cares about you as much as you care about him.” His shoulder is tight and warm under my palm. Solid. “He was paying you to pretend he was in a relationship. So my family would get off his back?” I press my lips together and nod. He swears softly. “If it makes any difference, he wasn’t paying me to . . . Not that there would be anything bad with it, but we didn’t . . .” I flush under his eyes. “Fuck?” I flush harder and nod. I’m usually pretty matter-of-fact when it comes | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 48 | cost the party its majority. The base will believe him, not us.” Kirstjen added another wrinkle. Trump aide Stephen Miller had worked up a short list of people to install as DHS leaders. It included far-right extremists who would do whatever the president wanted. At the same time, it was clear our “no’s” didn’t make a difference anymore. We discussed exit planning until nightfall. “For the first time, I am actually scared for the country,” Kirstjen told me afterward. “The insanity has been loosed.” In the end, I lost the argument. The majority of my colleagues favored waiting until after the midterms, so we didn’t inadvertently hurt congressional Republicans in the election. I was dejected. Only weeks after publication, my anonymous missive was already hopelessly outdated. The Adults didn’t need to reassert themselves to contain Trump; they needed to quit their jobs and make a statement. But a midnight self-massacre—a mass group resignation from the Trump administration—never happened because the president struck first. * * * Thankfully, the Russians were unsuccessful in disrupting the midterms. But the president destabilized the U.S. political system anyway. Democrats won back the majority in the House of Representatives in a stinging repudiation of Trump’s policies, and the day after the election, he vowed a “warlike posture” in dealing with them. And he made grandiose claims about his power. Chad buried his head in his hands as we watched the news conference on television. “I could fire everybody right now,” Trump boasted. Soon he began the task. First, he sacked Attorney General Jeff Sessions. Then stories broke in the press that Trump was considering axing two other leaders he tussled with frequently, Secretary Nielsen and Director Coats. Kirstjen summoned DHS Acting Deputy Secretary Claire Grady into her office on November 13, along with me and Chad. “It’s very likely you’re going to be the secretary of homeland security this week,” Kirstjen told Claire. “Let’s start planning.” The secretary decided to move me into the role of DHS chief of staff and designate Chad as the head of the Office of Policy. We could provide some amount of continuity if the White House sacked her, though I only expected to take on the role temporarily. If I wasn’t fired with her soon, I needed to leave on my own terms. Not long after, John Kelly discovered that the president was searching for his replacement, too. On December 8, Trump casually told reporters that General Kelly would be leaving for good—announcing the departure as suddenly as the general’s shock hiring the year before. The chief told Kirstjen he had managed to buy her a little more time to insulate DHS against an anticipated onslaught. Kelly wasn’t sure how long, but his warning couldn’t have been clearer: batten down the hatches because Trump is feeling unconstrained. On December 18 and 19, I witnessed it. Sun streamed into the Oval Office as I entered in the early afternoon of the eighteenth with Kirstjen, notionally to talk to Trump about a surge in mass shootings. The president didn’t care about the issue, | 0 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 11 | once again wrap around him and hug him as his mate would have done. He wondered if the nanite constructs had already begun stalking their human prey. Humans and that peculiar robot. Chapter 29 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos I paused the feed, sat back, and rubbed at my tired, burning eyes. Having paused Captain Stone’s final log entry several times, I’d gone back and viewed numerous earlier log entries by Stone and others of his senior staff. I’d needed to get a more complete picture of what had happened leading up to the Lincoln crew’s ultimate demise. It had been difficult to watch—seeing their growing despair—already knowing their ultimate fate. I stared at the frozen image of Captain Stone … Would this, one day, be my own epitaph? Speaking desperate, albeit altruistic, last words intended to warn others, perhaps another starship captain I would never know, never meet. I’d grown to admire the salty-dispositioned, often sarcastic, and just as often sensitive and nostalgic ship’s skipper. But the past few hours had provided me with more than just backstory. It had offered me, oddly, a different view, a new perspective on the life that I too had shared on such magnificent vessels as USS Hamilton, USS Jefferson, USS Oblivion, and USS Adams. For commanding officers like Captain Stone, him showing his true mettle in making the ultimate sacrifice, already knowing he’d never see his wife, Angie, again; never breathe Wyoming’s sweet mountain air or take a walk with his ten-year-old grandson, Trent; or hell, just sit reading a book by a raging fire with his two rambunctious Irish Setters. Choosing this life had surely been a sacrifice for Stone. But now, as I looked into the man’s eyes, I didn’t see that sacrifice or any kind of resignation. What I saw was the man’s unwavering need to still win. A need to prevail, even with his fast-approaching, all-too-imminent demise. Had he known, someday, that someone like me would be sitting here in this well-worn leather chair, a chair that still held the embedded indentations of his ample backside? Captain Stone hadn’t known me from Adam, but I felt he was letting me know personally that his cause, our mutual cause, was everything. That this shared cause was far more important, essential, than this, his, lost battle along the way. And that cause was actually so simple. It was the survival of humanity. That trumped everything. That all those personal sacrifices along the way … well, it was an honor to have those to make. Humanity not only needed to survive; it needed to prevail, and to do so right here against this new, particularly heinous foe. As terrible as the Grish were, the Varapin … I knew in my bones, these Liquilids were a fucking scourge upon all things decent. If evil even existed, these beings were evil incarnate. I motioned for Captain Stone’s eight-year-old video feed to continue. “Wave after wave of the alien fighters continued to assail us. Initially, our Arrows had a consistent record of | 0 |
66 | Hell Bent.txt | 98 | If Michelle had stuck her neck out, even a little bit, they might have been better prepared. They might have succeeded. “Worried enough to show up with a smile,” Alex said, “but not enough to help Darlington.” “I explained to you—” “You didn’t have to make the descent with us. We needed your knowledge. Your experience.” Michelle licked her lips. “You made the descent?” So she hadn’t talked to Anselm or the board, hadn’t met with the Praetor. Was she really just worried about Alex? Was Alex so unused to the idea of kindness that she instantly distrusted it? Or was Michelle Alameddine a champion liar? “What are you doing here, Michelle? What were you really doing in New Haven the night Dean Beekman died?” “You’re not a detective,” Michelle clipped out. “You’re barely a student. Go to class and stay out of my personal life. I won’t waste my time on you again.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. Alex was tempted to follow her. Instead she slipped into her Shakespeare lecture. Mercy had saved her a seat, and as soon as Alex was settled, she checked her phone. Dawes was headed to Tripp’s loft to cook. Alex pinged Turner privately. Michelle Alameddine is on campus and I think she just lied about why. Turner’s reply came quickly. What did she tell you? Said she was running an errand for the Butler Library. She waited, watching the screen. Doubt it. She doesn’t work at the Butler. Since when? She never did. What was this? Why had Michelle lied to her—and to Lethe—about her job at Columbia? Why was she really on campus, and why had she tracked Alex down? And what about the fact that, when Alex had referred to two murders, Michelle hadn’t blinked? As far as anyone on campus knew, there had been only one murder. Marjorie Stephen, a woman Michelle actually knew, had supposedly died of natural causes. But Michelle had no reason to hurt either professor. At least not one Alex knew about. She couldn’t concentrate on the lecture, though she’d actually done the reading. Part of the reason she’d let Mercy talk her into this class was because she’d covered two semesters of Shakespeare’s plays already. There was plenty more to read, because there always was, but at least she hadn’t had to bluff her way through every lecture. Maybe there was an upside to all this disaster. No more struggling through classes. No more watching divas swallow bird shit for the sake of a hit album. Alex tried to imagine what life might look like on the other side of all this, and it was too easy to picture. She didn’t want to go back to the hot, seasonless glare of Los Angeles. She didn’t want to work a shit job and make shit pay and get by on scraps of hope, days off, a beer and a fuck to make the month more bearable. She didn’t want to forget Il Bastone, with its tinny stereo and its velvet couches, the | 0 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 93 | and he tucked the book under his arm as he headed for the door. “Simon, thanking me,” he muttered. “I never thought I’d see the day.” When he opened the door, Lucy was standing there, as if she’d been about to come in, and Simon’s heart lurched in the most ridiculous way. It wasn’t like he had gone long without seeing her. Perhaps a part of him had wondered if yesterday had been nothing more than a dream. “You’re in luck,” William said to Lucy with a grin. “He’s in a good mood today.” Simon might have scowled at his brother if Lucy hadn’t laughed and filled the room with light. Oh, how he loved that laugh, which was so much lighter than anything he’d ever heard. If he had known how much her secrets had muted her over the last week, he would have begged her to tell him everything days ago. She looked so much more alive now, her eyes bright and a smile playing at her lips. Lips that were looking mighty tempting . . . “William,” Simon growled. “Leaving,” he replied, and he shut the door behind him. Simon forced himself not to run to her, but he still moved with laughable speed across the room until he was face-to-face with her. “You look well-rested.” He clapped a hand to his face. That was the first thing he said to her after such an eventful afternoon yesterday? What an imbecile. Fighting another laugh, Lucy glanced behind her. “Aren’t you afraid of the scandal that might come if we’re discovered here alone?” Simon moved in closer, though he worried what might happen if he touched her, so he kept an appropriate distance. Perhaps this was only a dream. “I suppose I would be forced to marry you,” he said with a wavering voice. He cleared his throat, hoping that would help. Lucy cocked her head. “Are you afraid of me, Simon?” His stomach dipped. “Immensely.” “Why?” Her suppressed grin only touched half her mouth, and it was driving Simon mad. “You make me nervous,” he admitted. The vulnerability felt good to admit. “I never know how to act around you.” “This coming from the man who chased down a coach to propose to me just yesterday?” Technically, she hadn’t given him an answer to that proposal, which was part of the reason he hesitated now. Lucy never said anything she didn’t mean. Did that mean she didn’t want to marry him? She crossed the distance between them and put a hand on his chest, sending shivers throughout his entire body. “Why weren’t you afraid yesterday?” she asked, probably thinking it was an easy question to answer. It wasn’t. The answer was terrifying. “I had already lost you,” he said quietly, “so the risk wasn’t there. Now I fear I will scare you off again.” Moving in closer, Lucy didn’t stop until she was close enough that her skirts brushed his knees. “You didn’t scare me off.” “I did, and you know it.” “I lied to you about everything, so | 0 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 13 | the air was full of dust and weird sounds. Mr. Smith heard a sound of footsteps behind him. He turned round and saw Okeke, his interpreter. Okeke had not been on the best of terms with his master since he had strongly condemned Enoch's behaviour at the meeting of the leaders of the church during the night. Okeke had gone as far as to say that Enoch should not be hidden in the parsonage, because he would only draw the wrath of the clan on the pastor. Mr. Smith had rebuked him in very strong language, and had not sought his advice that morning. But now, as he came up and stood by him confronting the angry spirits, Mr. Smith looked at him and smiled. It was a wan smile, but there was deep gratitude there. For a brief moment the onrush of the egwugwu was checked by the unexpected composure of the two men. But it was only a momentary check, like the tense silence between blasts of thunder. The second onrush was greater than the first. It swallowed up the two men. Then an unmistakable voice rose above the tumult and there was immediate silence. Space was made around the two men, and Ajofia began to speak. Ajofia was the leading egwugwu of Umuofia. He was the head and spokesman of the nine ancestors who administered justice in the clan. His voice was unmistakable and so he was able to bring immediate peace to the agitated spirits. He then addressed Mr. Smith, and as he spoke clouds of smoke rose from his head. "The body of the white man, I salute you," he said, using the language in which immortals spoke to men. "The body of the white man, do you know me?" he asked. Mr. Smith looked at his interpreter, but Okeke, who was a native of distant Umuru, was also at a loss. Ajofia laughed in his guttural voice. It was like the laugh of rusty metal. "They are strangers," he said, "and they are ignorant. But let that pass." He turned round to his comrades and saluted them, calling them the fathers of Umuofia. He dug his rattling spear into the ground and it shook with metallic life. Then he turned once more to the missionary and his interpreter. "Tell the white man that we will not do him any harm," he said to the interpreter. "Tell him to go back to his house and leave us alone. We liked his brother who was with us before. He was foolish, but we liked him, and for his sake we shall not harm his brother. But this shrine which he built must be destroyed. We shall no longer allow it in our midst. It has bred untold abominations and we have come to put an end to it." He turned to his comrades. "Fathers of Umuofia, I salute you." and they replied with one guttural voice. He turned again to the missionary. "You can stay with us if you like our ways. You can worship your own god. | 1 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 66 | the plan to Peter, he grunted. “Is it safe for her to be alone at Montgomery Place in the afternoons?” “I’m so close by. The director is in and out of her office. Construction’s done in the mansion, so no one else is around these days.” “What about that guy?” “What guy?” Did he mean Gabriel? Peter hadn’t mentioned him since that phone call on the porch. “The one that helps you. She told me he freaks her out.” “Chris? She’s misinterpreting signals. I hope you reinforced that with her.” “I’ve never met the man,” Peter said icily. “I’m simply reporting what our daughter said.” “Anyway, I was going to tell Ella to stay inside when she’s alone. That’ll be one of the rules.” If Ella were a boy, Maud thought after hanging up, would they have had that conversation? During her childhood, she used to ride her bike, helmetless, all over Burlingame. The risks existed—that man at the swimming pool—but her parents didn’t seem to register them. After school, they had no idea where she was, and as long as she showed up for dinner, no one worried. Even if she was late, no one worried; instead, they yelled at her for not checking her watch. Maybe her parents’ generation had been naive about the dangers, but parenting now seemed to demand an unhealthy level of paranoia. That afternoon, she offered Ella a deal. She could switch to the camp’s half-day horseback riding program. “But your dad and I don’t want you on your phone or watching TV all afternoon, so you’re going to have to figure out a project.” Ella leaped up from the couch and hugged her. “I’ll read half a book a week.” “A book a week.” “Thanks, Mom,” Ella said, hugging Maud again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” By the following Tuesday, everything had been arranged, and Maud picked up Ella from the camp at noon. “It’s still kind of lame,” she said, “but way, way less lame.” Back at the farmhouse, Maud pulled peanut butter and jelly out of the cupboards as Ella unpacked her backpack. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said. “I can do it, Mom. I’ll be fine. I’ll eat something and then read.” “No going to the tree to FaceTime your friends, okay? Stay inside. It’s only three hours.” “I guess I can make it,” Ella said, feigning despair. “You can always text or call me. Harriet’s usually down in her office. And Gabriel gets back here around one to work in his cottage. So, if there’s an emergency, you can find one of them. But call me right away first.” “Yup,” Ella said, waving her off. “’Bye. Go to work. I’ll see you guys at three-fifteen. I’ll have read fifty pages.” On her way back to the site, Maud texted Gabriel: Oh my God. She seems so happy. Horse camp saves the day! On the Fourth of July, Maud organized a canoe trip with the girls, borrowing canoes from Frazer and Lydia. She wanted to find the remnants of a | 0 |
30 | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt | 12 | its outskirts every irregularity of the soil was prehistoric, every channel an undisturbed British trackway; not a sod having been turned there since the days of the Caesars. Yet the exotic had grown here, suddenly as the prophet's gourd; and had drawn hither Tess. By the midnight lamps he went up and down the winding way of this new world in an old one, and could discern between the trees and against the stars the lofty roofs, chimneys, gazebos, and towers of the numerous fanciful residences of which the place was composed. It was a city of detached mansions; a Mediterranean lounging-place on the English Channel; and as seen now by night it seemed even more imposing than it was. The sea was near at hand, but not intrusive; it murmured, and he thought it was the pines; the pines murmured in precisely the same tones, and he thought they were the sea. Where could Tess possibly be, a cottage-girl, his young wife, amidst all this wealth and fashion? The more he pondered the more was he puzzled. Were there any cows to milk here? There certainly were no fields to till. She was most probably engaged to do something in one of these large houses; and he sauntered along, looking at the chamber-windows and their lights going out one by one; and wondered which of them might be hers. Conjecture was useless, and just after twelve o'clock he entered and went to bed. Before putting out his light he re-read Tess's impassioned letter. Sleep, however, he could not--so near her, yet so far from her--and he continually lifted the window-blind and regarded the backs of the opposite houses, and wondered behind which of the sashes she reposed at that moment. He might almost as well have sat up all night. In the morning he arose at seven, and shortly after went out, taking the direction of the chief post-office. At the door he met an intelligent postman coming out with letters for the morning delivery. "Do you know the address of a Mrs Clare?" asked Angel. The postman shook his head. Then, remembering that she would have been likely to continue the use of her maiden name, Clare said---- "Of a Miss Durbeyfield?" "Durbeyfield?" This also was strange to the postman addressed. "There's visitors coming and going every day, as you know, sir," he said; "and without the name of the house 'tis impossible to find 'em." One of his comrades hastening out at that moment, the name was repeated to him. "I know no name of Durbeyfield; but there is the name of d'Urberville at The Herons," said the second. "That's it!" cried Clare, pleased to think that she has reverted to the real pronunciation. "What place is The Herons?" "A stylish lodging-house. 'Tis all lodging-houses here, bless 'ee." Clare received directions how to find the house, and hastened thither, arriving with the milkman. The Herons, though an ordinary villa, stood in its own grounds, and was certainly the last place in which one would have expected to find lodgings, | 1 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 2 | believe in God anymore. Apparently this change had been brewing in her mind for some time, but it was a surprise and an outrage to conventional Mr. Evans. Only after several weeks of family tension did Marian give in, reasoning with herself that, if she didn't believe in Christianity, it was no sin to go to church just to keep the peace. Rejecting Christianity was still a daring thing for a single woman to do in nineteenth-century England. It would ruin her marriage prospects, as well as her chances of obtaining a teaching job (teaching was one of the few careers open to women). Luckily, however, Marian's new friends introduced her to a circle of people who shared some of her unorthodox views. While most of the English still followed Queen Victoria in preserving the values of home, church, and empire, new ideas were beginning to sweep through England. Scientific discoveries were shattering established ideas about the natural world. (Charles Darwin's revolutionary On the Origin Of Species by Means of Natural Selection would be published in 1859.) Not only nature, but human social systems as well, were subjected to scientific analysis. Theories such as social Darwinism, rational humanism, and Marxism would eventually grow out of this. Philosophers were suggesting entirely new moral systems to go with the revolutionary scientific views. In place of an orderly universe ruled by God, justice, and the class system, these Victorians contemplated the possibility of a vast, bleak void where nothing but scientific principles applied. This was a heady environment for Marian Evans. Her new friends, impressed by her powerful mind, gave her a sense of self-worth. Eventually she was asked to translate a book, then to write reviews for intellectual journals. After her father died she moved to London and began to edit one such journal. In the thick of the literary scene, admired by famous people, she came into her own. Interesting men paid her attention; she had a couple of awkward romances. Then she fell in love with George Henry Lewes, a prominent journalist and critic--and a married man. Lewes fell in love with her, too, but under the laws of those days it was impossible for him to get a divorce, even though his wife was flagrantly unfaithful to him. Marian, gravely weighing all factors, decided to defy society and live with Lewes. This made Marian a figure of scandal in London. No "decent" ladies would receive her in their homes (though due to a cruel double standard Lewes was still invited). Only a few radical women and progressive men kept up friendships with Marian. Her family disowned her. In her isolation she depended on Lewes' loyal, protective love. They had decided not to have children (although she soon became a second mother to his sons). Shrewdly, Lewes realized that Marian needed something to engage her emotions as well as her immense intellect. He began to urge her to write fiction. Self-conscious, afraid of criticism or rejection, Marian wrote her first story, "Amos Barton," in 1856. Before she would send it to a | 1 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 25 | pink and cozy, like it had been taken out of a girl’s dollhouse. The revani was in the tall icebox in the corner, but the scent of semolina and lemon lingered in the room, making Io’s mouth water. Revani had been a rare treat in the Ora household, reserved for Winter’s Feast or their parents’ anniversary. Thais took Io’s hand and dragged her up the stairs, explaining how they had redecorated the bedroom and renovated the bathroom before moving in. Io’s senses bubbled down to that point of contact between them: her fingers in Thais’s, like when they were children, before everything changed. They were in the guest room when Io burst out, “Are you angry with me?” Thais paused in the middle of a sentence, something about the roof needing mending on this part of the house. She faced Io fully, with a serious frown. “Why would I be angry?” Why? Thais used to scatter her anger like a queen throwing coins from her chariot. Here, this is for you. Fall to your knees to grab it—aren’t I generous? And now she could find no reasons to be angry? An image of Rosa on that windowsill, puffing out smoke, came to Io’s mind: What we did to Thais. “You asked Ava not to tell me you were back,” Io said. Thais’s bare toes stretched on the carpet. “I thought you were angry at me. I was harsh with you before I left. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.” Was this . . . an apology? Io had never seen its like on Thais’s lips; she could hardly recognize the shape and timbre of it. It resonated in the arcane hollows of her heart, and from its thrum, a tender hope was born. Things could go back, to the very beginning, when she and Thais and Ava were one soul sharing three bodies, one breath in three chests. She said, her pardon as misshapen as Thais’s apology, “It was a hard time.” “And now?” Thais’s tone was expectant, pleading even. And now—gods, how Io’s heart melted. The two words were an olive branch, extended to mend the past and walk boldly into the future. “Now it’s better,” she replied breathlessly. Her sister squeezed Io’s fingers and pulled her down the stairs. Her voice was singsong, her face beaming. “Let’s make ourselves some coffee, shall we?” Coffee and revani, comfort and safety. Io imagined sitting down and just telling her sister everything: how she had finally met her fate-thread, and he was cute and funny and asked her to wait for him. How she had stood up to Bianca Rossi. How she had argued with Ava. How she had bargained with the Nine, at a terrible cost. Thais had always been good at calming her; perhaps, with Thais by her side, Io could be brave enough to actually think about that mystifying poem and what it might mean: The cutter, the unseen blade, the reaper of fates. They entered the kitchen, filled with the sweet scent of syrup. Io wanted to savor every | 0 |
22 | Lord of the Flies.txt | 18 | acting like a crowd of kids." The booing rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell. "Which is better--to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?" A great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again. "Which is better--to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?" Again the clamor and again--"Zup!" Ralph shouted against the noise. "Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?" Now Jack was yelling too and Ralph could no longer make himself heard. Jack had backed right against the tribe and they were a solid mass of menace that bristled with spears. The intention of a charge was forming among them; they were working up to it and the neck would be swept clear. Ralph stood facing them, a little to one side, his spear ready. By him stood Piggy still holding out the talisman, the fragile, shining beauty of the shell. The storm of sound beat at them, an incantation of hatred. High overhead, Roger, with a sense of delirious abandonment, leaned all his weight on the lever. Ralph heard the great rock before he saw it. He was aware of a jolt in the earth that came to him through the soles of his feet, and the breaking sound of stones at the top of the cliff. Then the monstrous red thing bounded across the neck and he flung himself flat while the tribe shrieked. The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Piggy's arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone. This time the silence was complete. Ralph's lips formed a word but no sound came. Suddenly Jack bounded out from the tribe and began screaming wildly. "See? See? That's what you'll get! I meant that! There isn't a tribe for you any more! The conch is gone--" He ran forward, stooping. "I'm chief!" Viciously, with full intention, he hurled his spear at Ralph. The point tore the skin and flesh over Ralph's ribs, then sheared off and fell in the water. Ralph stumbled, feeling not pain but panic, and the tribe, screaming now like the chief, began to advance. Another spear, a bent one that would not fly straight, went past his face and one fell from on high where Roger was. The twins lay hidden behind the tribe and the anonymous devils' | 1 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 23 | He found something grisly in the inevitability of the pattern of each affair. The conventional parabola - sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness - was to him shameful and hypocritical. Even more he shunned the mise en scne for each of these acts in the play - the meeting at a party, the restaurant, the taxi, his flat, her flat, then the week-end by the sea, then the flats again, then the furtive alibis and the final angry farewell on some doorstep in the rain. But with Vesper there could be none of this. In the dull room and the boredom of his treatment her presence was each day an oasis of pleasure, something to look forward to. In their talk there was nothing but companionship with a distant undertone of passion. In the background there was the unspoken zest of the promise which, in due course and in their own time, would be met. Over all there brooded the shadow of his injuries and the tantalus of their slow healing. Whether Bond liked it or not, the branch had already escaped his knife and was ready to burst into flower. With enjoyable steps Bond recovered. He was allowed up. Then he was allowed to sit in the garden. Then he could go for a short walk, then for a long drive. And then the afternoon came when the doctor appeared on a flying visit from Paris and pronounced him well again. His clothes were brought round by Vesper, farewells were exchanged with the nurses, and a hired car drove them away. It was three weeks from the day when he had been on the edge of death, and now it was July and the hot summer shimmered down the coast and out to sea. Bond clasped the moment to him. Their destination was to be a surprise for him. He had not wanted to go back to one of the big hotels in Royale and Vesper said she would find somewhere away from the town. But she insisted on being mysterious about it and only said that she had found a place he would like. He was happy to be in her hands, but he covered up his surrender by referring to their destination as 'Trou sur Mer' (she admitted it was by the sea), and lauding the rustic delights of outside lavatories, bed-bugs, and cockroaches. Their drive was spoiled by a curious incident. While they followed the coast road in the direction of Les Noctambules, Bond described to her his wild chase in the Bentley, finally pointing out the curve he had taken before the crash and the exact place where the vicious carpet of spikes had been laid. He slowed the car down and leant out to show her the deep cuts in the tarmac made by the rims of the wheels and the broken branches in the hedge | 1 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 82 | was right. I can’t breathe for loving you and loving you is the only way I can breathe.” She shot off the floor into his lap, where she belonged, planting kisses all over his face, which he was all too happy to sit back and receive, his mind still struggling to play catch-up. God, if you’re listening, please, please give me a century just like this. “I love you just as much, August Cates,” she said, finally, against his lips. “Despite the fights. Maybe even because of them. Because there is no one more worthy of battling for.” His wife, the love of his life, kissed him with tears in her eyes. And at last the world made sense. Epilogue Eight years later Over the course of eight years of marriage, Natalie had seen August mad plenty of times. They’d always been, and continued to be, hot-tempered individuals and they ran a successful winery together. Of course they argued. The beauty was in the forgiveness—and they did forgiveness really well. Whether they fought over temperature management of the wine or planting strategy, they didn’t stay mad long. One of them usually caved after five minutes of silent treatment. And she meant “caved” in the literal sense, because the wine cave was usually where they ended up engaging in frenzied apologies out of earshot of their employees. Yes, she’d seen August plenty mad. But never so mad as today, when he found out their daughter’s dance partner hadn’t shown up for a recital. “They’ve been practicing for five months and he doesn’t show up for the recital?” August started to pace, a handful of fingers shoving through his wind-blown hair, which now contained a dusting of gray at the temples. “How is she? Is she . . .” He waved his hands in a giant X. “Princess, don’t tell me she’s crying.” They were outside the school auditorium in a huge group. Natalie, August, Hallie, Julian, Corinne, and her new husband. August’s parents were there, too, having flown in from Kansas for the big night. Truth be told, it was hard to keep August’s parents out of Napa. They’d discovered a late-in-life passion for Cabernet and were now the proud owners of summer linens and straw hats, fitting in seamlessly with the locals. August’s mother referred to her stylish new attire as her “wine pants,” and Natalie adored the woman to no end. After all, she’d raised the love of Natalie’s life. A man who’d taken to parenting like he was born to be a girl dad. Which was a very good thing, because they had three. Parker, the oldest at seven. Parks for short. Elle, the youngest, at two. Both were currently home with a babysitter—the same home where August had carried Natalie over the threshold. They’d simply kept adding on rooms. The cat was still punishing them. Samantha, their middle girl, was a very serious five and a half—and tonight was her jazz recital. Her older sister, Parker, played sports. August dedicated a lot of time to coaching her teams. When | 0 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 13 | know then whether he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or disappointment. At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction. "Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought. Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated him on his success, and then said: "I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast? Three guineas a week with board and lodging." "I wouldn't mind," said Philip. "It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant place." There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was a little doubtful. "What's the crab in it?" he asked. The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion. "Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow. The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very openly, and men don't like it." "But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified? After all I have no experience." "He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically. Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks, and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it aside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had finished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him anything there, at some other hospital. "All right. I'll go." "The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so, I'll send a wire at once." Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the Athelnys the night before (he had gone at Once to take them his good news) and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had little luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the station at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low stucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 79 | my people.” “Alice Parker is my sister.” “Lucky you.” “Winnie Smith is my oldest friend.” “So chuck the other old tart, if you must.” Mrs. Bone crunched her own pear drops. Mrs. King held her gaze. “I’m not chucking any of them, Mrs. Bone. We’re all equals in this. I’ve made that quite clear.” “I’m offering fair terms, my girl. You give me an advance against future earnings, and I put up the rest of the credit you need to get this thing moving. I mean properly moving.” “I thought you said the whole plan was a load of nonsense.” Mrs. Bone smiled, beadily. “It may well be, my dear. But that’s on you, not on me.” Mrs. King considered this. She could pay Mrs. Bone’s advance, of course. In cash, too, just as Mrs. Bone would expect. It equaled almost everything she had saved, in a whole lifetime at Park Lane. She didn’t have any more than that. No backstop, no surety beyond it, at all. But if this job failed, a loss of savings would be the least of her worries. Mrs. Bone never loaned capital without expectation of full repayment. The cost of a default was an unspeakable punishment, whatever the family connection. Mrs. King didn’t believe in God. Logic followed that she didn’t believe in the Devil, either. But she felt the presence of something then: a power greater and darker than her own. Her shadow loomed monstrously on the wall. She felt the presence of Mr. de Vries, his roar of laughter, lost in the air. “Deal,” she said. She’d decide how to make it work later. Mrs. Bone grimaced. “Not in here. I want it signed and witnessed. Two-sevenths, in black and white.” She rapped loudly on the counter. A door at the back of the shop opened. “Through there,” she said, scratching her nose. “My boys will take care of you.” Mrs. King looked through the door to the yard beyond. Those men weren’t the same as the ones in the street. They were heavier: older, denser and entirely impassive. They looked as if they were made of granite. They were carrying knives. The chap nearest the door was smoking a pipe. He stepped to one side, making way for her. She looked through the door and saw a small table. Pen and ink. A contract, crisply minted, ready to sign. The walls in the next room had no windows, no escape routes at all. Third move. Mrs. King took one last lemon sherbet for luck. It left powdered sugar all over her hand. She licked it off, eyes on Mrs. Bone. “All right,” she said. “I’ll finish up here. Back to the house you go.” Mrs. Bone was already adjusting her diabolical hat, racing for the door. “Ta-ta,” she said, and the bell clanged on the way out. Honor thy family, thought Mrs. King wryly, as she went to sign the contract. 14 Two weeks to go Lord Ashley was coming for tea. Miss de Vries had invited him to dinner, and Lockwood had | 0 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 58 | and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. `Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure | 1 |
85 | Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt | 91 | sun. “Er, yeah. Hi, sir.” “Well then,” he booms in a Shakespearean voice that doesn’t match his bony frame. “Come in, come in, don’t delay! Sit down, and let’s get started.” Mr. Taylor’s a great guy, so I would love to do as he asks. But the only open seat is right next to Celine. CHAPTER TWO CELINE If I’m going to study law at Cambridge next year (which I definitely am), I need at least an A in Philosophy. That’s the only reason I don’t climb out of Mr. Taylor’s window when I see Bradley standing in the doorway. He looks at me and visibly winces, like I’m dog poo or something. His mate Donno, who is deeply annoying but usually easy to ignore (much like a gnat), snickers from across the room. “Bad luck, Bradders.” My cheeks heat. With the burning hellfire of rage, obviously. People like them—“popular” people who think sports and looks and external approval are a valid replacement for actual personality—ironically don’t have the social skills to deal with anyone outside their golden circle. I should know. Once upon a time, back when I was young and clearly going through some stuff because my decision-making matrix was severely off, I used to be best friends with Bradley Graeme. Then he threw himself headfirst into the gelatinous beast that is popularity and was sucked away and transformed. Now he might as well be a slimy, shiny alien. I look him in the eye and let him see all my disdain. Bradley discovers the tiniest fragment of a spine somewhere within himself, storms over, and sits down next to me. Actually, he throws himself resentfully into the seat and smacks me in the face with his deodorant. Or his aftershave. Or whatever it is that makes him smell so strongly of just-cut grass. School chairs aren’t wide enough to cope with my thighs, and he manspreads like a walking stereotype, so our legs bump for a literally sickening second before I snatch mine away. “Celine,” Sonam whispers, leaning into my left side. “Stop looking at him like that.” “Like what?” I whisper back, but I already know what she means. I have this small problem where my feelings leak out of my face, and my feelings are often intense. “If he turns up dead tomorrow, you’re going to be arrested.” Considering Sonam’s permanently solemn expression, black-on-black fit, and the way her lanky limbs barely fit under the table, this is like receiving an ominous tarot reading from a goth spider. “You guys are crap at whispering,” Bradley butts in, “just so you know.” I jerk in my seat, appalled that he would have the gall to speak to me so casually. For God’s sake, we are enemies. There are rules to this sort of thing. He’s not supposed to address me unless he’s calling me a know-it-all or challenging me to a duel. “Don’t blame me,” Sonam murmurs back. “It’s Little Miss Lungs over here.” My jaw drops. “What is this betrayal?” Bradley grins and ignores me completely. “Hey, | 0 |
Subsets and Splits