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21 | Little Women.txt | 58 | as she said, in her earnest yet timid way . . . "Oh sir, they do care, very very much!" "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he looked down at her very kindly. "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you." "How kind you are, sir!" Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few people ever heard . . . "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day. madam." And away he went, in a great hurry. Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend. She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no appetite,and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of beatitude. After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, | 1 |
81 | Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt | 9 | “Have you ever been to Paris?” Lenora curls her hand into a loose fist and gives my palm a single, sad tap. “Same here,” I say. “Was the snow globe a gift from someone who was?” Two taps this time. “Your parents?” Another two taps. “Do you miss them?” Lenora thinks about it. Not for very long. Just enough for me to notice the pause. Then she taps twice against my palm. “And your sister?” I say. “Do you miss her, too?” I get a single tap this time. One so adamant it stings my hand. No. A troubling answer, accompanied by a more troubling thought—Lenora used this hand when she killed her sister. With a rope. And her father With a knife. And her mother. That happy life. Knowing that the hand I’m holding did all those horrible things makes me let go of it with a gasp. Lenora’s hand plops into her lap, prompting a sharp look, part surprised and part hurt. But soon her expression changes into something more aware, almost amused. She knows what I was thinking. Because I’m not the first caregiver to think such things. Others have, too. Some might have also dropped her hand like a hot potato immediately after. Even Mary. Like me, they probably also wondered not just how Lenora killed her family, but why. That’s the big mystery, after all. There must be a reason. No one slaughters their entire family without motive. No one sane, that is. I look at Lenora, wondering if beneath her silence and stillness madness churns. It doesn’t seem that way, especially when Lenora stares back. I sense a keen intelligence at work behind those green eyes as she moves them from me to the typewriter at the desk. The look is urgent. Almost as if she’s trying to tell me something. “You want to use that?” I ask. Lenora taps twice. “Mary showed you how?” Another two taps. Emphatic ones that echo through the room. Even so, I have my doubts. It seems impossible that someone in Lenora’s condition could use it, even with assistance. I was fired from a typing pool. I know how hard those machines can be for someone who has the use of both hands. Still, I wheel Lenora to the desk and place her left hand on the keyboard. She’s changed subtly now that we’re alone at the typewriter. Brighter and more alert, her fingers slide over the keys, as if she’s carefully deciding which to press first. Settling on one, she uses her index finger to push down with all her might. A typebar springs from the machine and strikes the paper with a loud thwack. Lenora beams. She’s enjoying this. After pressing eight more keys, including the space bar, she exhales, satisfied. Because she can’t do it herself, it’s up to me to tap the return bar, bringing the carriage back to its starting position. The motion inches the page up a line, letting me see what she just typed. hello kit I smile despite my nervousness. “Hello.” Lenora | 0 |
39 | The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt | 92 | was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the | 1 |
40 | The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt | 62 | "No; I don't think so." "My dear Harry, why?" "I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl." "Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince.'" "Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days." "I know that look. It always depresses me." "The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me." "You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. I go to see her act every night of my life, and every night she is more marvellous." "That is the reason, I suppose, that you will never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected." "My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times." "You always come dreadfully late." "Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play, even if it is only for an act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe." "You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?" He shook his head. "To night she is Imogen," he answered, "and tomorrow night she will be Juliet." "When is she Sibyl Vane?" "Never." "I congratulate you." "How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of | 1 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 55 | bell on the tree?” My head says yes. “Christian, you must tell me when you’re hungry. You can do that. You can take Mommy’s hand and lead Mommy to the kitchen and point.” She points her long finger at me. Her nail is shiny and pink. It is pretty. But I don’t know if my new mommy is mad or not. I have finished all my dinner. Macaroni and cheese. It tastes good. “I don’t want you to be hungry, darling. Okay? Now would you like some ice cream?” My head says yes! Mommy smiles at me. I like her smiles. They are better than macaroni and cheese. 527/551 The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hug my blankie. The lights twinkle and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the blue ones. And on the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held Lelliot up, and Lelliot put the star on the tree. Lelliot likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put the star on the tree . . . but I don’t want Daddy to hold me up high. I don’t want him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright. Beside the tree is the piano. My new mommy lets me touch the black and the white on the piano. Black and white. I like the white sounds. The black sound is wrong. But I like the black sound, too. I go white to black. White to black. Black to white. White, white, white, white. Black, black, black, black. I like the sound. I like the sound a lot. “Do you want me to play for you, Christian?” My new mommy sits down. She touches the white and the black, and the songs come. She presses the pedals underneath. Sometimes it’s loud and some- times it’s quiet. The song is happy. Lelliot likes Mommy to sing, too. Mommy sings about an ugly duckling. Mommy makes a funny quacking noise. Lelliot makes the funny quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them up and down like a bird. Lelliot is funny. Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh. “You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face. I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very good. New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that. Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stock- ing. Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N. 528/551 | 1 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 10 | cousin from within the safe nest of her bedding. She still had a dry cough, and her skull felt too small for what was inside it. She must hide the earth sickness at court. Not for one moment could she appear weak. Several guards had accompanied her through the city gate. Now they continued along the Avenue of the Dawn, where fifty thousand people had gathered to see the lost Princess of Seiiki. Drums beat out her approach. Fascinated faces jostled for a look at hers. For the first time in days, she was glad she could no longer see Mount Ipyeda, though its presence was like a cold wind at her back. She could not look towards it. Only ahead. Yet how could she help but think of her mother, who had lived here as a child? Unora had slept in one of these mansions, played under the willow trees that leaned over the cart. The rooftops of Antuma had been painted every colour imaginable; from above, the city was one great rainbow. As for the palace, it was larger than Dumai had ever imagined. When she reached it, she would meet her sister, Princess Suzumai, the child she would eventually usurp. Treading with care, Emperor Jorodu meant to confirm Dumai as his heir only after three years. During those years, she would need to prove herself worthy of the throne, so the Kuposa could raise no objection. She would receive a rigorous education in politics and law. You will have to learn to be an empress, Lady Taporo had told her, in a very short amount of time. It will not be easy. The cart rolled, the drums thundered, and at last, the people of Antuma fell away, unable to follow her any farther. Dumai shut her eyes, her skin clammy. Great Kwiriki, please, let me not disgrace myself. The clay wall of the palace loomed. So did its western gate. Over it, rooftops sloped towards the ground, silver glistening in their gables. Dumai kept her eyes closed as her cart went across the moat. At last, they stopped. Courtiers and officials waited in a grand courtyard, their hair moulded into seashells, servants hovering close. In unison, they bowed. Her father stood in robes like hers. His crown was a tower of coral and cowries, fronted with two silver dragons, a fist-sized dancing pearl between them. Dumai went to her knees in front of the steps, on the mat that had been laid there. ‘Daughter,’ her father said, loud and clear. ‘Welcome to Antuma Palace. Your new home.’ ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ He came to her and helped her stand. Dumai looked up at him, so tired she thought she might sink through the ground. ‘I have you.’ He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Lift your face. Let them see.’ His kindness was a comfort. She did as he asked as he led her up the steps, into the largest building she had ever beheld, with ornate gables and a roof thatched with water reed. Inside | 0 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 49 | dog, for he was strong and powerful. He soon had the map in his mouth and was swimming back to the boat. The children thought he was simply marvellous! George hauled him into the boat and took the map from his mouth. There was hardly the mark of his teeth on it! He had carried it so carefully. It was wet, and the children looked anxiously at it to see if the tracing had been spoilt. But Julian had traced it very strongly, and it was quite all right. He placed it on a seat to dry, and told Dick to hold it there in the sun. "That was a narrow squeak!" he said, and the others agreed. George took the oars again, and they set off once more to the island, getting a perfect shower-bath from Timothy when he stood up and shook his wet coat. He was given a big biscuit as a reward, and crunched it up with great enjoyment. George made her way through the reefs of rocks with a sure hand. It was marvellous to the others how she could slide the boat in between the dangerous rocks and never get a scratch. They thought she was really wonderful. She brought them safely to the little inlet, and they jumped out on to the sand. They pulled the boat high up, in case the tide came far up the tiny cove, and then began to unload their goods. "We'll carry all the things to that little stone room," said Julian. "They will be safe there and won't get wet if it rains. I hope nobody comes to the island while we are here, George." "I shouldn't think they would," said George. "Father said it would be about a week before the deeds were signed, making over the island to that man. It won't be his till then. We've got a week, anyhow." "Well, we don't need to keep a watch in case anyone else arrives then," said Julian, who had half thought that it would be a good idea to make someone stay on guard at the inlet, to give a warning to the others in case anyone else arrived. "Come on! You take the spades, Dick. I'll take the food and drink with George. And Anne can take the little things." The food and drink were in a big box, for the children did not mean to starve while they were on the island! They had brought loaves of bread, butter, biscuits, jam, tins of fruit, ripe plums, bottles of ginger-beer, a kettle to make tea, and anything else they could think of! George and Julian staggered up the cliff with the heavy box. They had to put it down once or twice to give themselves a rest! They put everything into the little room. Then they went back to get the collection of blankets and rugs from the boat. They arranged them in the corners of the little room, and thought that it would be most exciting to spend the night there. "The two girls | 1 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 91 | and uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit. It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful sitivation for. 'Hold your tongue, will you?' said the jailer. 'I'm an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined the Dodger. 'Where are my priwileges?' 'You'll get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the jailer, 'and pepper with 'em.' 'We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say to the beaks, if I don't,' replied Mr. Dawkins. 'Now then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther won't be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no, certainly not!' At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench.' Which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request. 'Silence there!' cried the jailer. 'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates. 'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.' 'Has the boy ever been here before?' 'He ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been pretty well everywhere else. _I_ know him well, your worship.' 'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the statement. 'Wery good. That's a case of deformation of character, any way.' Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence. 'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk. 'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger. 'Where are they? I should like to see 'em.' This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying in on his own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, | 1 |
31 | The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt | 45 | a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. "This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point. and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation." "I am following you closely," I answered. "I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached-- evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. "He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!' "Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. "'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.' "This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. | 1 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 94 | with the watermark stylus. Taking a deep breath, Sophie hurried down to the well-lit crime scene. Unable to look at her grandfather, she focused solely on the PTS tools. Finding a small ultraviolet penlight, she slipped it in the pocket of her sweater and hurried back up the hallway toward the open doors of the Salle des Etats. Sophie turned the corner and stepped over the threshold. Her entrance, however, was met by an unexpected sound of muffled footsteps racing toward her from inside the chamber. There's someone in here! A ghostly figure emerged suddenly from out of the reddish haze. Sophie jumped back. "There you are!" Langdon's hoarse whisper cut the air as his silhouette slid to a stop in front of her. Her relief was only momentary. "Robert, I told you to get out of here! If Fache-" "Where were you?" "I had to get the black light," she whispered, holding it up. "If my grandfather left me a message-" "Sophie, listen." Langdon caught his breath as his blue eyes held her firmly. "The letters P.S.... do they mean anything else to you? Anything at all?" Afraid their voices might echo down the hall, Sophie pulled him into the Salle des Etats and closed the enormous twin doors silently, sealing them inside. "I told you, the initials mean Princess Sophie." "I know, but did you ever see them anywhere else? Did your grandfather ever use P.S. in any other way? As a monogram, or maybe on stationery or a personal item?" The question startled her. How would Robert know that? Sophie had indeed seen the initials P.S. once before, in a kind of monogram. It was the day before her ninth birthday. She was secretly combing the house, searching for hidden birthday presents. Even then, she could not bear secrets kept from her. What did Grand-pre get for me this year? She 74 dug through cupboards and drawers. Did he get me the doll I wanted? Where would he hide it? Finding nothing in the entire house, Sophie mustered the courage to sneak into her grandfather's bedroom. The room was off-limits to her, but her grandfather was downstairs asleep on the couch. I'll just take a fast peek! Tiptoeing across the creaky wood floor to his closet, Sophie peered on the shelves behind his clothing. Nothing. Next she looked under the bed. Still nothing. Moving to his bureau, she opened the drawers and one by one began pawing carefully through them. There must be something for me here! As she reached the bottom drawer, she still had not found any hint of a doll. Dejected, she opened the final drawer and pulled aside some black clothes she had never seen him wear. She was about to close the drawer when her eyes caught a glint of gold in the back of the drawer. It looked like a pocket watch chain, but she knew he didn't wear one. Her heart raced as she realized what it must be. A necklace! Sophie carefully pulled the chain from the drawer. To her surprise, | 1 |
84 | Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt | 21 | asking Mario, I’m asking you.” “I don’t want to be stuck here from the crack of dawn until midnight because you forgot to hire a person who can hold a boom mike in the right position.” “Don’t do this to me. I’ve got hundreds of units due at Videocentro and can’t run the duplicates if the master is a mess. Don’t you get overtime for this stuff? Must be a hefty check.” “I wish,” she said. Though there was the yearly discretionary bonus. The full-timers got the aguinaldo mandated by the law, but freelancers like Montserrat couldn’t count on that. They had to rely on the gratitude of their employers. At Antares, Mario gave his editors a turkey, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a Christmas bonus. It was never a generous bonus—it shrank or expanded at whim—this despite the fact she was by far the best sound editor at Antares. She was also the only woman on the Antares team, aside from the receptionist, which was probably why she never became a full-timer, never had the right to an aguinaldo, and instead had to rely on Mario’s mercurial temper: the editing business was a boys’ club. There were a few women working at studios writing the scripts that were used for subtitling and dubbing. There were also female translators, though those were often freelancers who were contracted for single projects. But full-time female sound editors? Those were as rare as unicorns. “Look, I have to meet someone for lunch,” Montserrat said, grabbing her leather jacket from the hook by the door and slipping it on. “Why don’t you talk to Mario and we’ll see what he says? I’d love to help, but he was raging about an unpaid dubbing—” “Come on, guys, I always pay even if I’m a few days late. As soon as I offload those videos I’ll be golden, I swear.” Montserrat didn’t know how true that was. Paco had scored a modest hit with an Exorcist rip-off a few years before. Mexican horror movies were scarce these days. Paco had reaped the benefits of a nascent home video market a few years back. But he wasn’t doing well anymore. Four years before, René Cardona III had tried the same concept: shooting a low-budget horror copy of a hot American film with Vacaciones de Terror. Although Vacaciones was a blatant attempt at mixing Child’s Play with Amityville, the film had one semi-famous star in the form of Pedro Fernández, whose singing career had assured at least a few butts in seats. Vacaciones de Terror and its obligatory sequel had performed decently, but the market for local horror productions wasn’t substantial enough to support two filmmakers intent on churning out scary flicks, and Paco didn’t have a singer to put on the marquee. Not that there was a market to produce anything with a semi-decent budget at this point. The best that most people could hope for were exploitation flicks like Lola La Trailera. Paco was, if anything, a little better off than most Mexican filmmakers, since he’d managed | 0 |
85 | Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt | 8 | we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory. Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable (objectively speaking, I mean) furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means— But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real— My stomach churns. So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.” And I reply, helplessly, “Hey.” And then we lapse into a silence I don’t know what to do with. Which is why I’ve decided to just focus on school. Unfortunately, Minnie has followed my gaze and there’s a speculative gleam in her glitter-adorned eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me how the forest thingy went?” “I did tell you,” I say firmly. I told her it was fine. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been texting Jordan Cooper all day?” She smiles sunnily, her earlier mood evaporated. “Well, he’s in my English class. And since his best friend’s been acting weird and my best friend’s been acting weird…” “Brad’s acting weird?” “Brad, is it?” she repeats, pouncing like a panther in sparkly Doc Martens. “I see. Fighting off bears in the woods must forge a powerful bond.” “There are no bears in England, Michaela.” “Then what’s with the nickname?” she asks. “Bears,” I confirm. “There were so many bears. We were inundated.” “Yeah,” she says dryly. “I bet.” I clutch the straps of my rucksack tight as we pass slowly by Top Table. I don’t care if Brad says anything. I mean, I don’t mind if he does, but if he doesn’t, it’s really no skin off— He looks up from his textbook. “Hey, Cel.” If I smile, the way he does so naturally, people might infer something pathetic and needy that screams ABANDONED EX–BEST FRIEND DESPERATE TO BE REINSTATED, which is honestly light-years from the truth. I have a best friend and I love her. The way I was with Brad back then…I don’t want it back. But I don’t want to brush him off, either, so I nod and reply, “Hey, Brad.” Unfortunately, he’s not at his table alone. The popular crowd is largely present and accounted for, from Jordan Cooper to Max Kill-Me-Now Donovan. He sits at the head of the table like a king, one overbearing arm around Isabella Hollis’s slender shoulders. When Brad talks to me, Donno’s colorless lizard eyes narrow. He lets go of Brad’s ex-girlfriend, turns in his seat, and says with a | 0 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 79 | the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor. How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material. And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat. I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate, untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor is definitely not it.) But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach. At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me. I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a handful of fun second dates. And then, that’s it. I’m attracted to a lot of people, but rarely do emotions get involved. In hindsight, my feelings for Rob benefitted from standing in the residual glow of Jess and River. But truthfully, the relationship was embarrassingly superficial. I didn’t know anything about his life (obviously), and he certainly never made me feel like this. Oh shit, that’s not bad. I open my clutch for my notebook | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 21 | filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment's safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang. He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly's face was ripped open from eye to jaw. It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them, This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies. So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw Francois, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred. Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of Curly, he received another shock. Francois fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such | 1 |
10 | Dune.txt | 65 | command," Stilgar said, and reluctance was heavy in his tone as he turned to obey. Communications men hurried into the room with their equipment, began setting up near the massive fireplace. The Fremen guard that augmented the surviving Fedaykin took up stations around the room. There was muttering among them, much darting of suspicious glances. This had been too long a place of the enemy for them to accept their presence in it casually. "Gurney, have an escort bring my mother and Chani," Paul said. "Does Chani know yet about our son?" "The message was sent, m'Lord." "Are the makers being taken out of the basin yet?" "Yes, m'Lord. The storm's almost spent." "What's the extent of the storm damage?" Paul asked. "In the direct path -- on the landing field and across the spice storage yards of the plain -- extensive damage," Gurney said. "As much from battle as from the storm." "Nothing money won't repair, I presume," Paul said. "Except for the lives, m'Lord," Gurney said, and there was a tone of reproach in his voice as though to say: "When did an Atreides worry first about things when people were at stake?" But Paul could only focus his attention on the inner eye and the gaps visible to him in the time-wall that still lay across his path. Through each gap the jihad raged away down the corridors of the future. He sighed, crossed the hall, seeing a chair against the wall. The chair had once stood in the dining hall and might even have held his own father. At the moment, though, it was only an object to rest his weariness and conceal it from the men. He sat down, pulling his robes around his legs, loosening his stillsuit at the neck. "The Emperor is still holed up in the remains of his ship," Gurney said. "For now, contain him there," Paul said. "Have they found the Harkonnens yet?" "They're still examining the dead." "What reply from the ships up there?" He jerked his chin toward the ceiling. "No reply yet, m'Lord." Paul sighed, resting against the back of his chair. Presently, he said: "Bring me a captive Sardaukar. We must send a message to our Emperor, It's time to discuss terms." "Yes, m'Lord." Gurney turned away, dropped a hand signal to one of the Fedaykin who took up close-guard position beside Paul. "Gurney," Paul whispered. "Since we've been rejoined I've yet to hear you produce the proper quotation for the event." He turned, saw Gurney swallow, saw the sudden grim hardening of the man's jaw. "As you wish, m'Lord," Gurney said. He cleared his throat, rasped: " 'And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son.' " Paul closed his eyes, forcing grief out of his mind, letting it wait as he had once waited to mourn his father. Now, he gave his thoughts over to this day's accumulated discoveries -- the mixed futures and the hidden presence | 1 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 13 | of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan -- mdash; what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee? asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. " Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 85 | lolls back against his pillow, and his lips find my jaw, nip my chin, bite my neck. “I’m going to fuck you everywhere, Elsie.” He licks the hollow of my throat. “Between today and the day we die, I’m going to fuck you everywhere.” I nod. Let him know that he can. There is a tight, liquid pool blooming inside my stomach, twitches of pleasure making their way down my limbs, surging up my spine. I reach for Jack again, pull him to me for the kisses I want, but it doesn’t work. We’re too raw, too new at this, too desperate to catch every drop of this. Our lips press together, then they pause, forgotten by both of us. “Can you come like this?” he asks, his breath a hot wash against my ear. I’m drifting away. I’ll never hear his voice and not think of this. Of the deep, rough bite of it sinking inside my brain. Of the whispered Yes and This way and Perfect and— “Elsie.” His body trembles around mine. On the verge of tipping over. “Can you come this way?” “I don’t know. I—maybe?” I’m close, I think. About to snap. It’s phenomenal, the way he hits everywhere inside me at once, a masterpiece of biology that something could work so gloriously, and I just need a little more —just a little more— “Shit.” His thrusts quicken, he buries his face in my throat, and I think he’s getting close. I think he didn’t expect it. He doesn’t want to come, not yet, but this might be fully out of his control. And it’s what I want. To see him lost in something. “You’re good. This is good,” I urge him, and the word is such a paltry substitute when what I mean is This is the best thing I’ve ever felt and Thank you and Whatever you want, really, whatever you want, just take it. “Fuck,” he says again, and I see it in his face, the second it’s all over for him. His hand closes around my hip, holding me to him while he presses as far as he can go, and then I feel his cock jump in quick, jerky movements. “Elsie.” I’m moaning. He’s gasping. His skin slides against mine, sweaty, and my body clamps down on him. His back tenses into a slab, and I hold him while his hips turn erratic, then stop, then— The heat spreading inside me comes to a halt. I watch Jack’s eyes go blank, feel him bite my collarbone like I’m his anchor, like he wants to be reminded that I’m really here. The grunts he lets out come from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere I doubt he himself knows, and I hold him to myself until his orgasm dies down to a few clumsy, involuntary thrusts. I’m still buzzing with thrumming, unsnapped tension. And it should be frustrating—it is frustrating that he came and I didn’t, that there’s heat pushing against the seams of me, simmering from within. But it was good anyway. And | 0 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 36 | delicate enamel, or even blown glass, but it was much heavier than that, as if it were all of solid stone. The surface of the shell was covered with tiny scales, and as she turned the egg between her fingers, they shimmered like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it. Another was pale cream streaked with gold. The last was black, as black as a midnight sea, yet alive with scarlet ripples and swirls. "What are they?" she asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder. "Dragon's eggs, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," said Magister Illyrio. "The eons have turned them to stone, yet still they burn bright with beauty." "I shall treasure them always." Dany had heard tales of such eggs, A GAME OF THRONES 93 but she had never seen one, nor thought to see one. It was a truly magnificent gift, though she knew that Illyrio could afford to be lavish. He had collected a fortune in horses and slaves for his part in selling her to Khal Drogo. The khal's bloodriders offered her the traditional three weapons, and splendid weapons they were. Haggo gave her a great leather whip with a silver handle, Cohollo a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and Qotho a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. Magister Illyrio and Ser Jorah had taught her the traditional refusals for these offerings. "This is a gift worthy of a great warrior, 0 blood of my blood, and I am but a woman. Let my lord husband bear these in my stead." And so Khal Drogo too received his "bride gifts." Other gifts she was given in plenty by other Dothraki: slippers and jewels and silver rings for her hair, medallion belts and painted vests and soft furs, sandsilks and jars of scent, needles and feathers and tiny bottles of purple glass, and a gown made from the skin of a thousand mice. "A handsome gift, Khaleesi," Magister Illyrio said of the last, after he had told her what it was. "Most lucky." The gifts mounted up around her in great piles, more gifts than she could possibly imagine, more gifts than she could want or use. And last of all, Khal Drogo brought forth his own bride gift to her. An expectant hush rippled out from the center of the camp as he left her side, growing until it had swallowed the whole khalasar. When he returned, the dense press of Dothraki gift-givers parted before him, and he led the horse to her. She was a young filly, spirited and splendid. Dany knew just enough about horses to know that this was no ordinary animal. There was something about her that took the breath away. She was grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke. Hesitantly she reached out and stroked the horse's neck, ran her fingers through the silver of her mane. Khal Drogo said something in Dothraki and | 1 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 13 | of Christian and Hopeful, and catch us yet!" As they passed into the street, Clifford directed Hepzibah's attention to something on one of the posts of the front door. It was merely the initials of his own name, which, with somewhat of his characteristic grace about the forms of the letters, he had cut there when a boy. The brother and sister departed, and left Judge Pyncheon sitting in the old home of his forefathers, all by himself; so heavy and lumpish that we can liken him to nothing better than a defunct nightmare, which had perished in the midst of its wickedness, and left its flabby corpse on the breast of the tormented one, to be gotten rid of as it might! XVII The Flight of Two Owls SUMMER as it was, the east wind set poor Hepzibah's few remaining teeth chattering in her head, as she and Clifford faced it, on their way up Pyncheon Street, and towards the centre of the town. Not merely was it the shiver which this pitiless blast brought to her frame (although her feet and hands, especially, had never seemed so death-a-cold as now), but there was a moral sensation, mingling itself with the physical chill, and causing her to shake more in spirit than in body. The world's broad, bleak atmosphere was all so comfortless! Such, indeed, is the impression which it makes on every new adventurer, even if he plunge into it while the warmest tide of life is bubbling through his veins. What, then, must it have been to Hepzibah and Clifford,--so time-stricken as they were, yet so like children in their inexperience,--as they left the doorstep, and passed from beneath the wide shelter of the Pyncheon Elm! They were wandering all abroad, on precisely such a pilgrimage as a child often meditates, to the world's end, with perhaps a sixpence and a biscuit in his pocket. In Hepzibah's mind, there was the wretched consciousness of being adrift. She had lost the faculty of self-guidance; but, in view of the difficulties around her, felt it hardly worth an effort to regain it, and was, moreover, incapable of making one. As they proceeded on their strange expedition, she now and then cast a look sidelong at Clifford, and could not but observe that he was possessed and swayed by a powerful excitement. It was this, indeed, that gave him the control which he had at once, and so irresistibly, established over his movements. It not a little resembled the exhilaration of wine. Or, it might more fancifully be compared to a joyous piece of music, played with wild vivacity, but upon a disordered instrument. As the cracked jarring note might always be heard, and as it jarred loudest amidst the loftiest exultation of the melody, so was there a continual quake through Clifford, causing him most to quiver while he wore a triumphant smile, and seemed almost under a necessity to skip in his gait. They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired neighborhood of the House of the | 1 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 12 | said Anne. "I know I can't last out till then!" So her mother handed her some chocolate, and she and the boys munched happily, watching the hills, woods and fields as the car sped by. The picnic was lovely. They had it on the top of a hill, in a sloping field that looked down into a sunny valley. Anne didn't very much like a big brown cow who came up close and stared at her, but it went away when Daddy told it to. The children ate enormously, and Mother said that instead of having a tea-picnic at half-past four they would have to go to a tea-house somewhere, because they had eaten all the tea sandwiches as well as the lunch ones! "What time shall we be at Aunt Fanny's?" asked Julian, finishing up the very last sandwich and wishing there were more. "About six o'clock with luck," said Daddy. "Now who wants to stretch their legs a bit? We've another long spell in the car, you know." The car seemed to eat up the miles as it purred along. Tea-time came, and then the three children began to feel excited all over again. "We must watch out for the sea," said Dick. "I can smell it somewhere near!" He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill- and there, was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell. "There it is!" "Isn't it marvellous!" "Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!" "We shan't be more than twenty minutes now, before we're at Kirrin Bay," said Daddy. "We've made good time. You'll see the bay soon- it's quite a big one- with a funny sort of island at the entrance of the bay." The children looked out for it as they drove along the coast. Then Julian gave a shout. "There it is- that must be Kirrin Bay. Look, Dick- isn't it lovely and blue?" "And look at the rocky little island guarding the entrance of the bay," said Dick. "I'd like to visit that." "Well, I've no doubt you will," said Mother. "Now, let's look out for Aunt Fanny's house. It's called Kirrin Cottage." They soon came to it. It stood on the low cliff overlooking the bay, and was a very old house indeed. It wasn't really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it, and the garden was gay with flowers. "Here's Kirrin Cottage," said Daddy, and he stopped the car in front of it. "It's supposed to be about three hundred years old! Now- where's Quentin? Hallo, there's Fanny!" Chapter Two THE STRANGE COUSIN Contents- Prev/Next The children's aunt had been watching for the car. She came running out of the old wooden door as soon as she saw it draw up outside. The children liked the look of her at once. "Welcome to Kirrin!" she cried. "Hallo, all of you! It's lovely to see you. And what big children!" There were kisses all round, | 1 |
99 | spare.txt | 58 | in the Church of Scotland—it caused a stir, which I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">never understood.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I’ve seen photographs of us going into the church that day, but they bring<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">back no memories. Did the minister say anything? Did he make it worse?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Did I listen to him or stare at the back of the pew and think about Mummy?<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">23<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">On the way back to Balmoral, a two-minute drive, it was suggested that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we stop. People had been gathering all morning outside the front gates, some<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">had begun leaving things. Stuffed animals, flowers, cards. Acknowledgment<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">should be made.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We pulled over, stepped out. I could see nothing but a matrix of colored<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">dots. Flowers. And more flowers. I could hear nothing but a rhythmic<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">clicking from across the road. The press. I reached for my father’s hand, for<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">comfort, then cursed myself, because that gesture set off an explosion of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">clicks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I’d given them exactly what they wanted. Emotion. Drama. Pain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">They fired and fired and fired.<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">5.<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">H: LATER PA LEFT FOR Paris. Accompanied by Mummy’s sisters,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Aunt Sarah and Aunt Jane. They needed to learn more about the crash,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">someone said. And they needed to arrange for the return of Mummy’s body.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Body. People kept using that word. It was a punch in the throat, and a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bloody lie, because Mummy wasn’t dead.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">That was my sudden insight. With nothing to do but roam the castle and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">talk to myself, a suspicion took hold, which then became a firm belief. This<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">was all a trick. And for once the trick wasn’t being played by the people<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">around me, or the press, but by Mummy. Her lifes been miserable, shes<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">been hounded, harassed, lied about, lied to. So she’s staged an accident as a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">diversion and run away.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The realization took my breath away, made me gasp with relief.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Of course! Its all a ruse, so she can make a clean start! At this very<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">moment she's undoubtedly renting | 0 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 81 | ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven's surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth. The old crone tottered alone the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay. It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill. 'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron entered. 'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke. 'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the apothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.' 'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.' The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman. 'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.' 'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron. 'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised.' said the apothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?' The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative. 'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said the young man. 'Put the light on the floor. She won't see it there.' The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed. The apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe. When they had sat in silence for some time, the | 1 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 47 | belt and handed it to him. Montoya took the worn strap of leather. It seemed familiar somehow. But an old belt? He turned it over in his hands, saw the discoloration of the leather, the small cracks indicating it was old, and then, near the buckle, he spied an area where it looked as if someone had carved initials: AM. His muscles froze. Alejandro Montoya. His great-grandfather. “This is the belt?” he clarified, his throat tight, but he knew the answer. “Yeah.” She nodded, her eyebrows knitting at the question. “Of course.” “What?” Bentz asked, picking up that something was wrong. Montoya could barely believe it. “I think this was my great-granddaddy’s belt.” He remembered seeing pictures of the old man wearing it while riding his horse in the hay fields seventy or so years earlier. “So that means the person who found the dog and brought him back is my brother, who inherited the belt.” His jaw was so tight it ached. His brother had lied to him. Cruz had been nowhere near the Mojave when he’d called. His back teeth gnashed in anger as his brother had played him for a fool. “It looks like Cruz is already back in New Orleans.” “So the question is: What was he doing here at Kristi’s house?” Bentz said, deadly serious. “That’s one, but I think the first question and the most important one is: Why didn’t he tell me he was already in New Orleans?” Montoya said, but that was a lie and he knew it. The most important question for Cruz was a lot darker: Did you kill Lucia Costa? Cruz, of course, had already sworn that he hadn’t killed anyone and would certainly insist that he was innocent. So, Montoya thought darkly, the second question was obvious and just as gut-wrenching: Then why the hell did you run? CHAPTER 15 Kristi stared at the aftermath of the police searching her house. Several techs had come over while her father and his partner were still questioning her. They’d taken fingerprints, clicked off pictures, examined the electrical system, checked the yard for footprints, and gone through the footage from the new security device. When the electricity had been shut off, the alarms had been silenced due to a flaw in the system—but the cameras, before they, too, were disabled, had caught images of the intruder. He was in black, a poncho covering his frame, a ski mask and sunglasses guarding his identity, the hint of a beard visible, but he seemed to know where every camera was located and had attempted to turn his face away before his visage was recorded. “There’s got to be something here,” her father had insisted, but the prowler had managed to hide his identity. “You really think he’s Father John?” Kristi had asked, obviously skeptical as she eyed one of the blurry images from the camera on the app she’d downloaded to her cell phone. Bentz had scowled. “The MO’s the same.” “Copycat, possibly,” Montoya interjected. “It’s been a long time,” Kristi had pointed out. “Why | 0 |
0 | 1984.txt | 73 | he was aware (indeed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication between one part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to arrange. But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tired-looking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the junk-shop where he had bought the blank book which was now his diary. And in a small stationer's shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink. He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active, with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Winston stood watching, it occurred to him that the old man, who must be eighty at the least, had already been middle-aged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (48 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt like him were the last links that now existed with the vanished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not many people left whose ideas had been formed before the Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellectual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part of the century, it could only be a prole. Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied into his diary came back into Winston's mind, and a lunatic impulse took hold of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape acquaintance with that old man and question him. He would say to him: 'Tell me about your life when you were a boy. What was it like in those days? Were things better than they are now, or were they worse?' Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 0 | Philonoe are discussing the man Phoebe is meant to marry, while Timandra and Castor gobble food and wine. Leda is chewing a piece of spiced lamb without talking to anyone, and Clytemnestra moves closer to her on the bench. “Mother,” she says, “where is the priestess?” Leda’s eyes are large and foggy. “Why?” “I want to talk to her about the prophecy she made fifteen years ago.” Leda’s raven hair is tied in beautiful plaits, and she touches it absentmindedly. “She is gone,” she finally says. “How?” “I sent her away.” Clytemnestra remembers when her father used to take a woman, a helot, to his room when she was little. Leda found out and told everyone at dinner that she “sent the servant away.” But one day when Clytemnestra was walking to the village, she found the helot’s dead body, rotting in the mud. “When?” she asks. Her mother’s face remains impassive. “Not long after you left.” “What did Tyndareus say?” “He wasn’t happy. But after what he had done to you, after all the pain he caused us, he couldn’t give me orders.” “How did you feel?” Leda frowns. “What?” “How did it feel to send the priestess away?” Leda puts down her wine and grabs Clytemnestra’s hand. Her eyes are big and dark with grief. “Listen to me. I have let vengeance lead my thoughts and actions. Don’t make the same mistake.” “Vengeance is our way of life,” Clytemnestra says. “It doesn’t have to be. All the time I hated the priestess, I could have spent loving my Helen. All the time I hated your father, I could have loved his children.” “You do love us.” “Yes, but hate is a bad root. It takes its place in your heart and it grows and grows, letting everything rot.” On their right, Menelaus is laughing at some of his comrades’ jokes. Cynisca’s husband touches the servant as she brings him a meat platter, and her hands tremble. “Promise me you won’t be as vengeful as I have been,” Leda whispers. Clytemnestra looks away from the servant and into her mother’s eyes. “I promise.” * * * At night, when warriors and nobles have gone to sleep, she walks down the narrow streets that run around the palace. The air is hot and moist, but she is wearing a cloak that hides her face. At her waist, she carries the small jeweled knife her mother gave her when she left for Mycenae. The streets are quiet. The only sounds are occasional barks and howls, soft moans, and babies crying. She passes wagons full of hay and a young man kissing a servant under some leather skins hanging by a window. When she gets closer to the square, she turns left into a side road that leads to the dyers’ shops. She slows her pace. She listens to the soft sounds that come out of doors and windows—a woman singing to her child, an old man snoring. Then she looks across the road at the opposite wall and stops. A window is open | 0 |
99 | spare.txt | 24 | and cheeks were already healing, the todger wasn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It was becoming more of an issue by the day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I don’t know why I should’ve been reluctant to discuss my penis with Pa,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">or all the gentlemen present. My penis was a matter of public record, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">indeed some public curiosity. The press had written about it extensively.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">There were countless stories in books, and papers (even The New York<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Times) about Willy and me not being circumcised. Mummy had forbidden it,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">they all said, and while it’s absolutely true that the chance of getting penile<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">frostbite is much greater if you’re not circumcised, all the stories were false.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I was snipped as a baby.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">After dinner we moved to the TV room and watched the news. Reporters<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">were interviewing folks who’d camped just outside Clarence House, in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">hopes of getting a front-row seat at the wedding. We went to the window<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">and looked at the thousands of them, in tents and bedrolls, up and down the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Mall, which runs between Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square. Many<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">were drinking, singing. Some were cooking meals on portable stoves.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Others were wandering about, chanting, celebrating, as if they were getting<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">married in the morning.<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">196<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">Willy, rum-warmed, shouted: We should go and see them!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">He texted his security team to say he wanted to do so.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The security team answered: Strongly advise against.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">No, he shot back. /t’s the right thing to do. I want to go out there. I need<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">to see them!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">He asked me to come. He begged.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I could see in his eyes that the rum was really hitting hard. He needed a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">wingman.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Painfully familiar role for me. But all right.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We went out, walked the edge of the crowd, shaking hands. People<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">wished Willy well, told him they loved him, loved Kate. They gave us both<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the same teary smiles, the same looks of fondness and pity we’d seen that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">day in August 1997. I couldn’t help but shake | 0 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 74 | me again?’ ‘It makes Siyu twice the fool,’ Esbar muttered, ‘for planting that thought in your mind.’ She sheathed her hunting knife. ‘It was good of you to do it, Hidat. I’ll ensure Siyu makes amends.’ ‘Peace. It’s done.’ Hidat gave Dartun a reassuring stroke. ‘Come, then, pup. Time for a drink.’ Leaving Ninuru to guard their kill, they walked until the trees thinned again, giving way to the River Minara. In this part of the Lasian Basin, it was almost two leagues wide. Sunlight flashed off the rushing golden waters. While Hidat led her ichneumon to drink, Esbar shed her riding coat and wrung the blood from its sleeves. ‘You have that look in your eye,’ she said to Tunuva. ‘Is it what I said about Siyu?’ Tunuva sat on a fallen tree and worked off her boots. ‘No. I only hoped you would let Hidat kill the longhorn,’ she said, dipping her feet into the shallows. ‘It might have restored her confidence, to remember her skill.’ Esbar looked at her face for a time, then said, ‘A kind thought.’ She spread her coat on a rock before she joined Tunuva. ‘Forgive me. You know how I relish the chase.’ ‘Which is why you’re munguna.’ Tunuva patted her knee. ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ Esbar clasped their fingers. Tunuva traced the sunspots on the back of her hand. Both their hands had changed over the years: the knuckles thicker, the veins bolder. ‘Tuva,’ Hidat called. ‘I nearly forgot – the Prioress wishes to speak to you.’ She was up to her knees in the water. ‘Go to her now, if you like. We can handle the longhorn, can’t we, Ez?’ ‘I should think so.’ Esbar glanced at Tunuva, lowering her voice. ‘If this is about Siyu—’ ‘I will tell you.’ Tunuva kissed her and stood. Esbar tipped her face into the sunlight. The shade of the forest folded back over Tunuva. Boots in hand, she retraced her steps to the glade, her bare feet making little sound. For some, the tree granted both the sacred flame and the silence of shadow. She rode Ninuru back to the Priory, past its hidden wardings. Each time she crossed one, the mage who cast it sensed her coming. The entrance lay between the thick and spreading roots of a giant fig tree, impossible to find by chance. She slid into the tunnel and walked until the earth rusted and gave way to smooth tiles. Once they reached her sunroom, Ninuru slunk off to doze on the balcony while Tunuva changed. Saghul took her meals in her own sunroom, the Bridal Chamber. Tunuva found her picking at a platter of steaming rice, wood-smoked goat, and prawns simmered with leaves and groundnut butter. The Wail of Galian thundered just beyond her balcony. The waterfall poured into the Vale of Blood, becoming a branch of the Lower Minara, which ran southwest to join the sea. ‘Prioress,’ Tunuva said, ‘may I join you?’ ‘Tunuva Melim.’ Saghul waved her into a seat. ‘Sit. Eat. You must be famished.’ Tunuva washed | 0 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 30 | that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of any thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an intercourse renewed after many years discontinuance. The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. __ CHAPTER II (44) ELIZABETH had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a curricle, driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognising the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth's feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she | 1 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 2 | 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 high,’ Lin explained uncomfortably. ‘The weather is perfect | 0 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 92 | three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to complete it was impossible,--impossible." "How?" asked Kemp. "Money," said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the window. He turned round abruptly. "I robbed the old man--robbed my father. "The money was not his, and he shot himself." Chapter 20 At the House in Great Portland Street For a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless figure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man's arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him,--a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold. "I remember walking back to the empty home, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place. "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair. "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met. "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person. "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There | 1 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 14 | the time being. "Anybody want some hot chocolate?" he asked. I shuddered when Atticus started a fire in the kitchen stove. As we drank our cocoa I noticed Atticus looking at me, first with curiosity, then with sternness. "I thought I told you and Jem to stay put," he said. "Why, we did. We stayed-" "Then whose blanket is that?" "Blanket?" "Yes ma'am, blanket. It isn't ours." I looked down and found myself clutching a brown woolen blanket I was wearing around my shoulders, squaw-fashion. "Atticus, I don't know, sir... I-" I turned to Jem for an answer, but Jem was even more bewildered than I. He said he didn't know how it got there, we did exactly as Atticus had told us, we stood down by the Radley gate away from everybody, we didn't move an inch- Jem stopped. "Mr. Nathan was at the fire," he babbled, "I saw him, I saw him, he was tuggin' that mattress- Atticus, I swear..." "That's all right, son." Atticus grinned slowly. "Looks like all of Maycomb was out tonight, in one way or another. Jem, there's some wrapping paper in the pantry, I think. Go get it and we'll-" "Atticus, no sir!" Jem seemed to have lost his mind. He began pouring out our secrets right and left in total disregard for my safety if not for his own, omitting nothing, knot-hole, pants and all. "...Mr. Nathan put cement in that tree, Atticus, an' he did it to stop us findin' things- he's crazy, I reckon, like they say, but Atticus, I swear to God he ain't ever harmed us, he ain't ever hurt us, he coulda cut my throat from ear to ear that night but he tried to mend my pants instead... he ain't ever hurt us, Atticus-" Atticus said, "Whoa, son," so gently that I was greatly heartened. It was obvious that he had not followed a word Jem said, for all Atticus said was, "You're right. We'd better keep this and the blanket to ourselves. Someday, maybe, Scout can thank him for covering her up." "Thank who?" I asked. "Boo Radley. You were so busy looking at the fire you didn't know it when he put the blanket around you." My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up when Jem held out the blanket and crept toward me. "He sneaked out of the house- turn 'round- sneaked up, an' went like this!" Atticus said dryly, "Do not let this inspire you to further glory, Jeremy." Jem scowled, "I ain't gonna do anything to him," but I watched the spark of fresh adventure leave his eyes. "Just think, Scout," he said, "if you'd just turned around, you'da seen him." Calpurnia woke us at noon. Atticus had said we need not go to school that day, we'd learn nothing after no sleep. Calpurnia said for us to try and clean up the front yard. Miss Maudie's sunhat was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber, and we had to dig under the dirt for her | 1 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 90 | ‘Teas all round, when you’re ready, Florrie, and make them good and hot. Plenty of sugar in mine…’ ‘Right, Dad, coming up – and don’t call me Florrie,’ Florence said good-naturedly, twisting between the colourful plastic strips that concealed the entrance to the kitchen. Odile was cooking, the air rich with smells of frying bacon and chips. The forced smile disappeared from Florence’s face and she clutched her stomach, propelling herself towards the toilets. She felt nauseous. Josie, Lin and Minnie had hardly touched their food. They were still too busy talking. ‘Tina’s allotment is incredible. I went there first thing and she was out in overalls planting row upon row of potatoes…’ Minnie began. ‘Neil has just done the same. I love new potatoes. At least I can’t burn them – except I did once, when I let the pan boil dry…’ Lin remembered. ‘The Toomey boys do my garden for me now… they keep it nice.’ Josie exhaled sadly. ‘I often wonder if I should move somewhere smaller but…’ She stopped: all her memories of Harry and their life together were at The Willows. Minnie patted her hand. ‘How are the Toomeys? Are they married yet?’ ‘No.’ Josie laughed at the idea. ‘Devlin must be getting on for thirty, Finn is a couple of years younger. They like to play the field.’ Minnie toyed with her salad. ‘Handsome boys, both of them.’ ‘Their dad was handsome too. Fergal always had admirers. He didn’t settle down until he was almost in middle age.’ Lin leaned a hand on her cheek. ‘Who’d want to live on a barge with three men? I bet it’s chaos on the small boat, all that testosterone…’ ‘Devlin and Finn have their share of girlfriends; I’ve seen them on the village green and in The Sun,’ Josie agreed. ‘But Fergal’s heart is still with his wife. There won’t be anyone to replace her. I can understand that.’ ‘Ros Toomey kept those men in order,’ Minnie said, then a thought occurred to her. ‘Talking of strong women, I bought you some books by two of my favourite writers.’ ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ Lin clapped her hands together as Minnie delved into her bag and pulled out neatly wrapped packages, handing one to Lin and one to Josie. Josie peeked inside. ‘Jeanette Winterson?’ ‘Sarah Winman? I haven’t read anything by her.’ Lin unwrapped the paper from the book in one impatient movement. She tugged out the book, turning it over to read the blurb. ‘Looks great – thanks, Minnie.’ ‘I haven’t told you about what happened to me while I was trying to leave the bookshop. So, this man, Felix…’ Minnie made a humph! sound. ‘An admirer?’ Josie clapped her hands. ‘Another admirer?’ Lin leaned forward. ‘We can’t keep track of all these men, Minnie…’ ‘Well, Felix is a retired economics lecturer… he’s nice enough and we have lots of friends in common. I went to the theatre with him and we went to a party somewhere. He brought flowers to my front door…’ ‘He’s not for you, though?’ Lin | 0 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 45 | you haven’t told the Calloways the truth is because you fear for Lady Calloway?” “Yes, partially, but—” “She always wears herself down when she has children to worry over,” Nick said, frowning. It was the first time Lucy had seen him truly affected by something. Though he wasn’t meeting her gaze, she could still see the anxiety in the man’s eyes. “Lady C. has a good deal to worry about right now, what with William still fevered and Simon cracking under the pressure of his role.” “Simon?” Lucy’s heart beat an erratic rhythm in her chest as soon as she heard the man’s name. “What’s wrong with Simon?” For some reason, that question made Nick smile, changing his entire countenance. All his worry had been replaced by something closer to amusement. “Calloway finds himself with too much to do and not enough time to do it,” he said, his words light. “You seem to be the only person able to convince him to take a break now and then, even if swimming in the pond is rather . . . unconventional.” Lucy had been doing everything she could to forget the events at the pond, but Nick’s words brought her memory right to the forefront—particularly Simon holding her close and protecting her from drowning. She had felt so safe, just as she had from the moment she’d arrived at Calloway Park. But in Simon’s arms, the feeling had been magnified tenfold. Rising back to his feet, Nick looked even more amused than before. He must have seen the blush that spread across Lucy’s face, as there was little she could do to hide it. But what did he think her redness meant? Lucy didn’t even know why she felt warm all over at the thought of being in Simon’s arms. Then again, perhaps that was just another of her lies. She had her suspicions of how she truly felt about the baron, even if she refused to acknowledge them. Leaving would be easier if she never admitted how deeply she was starting to care for all things Calloway. “How did you know?” she asked. “That I am not really engaged to William, I mean.” Folding his arms, Nick smiled a little. “You said so. At the inn in Downingham. You even mentioned something that first morning we met. And maybe the others didn’t believe you, but I know a liar when I see one, and a liar you are not—outside of playing this role you’ve fallen into, of course. My whole life is a lie, Lucy, for the same reasons your current situation is, I would imagine. There is still something you’re hiding, but . . . I am sure you have your reasons for not telling me.” He shrugged. “I recognized a person trapped because it is what I see every day in the mirror, and that is not a life I wish on anyone.” Before Lucy could comment on that revelation, Nick chuckled, as if recalling some joke he had only now understood. “As I was saying, I do not | 0 |
60 | Divine Rivals.txt | 23 | covered her short black hair. “Yes,” Iris said. “Where should we—” “You’ll be shadowing Dawn Company. I’m Captain Speer, and my soldiers are just finishing up their time in reserves and will be heading to the trenches at sundown. Here, come this way.” Iris and Roman fell into pace with her as she strode down the dirt street, soldiers sidestepping and casting curious glances at the correspondents as they passed. Iris had the brief, wild hope that she might encounter Forest. But she soon realized that she couldn’t afford to be distracted, letting her eyes roam over the many faces around her. “Our companies serve on twelve-hour rotations,” the woman said. “Sunrise to sunset, whether that be watching the front, tending the communication trenches, or resting in reserve. This town is the reserve base. If you need to refill your canteens or grab a hot meal, you’ll go there, to the mess hall. If you need to wash, you’ll go to the old hotel on the street corner. If you need a doctor, you’ll go to that house, although do be forewarned that the infirmary is overflowing at the moment and we are low on laudanum. And if you look ahead, you’ll notice this road leads into the woods. That is where you will march with Dawn Company to the communication trenches, which can be found on the other side of the forest. You’ll stay there for the night, and then be ready to move to the front at sunrise. Any questions?” Iris’s mind was whirling, trying to sort through all the new information. Her hand reached for her mother’s locket, hidden beneath the linen of her jumpsuit. “Is there a chance we’ll see action?” Roman asked. “Yes,” Captain Speer said. “Wear a helmet, obey orders, and stay down at all times.” Her gaze snagged on a soldier passing by. “Lieutenant Lark! See to it that the correspondents are given instruction and equipment for their time here. They’ll shadow your platoon for the next several days.” A fresh-faced soldier stood at attention before his eyes rested on Roman and Iris. Captain Speer was halfway across the road before Lark said, “First time, is it?” Iris resisted the urge to glance at Roman. To see if he was feeling the same dread and excitement that was coursing through her. “Indeed,” Roman said, extending his hand. “Roman Kitt. And this is—” “Iris Winnow,” Iris said before he could introduce her. The lieutenant smiled as he shook her hand. A scar cut through his mouth; it tugged the right corner of his lips down, but his eyes were crinkled at the edges, as if he had smiled and laughed often in the time before the war. Iris wondered how long he had been fighting. He looked so young. “We’re happy to have you both here,” Lark said. “Come, I’m just heading to the mess hall to eat my last hot meal for a few days. It’d be good to grab a bite yourselves, and I’ll explain more about what you can expect.” Lark began to | 0 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 96 | and ignored. The laborers killed in action could not be buried in plots near European soldiers. They were not eligible for military awards because they were purportedly not in combat. And—the part that Athena was angriest about—the Chinese government was still fucked over in the Treaty of Versailles at the conclusion of WWI, with the territory of Shandong ceded from Germany to Japan. But who’s going to follow all of that? It’s hard to sympathize with the stakes in the absence of a main character. The last forty pages read more like a history paper than a gripping wartime narrative. They feel out of place, like a senior term paper attached haphazardly to the end. Athena did always have such a didactic streak. Daniella wants me to cut it altogether. Let’s end the novel with A Geng on the boat heading home, she suggests. It’s a strong final image, and it carries the momentum of the previous burial scene. The rest can go in an afterword, perhaps, or a personal essay we can put out in an outlet closer to publication. Or perhaps as additional material in the paperback, for book clubs? I think that’s brilliant. I make the cut. And then, just to add some flair, I include a short epilogue after the A Geng scene consisting of one line from a letter one of the laborers later wrote Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1918 pleading for world peace: I am convinced that it is the will of Heaven that all mankind should live as one family. This is brilliant, Daniella writes in response to my turnaround. You are so wonderfully easy to work with. Most authors are pickier about killing their darlings. This makes me beam. I want my editor to like me. I want her to think I’m easy to work with, that I’m not a stubborn diva, that I’m capable of making any changes she asks for. It’ll make her more likely to sign me on for future projects. It’s not all about pandering to authority. I do think we’ve made the book better, more accessible, more streamlined. The original draft made you feel dumb, alienated at times, and frustrated with the self-righteousness of it all. It stank of all the most annoying things about Athena. The new version is a universally relatable story, a story that anyone can see themselves in. The whole process takes three editorial rounds over four months. By the end, I’ve become so familiar with the project that I can’t tell where Athena ends and I begin, or which words belong to whom. I’ve done the research. I’ve read a dozen books now on Asian racial politics and the history of Chinese labor at the front. I’ve lingered over every word, every sentence, and every paragraph so many times that I nearly know them by heart—hell, I’ve probably been over this novel more times than Athena herself. What this whole experience teaches me is that I can write. Some of Daniella’s favorite passages are the ones original to me. There’s one part, for instance, | 0 |
49 | treasure island.txt | 81 | the gipsies carry about with them in leaning over the stern bulwarks, one of them with a red cap— England. the very rogue that I had seen some hours before stride-legs I dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and upon the palisade. Apparently they were talking and laugh- there was Ben Gunn’s boat—home-made if ever anything was ing, though at that distance—upwards of a mile—I could, of home-made; a rude, lop-sided framework of tough wood, and course, hear no word of what was said. All at once there stretched upon that a covering of goat- skin, with the hair began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first inside. The thing was extremely small, even for me, and I can startled me badly, though I had soon remembered the voice hardly imagine that it could have floated with a full-sized of Captain Flint and even thought I could make out the bird man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon her master’s stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion. wrist. I had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons Soon after, the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, made, but I have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer and the man with the red cap and his comrade went below by idea of Ben Gunn’s boat than by saying it was like the first the cabin companion. and the worst coracle ever made by man. But the great ad- Just about the same time, the sun had gone down behind vantage of the coracle it certainly possessed, for it was exceed- the Spy-glass, and as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began ingly light and portable. to grow dark in earnest. I saw I must lose no time if I were to Well, now that I had found the boat, you would have Contents find the boat that evening. thought I had had enough of truantry for once, but in the The white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still meantime I had taken another notion and become so obsti- Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 182 183 nately fond of it that I would have carried it out, I believe, in times above the ankle, before I came to the edge of the re- the teeth of Captain Smollett himself. This was to slip out treating water, and wading a little way in, with some strength under cover of the night, cut the HISPANIOLA adrift, and and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downwards, on the surface. let her go ashore where she fancied. I had quite made up my mind that the mutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their hearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, I thought, it would be a fine thing to prevent, and now that I had seen how they left their watchmen unpro- vided with a boat, I thought it | 1 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 31 | worthlessness they still belonged to the clan. And so nobody gave serious thought to the stories about the white man's government or the consequences of killing the Christians. If they became more troublesome than they already were they would simply be driven out of the clan. And the little church was at that moment too deeply absorbed in its own troubles to annoy the clan. It all began over the question of admitting outcasts. These outcasts, or osu, seeing that the new religion welcomed twins and such abominations, thought that it was possible that they would also be received. And so one Sunday two of them went into the church. There was an immediate stir, but so great was the work the new religion had done among the converts that they did not immediately leave the church when the outcasts came in. Those who found themselves nearest to them merely moved to another seat. It was a miracle. But it only lasted till the end of the service. The whole church raised a protest and was about to drive these people out, when Mr. Kiaga stopped them and began to explain. "Before God," he said, "there is no slave or free. We are all children of God and we must receive these our brothers." "You do not understand," said one of the converts. "What will the heathen say of us when they hear that we receive osu into our midst? They will laugh." "Let them laugh," said Mr. Kiaga. "God will laugh at them on the judgment day. Why do the nations rage and the peoples imagine a vain thing? He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh. The Lord shall have them in derision." "You do not understand," the convert maintained. "You are our teacher, and you can teach us the things of the new faith. But this is a matter which we know." And he told him what an osu was. He was a person dedicated to a god, a thing set apart--a taboo for ever, and his children after him. He could neither marry nor be married by the free-born. He was in fact an outcast, living in a special area of the village, close to the Great Shrine. Wherever he went he carried with him the mark of his forbidden caste--long, tangled and dirty hair. A razor was taboo to him. An osu could not attend an assembly of the free-born, and they, in turn, could not shelter under his roof. He could not take any of the four titles of the clan, and when he died he was buried by his kind in the Evil Forest. How could such a man be a follower of Christ? "He needs Christ more than you and I," said Mr. Kiaga. "Then I shall go back to the clan," said the convert. And he went. Mr. Kiaga stood firm, and it was his firmness that saved the young church. The wavering converts drew inspiration and confidence from his unshakable faith. He ordered the outcasts to shave off their long, tangled hair. | 1 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 75 | years before they shot The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake. And she’s saying six people died, but I’ve never heard of anything like that.” “I hate to be morbid, but you’d think if something like that really happened here, it might get mentioned more,” Bezi says. “I feel like it’d be a selling point for this place.” Kyle looks appalled. “Jesus.” “I’m not saying I agree,” Bezi says quickly. “I’m just sayin’.” She sits up straight. “What?” I ask. “What is it?” “I forgot—I meant to tell you.” She shakes her head. “When Ms. Keane was waving her gun around, me and Paige barricaded the door in the control center, but we still didn’t feel safe so we, uh—we kicked in that locked supply closet.” “What?” I ask. “Did you damage anything?” Bezi purses her lips. “Bezi, come on.” I sigh. “I gotta fix it if you broke something. There’s expensive equipment in there.” “No there isn’t,” she says. “That’s what I’m saying. There’s no equipment in there at all. Just boxes of junk. Mostly papers and folders from what we could see.” I pause. “Mr. Lamont said it was extra audio and video equipment. He said it was more valuable than anything else we have out here.” Bezi shrugs. “Maybe there’s something in there that your boss doesn’t want y’all to see.” I stand and pull Bezi up with me. “Come on. I want to go have a look.” I turn to Javier and Kyle. “Y’all coming?” “Nah,” Javier says. “I’m tired. I’m gonna take a nap until Tasha and them come back.” “I need to start cleaning out the kitchen,” Kyle says. “We’re still tryna get out of here tomorrow, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “As long as we get everything done. Day after tomorrow at the latest.” Kyle looks severely disappointed. “I’ll be back to help in a little bit,” I say. He gives me a smile, and Bezi and I head to the control center. The door to the supply closet in the control room is halfway off the hinges and the frame is cracked around the lock plate. I narrow my eyes at Bezi. “Y’all busted this thing wide open.” “We were scared,” Bezi says. “My adrenaline was pumping. Sorry. I think we can fix it, though.” I nudge the broken door open and glance inside the large closet. Bezi is right; there’s no extra equipment, just dozens of boxes filled with file folders and paper. A thick, musty odor lingers in the air and there’s a layer of gray dust on everything. A skitter of tiny feet tells me some mice have made this place their home. I grab one of the boxes nearest me and open its water-damaged flaps. Inside are a few folded shirts and red whistles on strings. I pull out one of the tops and hold it up. It’s filled with holes where mice or moths or some other creature ate their way through the fabric. Across the front of the yellow shirt in big red letters that have faded so much they’re | 0 |
2 | A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt | 44 | in an instant it happens. But does that part of the body understand or what? The serpent, the most subtle beast of the field. It must understand when it desires in one instant and then prolongs its own desire instant after instant, sinfully. It feels and understands and desires. What a horrible thing! Who made it to be like that, a bestial part of the body able to understand bestially and desire bestially? Was that then he or an inhuman thing moved by a lower soul? His soul sickened at the thought of a torpid snaky life feeding itself out of the tender marrow of his life and fattening upon the slime of lust. O why was that so? O why? He cowered in the shadow of the thought, abasing himself in the awe of God Who had made all things and all men. Madness. Who could think such a thought? And, cowering in darkness and abject, he prayed mutely to his guardian angel to drive away with his sword the demon that was whispering to his brain. The whisper ceased and he knew then clearly that his own soul had sinned in thought and word and deed wilfully through his own body. Confess! He had to confess every sin. How could he utter in words to the priest what he had done? Must, must. Or how could he explain without dying of shame? Or how could he have done such things without shame? A madman! Confess! O he would indeed to be free and sinless again! Perhaps the priest would know. O dear God! He walked on and on through ill-lit streets, fearing to stand still for a moment lest it might seem that he held back from what awaited him, fearing to arrive at that towards which he still turned with longing. How beautiful must be a soul in the state of grace when God looked upon it with love! Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets. Their dank hair hung trailed over their brows. They were not beautiful to see as they crouched in the mire. But their souls were seen by God; and if their souls were in a state of grace they were radiant to see: and God loved them, seeing them. A wasting breath of humiliation blew bleakly over his soul to think of how he had fallen, to feel that those souls were dearer to God than his. The wind blew over him and passed on to the myriads and myriads of other souls on whom God's favour shone now more and now less, stars now brighter and now dimmer sustained and failing. And the glimmering souls passed away, sustained and failing, merged in a moving breath. One soul was lost; a tiny soul: his. It flickered once and went out, forgotten, lost. The end: black, cold, void waste. Consciousness of place came ebbing back to him slowly over a vast tract of time unlit, unfelt, unlived. The squalid scene composed itself around him; the common accents, the burning gas-jets in the shops, | 1 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 47 | 'They're SO happy, SO frolicsome, and SO cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.' 'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very domestic.' 'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.' 'Mrs. Corney, ma'am, said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and NOT be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am.' 'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney. 'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, with pleasure.' 'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.' 'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble. 'Hard?' Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire. It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all. Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped. Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea. 'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, | 1 |
10 | Dune.txt | 54 | realized the man was seeing this moment through the memory of how he had risen to command of the Tabr sietch and to leadership of the Council of Leaders now that Liet-Kynes was dead. He has heard the reports of unrest among the young Fremen, Paul thought. "Do you wish a gathering of the leaders?" Stilgar asked. Eyes blazed among the young men of the troop. They swayed as they rode, and they watched. And Paul saw the look of unrest in Chani's glance, the way she looked from Stilgar, who was her uncle, to Paul-Muad'Dib, who was her mate. "You cannot guess what I want," Paul said. And he thought: I cannot back down. I must hold control over these people. "You are mudir of the sandride this day," Stilgar said. Cold formality rang in his voice: "How do you use this power?" We need time to relax, time for cool reflection, Paul thought. "We shall go south," Paul said. "Even if I say we shall turn back to the north when this day is over?" "We shall go south," Paul repeated. A sense of inevitable dignity enfolded Stilgar as he pulled his robe tightly around him. "There will be a Gathering," he said. "I will send the messages." He thinks I will call him out, Paul thought. And he knows he cannot stand against me. Paul faced south, feeling the wind against his exposed cheeks, thinking of the necessities that went into his decisions. They do not know how it is, he thought. But he knew he could not let any consideration deflect him. He had to remain on the central line of the time storm he could see in the future. There would come an instant when it could be unraveled, but only if he were where he could cut the central knot of it. I will not call him out if it can be helped, he thought. If there's another way to prevent the jihad . . . "We'll camp for the evening meal and prayer at Cave of Birds beneath Habbanya Ridge," Stilgar said. He steadied himself with one hook against the swaying of the maker, gestured ahead at a low rock barrier rising out of the desert. Paul studied the cliff, the great streaks of rock crossing it like waves. No green, no blossom softened that rigid horizon. Beyond it stretched the way to the southern desert -- a course of at least ten days and nights, as fast as they could goad the makers. Twenty thumpers. The way led far beyond the Harkonnen patrols. He knew how it would be. The dreams had shown him. One day, as they went, there 'd be a faint change of color on the far horizon -- such a slight change that he might feel he was imagining it out of his hopes -- and there would be the new sietch. "Does my decision suit Muad'Dib?" Stilgar asked. Only the faintest touch of sarcasm tinged his voice, but Fremen ears around them, alert to every tone in a bird's | 1 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 83 | my seeing the face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't think I had stopped in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty! Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell - side by side with whom, he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all the treasures wrecked in the sea. We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word. 'Mas'r Davy!' he said, gripping me tight, 'it do my art good to see you, sir. Well met, well met!' 'Well met, my dear old friend!' said I. 'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for you, sir, tonight,' he said, 'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi' you - fur I've been down yonder - Yarmouth way - I was afeerd it was too late. I should have come early in the morning, sir, afore going away.' 'Again?' said I. 'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away tomorrow.' 'Where were you going now?' I asked. 'Well!' he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, 'I was a-going to turn in somewheers.' In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the Golden Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune, nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm through his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out of the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in there. When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was long and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was greyer, the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every appearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was inwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table, with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough hand again, and grasped mine warmly. 'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said, - 'wheer all I've been, and what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but I'll tell you!' I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in his face, I did not venture to disturb. 'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head | 1 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 94 | cut off all support. Doctors, art school, medical insurance—all of it—gone. Do you understand?” “Christian—” I try again. But he silences me with a chilling look. Why is he being so unreasonable? My compassion for this sad woman blooms. “Yes,” she says, her voice just audible. “What’s Susannah doing in reception?” “She came with me.” He runs a hand through his hair, glaring at her. “Christian, please,” I beg him. “Leila just wants to say thank you. That’s all.” He ignores me, concentrating his wrath on Leila. “Did you stay with Susan- nah while you were sick?” “Yes.” “Did she know what you were doing while you were staying with her?” 327/551 “No. She was away on vacation.” He strokes his index finger over his lower lip. “Why do you need to see me? You know you should send any requests through Flynn. Do you need something?” His tone has softened, maybe by a fraction. Leila runs her finger along the edge of the table again. Stop bullying her, Christian! “I had to know.” And for the first time she looks up directly at him. “Had to know what?” he snaps. “That you’re okay.” He gapes at her. “That I’m okay?” he scoffs, disbelieving. “Yes.” “I’m fine. There, question answered. Now Taylor will run you to Sea-Tac so you can go back to the East Coast. And if you take one step west of the Missis- sippi, it’s all gone. Understand?” Holy fuck . . . Christian! I gape at him. What the fuck is eating him? He cannot confine her to one side of the country. “Yes. I understand,” Leila says quietly. “Good.” Christian’s tone is more conciliatory. “It might not be convenient for Leila to go back now. She has plans,” I ob- ject, outraged on her behalf. Christian glares at me. “Anastasia,” he warns, his voice icy, “this does not concern you.” I scowl at him. Of course it concerns me. She’s in my office. There must be more to this than I know. He’s not being rational. Fifty Shades, my subconscious hisses at me. “Leila came to see me, not you,” I murmur petulantly. Leila turns to me, her eyes impossibly wide. “I had my instructions, Mrs. Grey. I disobeyed them.” She glances nervously at my husband, then back at me. “This is the Christian Grey I know,” she says, her tone sad and wistful. Chris- tian frowns at her, while all the breath evaporates from my lungs. I can’t breathe. Was Christian like this with her all the time? Was he like this with me, at first? I find it hard to remember. Giving me a forlorn smile, Leila rises from the table. “I’d like to stay until tomorrow. My flight is at noon,” she says quietly to Christian. 328/551 “I’ll have someone collect you at ten to take you to the airport.” “Thank you.” “You’re at Susannah’s?” “Yes.” “Okay.” I glare at Christian. He can’t dictate to her like this . . . and how does he know where Susannah lives? “Good-bye, Mrs. Grey. Thank you | 1 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 7 | 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 might. I could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out: "Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reckon they'd a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while. They turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the Mis- souri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town. I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my | 1 |
54 | Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt | 84 | fear rattling through her chest. “You’re late on your payment,” he said. Alice ran her eyes down the lane. She looked over her shoulder, back into the yard. No one there. No one who could help. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She turned and ran, straight back to the mews house. Run, said her body, run and hide. She scurried through the lower offices, dodging the waiters and footmen. Think, she urged herself. Think, think, think. “Alice?” A face looked around the corner of the kitchen passage. It sent a jolt through her skin: she gasped. It was one of the under-footmen. He gave Alice a quizzical expression. “Steady on. Madam just asked for you. She’s gone and torn her gown. Run upstairs and fix it for her, will you?” Madam. Alice’s mind was whirring. Yes: Madam. Someone fierce, someone in charge, someone who could offer immediate protection... Alice could feel her chest tightening, worse than being laced. The under-footman’s frown deepened. “What are you waiting for? Go!” 29 Mr. Lockwood kept Mrs. King waiting for the best part of an hour. She didn’t let this rile her. She held herself upright and calm, in one of the vast wing-backed chairs in the corner of the library. It was such a good place for a private conversation. The walls were muffled by the bookcases, layers of vellum and gold-stamped leather. Mrs. King could hear the guests as if through water, a distant roar. Mr. Lockwood sat opposite, ignoring her, writing a letter. His patience equaled hers. Mrs. King’s women didn’t know she’d come up here. This conversation formed no part of their plan. It was part of her plan only. Mrs. King had one clear objective. To make sure, absolutely sure, that she hadn’t missed a vital piece of information, before the house was emptied. She was turning over rocks, inspecting any number of maggots. At last, she asked, “What are you writing, Mr. Lockwood?” “I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured in reply. He blotted the paper, pursed his lips, swiveled it to face her. “It is an affidavit,” he said. His smile was fixed, immovable. Mrs. King’s face grew warm as she read the words he’d put in her mouth. A groveling promise not to trouble the house of de Vries with any lies, scandal, shame of any sort... She lifted her eyes to meet Lockwood’s. “I presume you’re here for your own advantage,” he said. “To discomfit your former mistress. To exact payment.” He tilted his head. “Or do you have an extraordinary and secret design, of which I’m quite unaware?” Mrs. King smiled inwardly at that. But she kept her expression closed. “I will not sign this.” “I am willing to discuss...arrangements. Compensation. If that’s what it takes, to...” He paused, as if choosing the best phrasing. “Send you on your way.” Mrs. King pushed the paper back toward him. “Perhaps you might give me some information instead.” “I’m sure I don’t have any information for you.” “Dear me,” said Mrs. King. “I haven’t told you what | 0 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 19 | but I feel like I can’t move. Kyle suddenly ducks deeper into the woods and emerges behind us a few moments later, his mask now situated on top of his head. With trembling fingers, I touch my earpiece. “Bezi?” “Yeah.” Her voice crackles in my ear. “Who is that at the entrance? Is that a player? Wait. Oh my god, Charity! She has a gun!” “Open the mics and tell everybody to get inside and lock the doors,” I say. “Now!” Bezi’s voice commands anyone not already at the front gate to get to the Western Lodge and lock themselves in. There’s a flurry of panicked footsteps and shouts from behind me, but I don’t take my eyes off the woman. She raises the gun and cradles it in the crook of her arm with the barrel pointing up to the sky. “You think this is a game?” she asks, her voice low and gravelly. She narrows her eyes at me; then she turns and glances over her shoulder as if she’s looking for someone behind her. My mouth is suddenly dry. I try to stifle the fear that is pooling in my chest, but I can barely move. I force myself to take another step back. “Everybody get inside the office!” I shout. The guests, Porter, and Tasha retreat to the office. Kyle stays beside me, gripping his machete as if its rubber blade will do either one of us any good. “This is my place. My land. All of it.” The woman turns her head and spits on the ground. “You damn kids think you can do whatever you want out here? You think there won’t be consequences?” As the woman rambles on, she keeps the shotgun in the crook of her arm. She touches her face with her free hand, then tilts her head back and laughs. “It’s all fun and games, right? Pay to play? You should be ashamed. If you knew what I know . . .” She trails off, and her eyes glaze over. “What are you talking about?” Kyle asks. The woman’s gaze flits to him. She suddenly rushes the front gate and sticks her hand through, grasping at the front of my shirt. I stumble back and fall into the dirt, but I’m back on my feet a half second later because there’s no way in hell I’m going to trip over my own feet and twist my ankle. That’s not what final girls do. “Charity,” Kyle says as he grips my arm and pulls me toward the office. “Look.” I glance at him, and his eyes are wide and filled with a kind of fear I’ve never seen in his expression before. He taps the breast pocket of his dingy jumpsuit, and in the glow of the floodlight, I can see the outline of the heavy padlock we use to keep the front gate secure while the game is being played. He forgot to lock us in. I glance at the woman just as she leans on the gate and it yawns open. | 0 |
58 | Confidence_-a-Novel.txt | 25 | took a gap year to teach English in Japan.” “Wow,” I said. “That’s really something.” Priscilla embraced me. “We’ve missed you, Ez.” “Good to be back,” I mumbled, and introduced Elaine. “Uh-oh!” Chuck said. “We’re getting a visit from corporate. Do you like our crunchy ways?” Elaine surveyed the room. “I’ve seen crunchier,” she said. Chuck clapped her on the shoulder. “Do you want to meditate, Elaine? Do you want to join us in our little circle here?” I nodded in encouragement and Elaine sighed and began to remove her Danskos. “Where’s Orson?” I asked. Priscilla pointed upstairs. “I think he’s having some kind of meeting. I’m not sure what’s going on. But I know he’s expecting you.” My pulse quickened. What did he want to do with me? I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to his office. There was some kind of brief scuffling, some arrangement of bodies and furniture, and then he opened the door, his shirt partially unbuttoned, the cuffs of his jeans rolled down over his ankles. Emily sat behind him in one of her bodysuits, strands of hair dripping from her ponytail. To my surprise, he smiled. “Ez. Come in, little dude.” I walked in, closed the door, and leaned against it, cowed. “Hey, Ez! So good to see you!” Emily waved as though we were hundreds of feet apart. I ignored her and watched Orson, who had begun pacing, practically bouncing whenever he turned on his heels. “So I saw the video of you at Captains of Industry,” he said. I swallowed. “And I have no idea what you were on but it was honestly superb.” I could feel my brow unfurrowing. “Superb?” “Yeah, I mean, you said so succinctly what I’ve been trying to say, what I’ve wanted to say during all of Wholeness. About the power of the mind. And the persuasiveness of the innovator. It was just beautifully spoken. It made me honestly kind of nostalgic for the old days.” And for a moment it was the old days again, his smile wide and kind and expectant, waiting for me to fill him in on some autobiographical detail or build on his punchline or chop the head off a chicken. He put his hands on his hips and stood in front of me and I wanted to kiss him, or at the very least hold him, but the unspoken distance between us remained. The old days were the old days and this was now. “I’m glad you liked it,” I said. “It was really inspiring,” Emily said. “It really was.” Orson got close enough to me to muss my hair: his touch was warm. “Do you want to stay for the day and help out? Take a break from New York?” “That would be nice.” We were met with applause at the stairhead. There were camera flashes, repeated requests to be told what to do. Orson shouted above the adoration: “Live each day as if it were the next one!” The words were repeated back loudly, and as we descended | 0 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 35 | heart, then walks inside. Aileen is lighting the torches in her bedroom when Clytemnestra comes in. “Your fingers are still broken,” she says gently. “I need to tend them.” Clytemnestra sits on the stool and puts her hand into her servant’s. Aileen takes it with care, as if she were handling a newborn baby. “You are not surprised I killed him,” Clytemnestra says. Aileen takes a piece of linen and wraps it around the fingers as tightly as she can. “He was a cruel man,” she says. “And yet Electra hates me for it.” “You can’t have justice and everyone’s approval,” Aileen says, touching her queen’s thumb carefully, trying to move it. I don’t want everyone’s approval, just my daughter’s. “Electra knows what her father was,” Aileen continues, “but I think she would have wanted you to show him mercy.” “Would you have shown him mercy?” Aileen makes a knot to keep the linen tight around her hand. “I have never been in your position. I wouldn’t make a good queen.” Under the torches, her hair is so bronze it seems to catch fire. There is nothing for a while, only the sound of their breaths in the warm air. “An envoy came for you today,” Aileen says finally. “You were busy with the elders so he gave me the news.” “From Sparta?” “Yes, but not from Orestes. From your sister.” Clytemnestra stares at her, frozen. “She is alive and well,” Aileen says. “Menelaus has forgiven her.” Menelaus has forgiven her. She walks to the window, her hand clutched to her chest. The relief is so strong it is taking her breath away. Her sister, “burning men to death with her beauty.” She has heard the warriors who walked on the Trojan fields speak of Helen: the “bringer of agony,” “the scourge of Greece.” What is left of the girl who was afraid to speak in front of her father? Who followed Clytemnestra everywhere? Who couldn’t lie, not even when her sister asked her to? She has survived a war that destroyed a city—a war that she started—and now is at home, safe in the arms of her brother. Clytemnestra holds on to the image, refusing to let it slip away. And Menelaus? She can hear Helen’s voice, as she used to when they were little. Do not worry about him, Sister. I can take care of myself. Clytemnestra almost laughs. Lately kings and heroes have dropped like flies, but just as her grandmother predicted so long ago, queens outlive them all. * * * Dawn in the megaron. The light is feeble, like the first rays of sun on the water in the summer mornings. The frescoes rest, trapped in their still eternity. She walks by the throne. She once asked herself, what does it mean to be queen? Now she knows. It is daring to do what others won’t. She has dared much in life and paid the consequences each time. She has been called “proud,” “savage,” “single-minded,” “mad with ambition,” “a murderess.” She has been called many things, but | 0 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 50 | I leave him muttering. Here's the ship's navel, this doubloon here, and they are all on fire to unscrew it. But, unscrew your navel, and what's the consequence? Then again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for when aught's nailed to the mast it's a sign that things grow desperate. Ha, ha! old Ahab! the White Whale; he'll nail ye! This is a pine tree. My father, in old Tolland county, cut down a pine tree once, and found a silver ring grown over in it; some old darkey's wedding ring. How did it get there? And so they'll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish up this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters for the shaggy bark. Oh, the gold! the precious, precious gold! --the green miser 'll hoard ye soon! Hish! hish! God goes 'mong the worlds blackberrying. Cook! ho, cook! and cook us! Jenny! hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Jenny, Jenny! and get your hoe-cake done! .. <p 433 > .. < chapter c 2 LEG AND ARM THE PEQUOD, OF NANTUCKET, MEETS THE SAMUEL > ENDERBY, OF LONDON Ship, ahoy! Hast seen the White Whale? So cried Ahab, once more hailing a ship showing English colors, bearing down under the stern. Trumpet to mouth, the old man was standing in his hoisted quarter-boat, his ivory leg plainly revealed to the stranger captain, who was carelessly reclining in his own boat's bow. He was a darkly-tanned, burly, good-natured, fine-looking man, of sixty or thereabouts, dressed in a spacious roundabout, that hung round him in festoons of blue pilot-cloth; and one empty arm of this jacket streamed behind him like the broidered arm of a huzzar's surcoat. Hast seen the White Whale? See you this? and withdrawing it from the fold that had hidden it, he held up a white arm of sperm whale bone, terminating in a wooden head like a mallet. Man my boat! cried Ahab, impetuously, and tossing about the oars near him -- Stand by to lower! In less than a minute, without quitting his little craft, he and his crew were dropped to the water, and were soon alongside of the stranger. But here a curious difficulty presented itself. In the excitement of the moment, Ahab had forgotten that since the loss of his leg he had never once stepped on board of any vessel at sea but his own, and then it was always by an ingenious and very handy mechanical contrivance peculiar to the Pequod, and a thing not to be rigged and shipped in any other vessel at a moment's warning. Now, it is no very easy matter for anybody --except those who are almost hourly used to it, like whalemen --to clamber up a ship's side from a boat on the open sea; for the great swells now lift the boat high up towards .. <p 434 > the bulwarks, and then instantaneously drop it half way down to the kelson. so, deprived of one leg, and the strange ship of | 1 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 30 | her back.” “Really? You can do that?” He smirked, pleased with himself. “She’ll do anything I say. She’s falling for me.” “I know.” My words were bitter in my mouth. “She told me.” “Don’t be jealous,” he said playfully. “I’m doing this for you.” It was true. Anything he did with Lee was in service to our plan. He was sending this woman to jail to free me from my abusive marriage. I couldn’t be jealous. So, what was this feeling twisting in my guts? I tried to keep my voice level as I asked, “Are you sleeping with her?” “Of course not,” he snapped. “Don’t be so stupid.” “Look…” I dropped the weight and stood upright. “This doesn’t feel good. Or right. Can we just go back to the original plan? Get a boat and leave the country?” A muscle clenched in Jesse’s jaw—irritation, frustration. Without a word he strode to the back of the gym and out the exit. Obediently, I trailed after him. When we were alone in the staff parking lot, he turned on me. “Don’t fuck this up, Hazel. We’ve come too far.” “I can get some money,” I told him. “Enough to start over in a new country. Where things are cheaper.” “Why would we do that when we can live here, in perfect luxury? In a fucking mansion with art and fancy cars and shit?” “I… I don’t care about any of that,” I said. “I just want us to be together.” “So do I,” he said, his voice softening. “But the original plan won’t work. I’ve looked into it, and something like eighty-five percent of drowning victims are found. Or at least parts of them are found. Benjamin won’t believe you’re dead without a body. And if he thinks you’ve run off, he’ll never stop looking for you.” In my husband’s line of work, he’d know how unlikely it was that my body would drift away, disappear. And he would hunt me down. He’d never give up. “If he suspects you betrayed him, he’ll kick your mom out of the nursing home.” That hopeless, panicky feeling was returning. Tears welled in my eyes, clogged my throat. “This is the only way, Hazel.” “But Lee…,” I croaked. “Collateral damage,” he said. “All that matters to me is you. And us.” He felt nothing for her. Less than nothing. I should have felt comforted. But I didn’t. “What time does Benjamin get home on Friday?” My stomach dropped. We were setting a date. “He golfs on Fridays. He comes home at noon to change and get his clubs.” “Friday at noon. I’ll be waiting for him.” I nodded mutely. It didn’t feel real. “And Lee will be at the beach tomorrow,” he assured me. “Be ready.” “And Hazel will be at the beach tomorrow,” he assured me. “Be ready.” He went back inside, leaving me alone in the alley. * * * I baked scones that night—peach and brown butter—and I plotted, worried, wondered. If Lee showed up, it meant Jesse had power over her. That | 0 |
0 | 1984.txt | 21 | In Newspeak there is no word for 'Science'. The empirical method of thought, on which all the scientific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc. And even technological progress only happens when its products can in some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In all the useful arts the world is either standing still or going backwards. The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery. But in matters of vital importance--meaning, in effect, war and police espionage--the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought. There are therefore two great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One is how to discover, against his will, what another human being is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred million people in a few seconds without giving warning beforehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this is its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he is chemist, physicist, or biologist concerned only with such branches of his special subject as are relevant to the taking of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Antarctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more powerful explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour-plating; others search for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole continents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against all possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship; others explore even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun's rays through lenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the earth's centre. But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and none of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others. What is more remarkable is that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that their present researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, according to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on a large scale about file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (106 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 94 | but his job, but—he’s nice. Kind. For instance, he was the only person who showed up for my Jesus Christ Superstar recital back in high school.” He sighs. “I played Peter.” “The only person in your family?” “The only person in the audience. Did lots of clapping.” Greg shrugs. “And he’s freakishly smart. Likes board games. Recently moved back to Boston from California.” “What’s his job?” “He teaches. Phys—” A loud sound from a nearby table makes us start. A toddler, slamming her fist on the table, yelling at her mom, “Not banana—cookie!” “Sweetie, you’ve been sick.” “I’m not sick. I—” Suddenly, there’s a puddle of vomit on the front of her shirt. Greg and I exchange a look before he continues, “Also, um . . . he plays sports with his friends. Stuff like that.” I nod and write down, PE teacher. Monopoly? Gym bro? Not the target. Nonissue. Until now. Suddenly, Jonathan Jack Jesus Christ Superstar Smith-Turner, who plays board games and teaches something that starts with phys- and is most definitely not physical education, is a big fucking issue. Impossible. Insane. I must be on Punk’d. General relativity was right: I’ve time-traveled back to the early 2000s. A camera crew and Uncle Paul are hiding behind that pretentious potted fern in the corner. The interview was a setup. My entire life is a joke. “Hey, Jack,” Volkov asks from behind me, all sharp, eastern European sounds, “with great power comes . . . ?” “Great current squared times resistance,” Jack murmurs, eyes planted on me. I shiver hot and cold while everyone else laughs. As usual, Jack is inaccessible; I have no idea what’s happening in his brain. As usual, I feel like he’s skinning me like a clementine, seeing all my squishy, secret, hidden bits. How hard will Cece murder me if I puke all over her dress? “MIT party?” The hostess smiles. “Let me show you to your table.” I turn around clumsily, as if wading through water. My brain won’t stop flipping its fins. So Jack’s a physicist—bad. An experimentalist—bad. The experimentalist—bad. He wants to hire some George dude—bad. He knows me as a librarian his brother’s dating—bad. He never liked me—bad. He thinks I made up my Ph.D.—badder—and am conning MIT into hiring me— baddest. “Don’t let him get to you,” Monica whispers in my ear. “W-what?” “The way Jonathan was looking at you, like you’re trying to smuggle a full bottle of shampoo through TSA—definitely one of his power plays. Ignore him.” Shit—what if he narcs me out to Monica? To Volkov? Oh God, am I going to have to explain to my future colleagues about my side gig? About Faux? I bet filet mignon goes great with anecdotes of that debt collector who threatened to shatter my kneecaps. “Okay.” I smile weakly. I’m in deep shit —ten feet under, I estimate. No, fifteen. Rapidly digging when Monica notices that I’m sitting far from Volkov and says, “There’s a terrible draft here. Can someone switch with me? Elsie, would you mind?” Musical chairs ensue. | 0 |
29 | Tarzan of the Apes.txt | 87 | of us would be, to go out there naked, armed only with a knife and a piece of Chapter 26 147 rope," said the banterer. "Is it not so?" "No," replied Tarzan. "Only a fool performs any act without reason." "Five thousand francs is a reason," said the other. "I wager you that amount you cannot bring back a lion from the jungle under the conditions we have named--naked and armed only with a knife and a piece of rope." Tarzan glanced toward D'Arnot and nodded his head. "Make it ten thousand," said D'Arnot. "Done," replied the other. Tarzan arose. "I shall have to leave my clothes at the edge of the settlement, so that if I do not return before daylight I shall have something to wear through the streets." "You are not going now," exclaimed the wagerer--"at night?" "Why not?" asked Tarzan. "Numa walks abroad at night --it will be easier to find him." "No," said the other, "I do not want your blood upon my hands. It will be foolhardy enough if you go forth by day." "I shall go now," replied Tarzan, and went to his room for his knife and rope. The men accompanied him to the edge of the jungle, where he left his clothes in a small storehouse. But when he would have entered the blackness of the undergrowth they tried to dissuade him; and the wagerer was most insistent of all that he abandon his foolhardy venture. "I will accede that you have won," he said, "and the ten thousand francs are yours if you will but give up this foolish attempt, which can only end in your death." Tarzan laughed, and in another moment the jungle had swallowed him. The men stood silent for some moments and then slowly turned and walked back to the hotel veranda. Tarzan had no sooner entered the jungle than he took to the trees, and it was with a feeling of exultant freedom that he swung once more through the forest branches. This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance. At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. How easy it would be to circle back to the coast, and then make toward the south and his own jungle and cabin. Now he caught the scent of Numa, for he was traveling up wind. Presently his quick ears detected the familiar sound of padded feet and the brushing of a huge, fur-clad body through the undergrowth. Chapter 26 148 Tarzan came quietly above the unsuspecting beast and silently stalked him until he came into a little patch of moonlight. Then the quick noose settled and tightened about the tawny throat, and, as he had done it a hundred times in the past, Tarzan made fast the end to a strong branch and, while the beast fought and clawed for freedom, dropped to the ground behind | 1 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 0 | out in scenes, usually confined to the bedroom. As a slave, I would submit my will to him 24/7. Permanently. I’d obey or I’d forfeit the relationship. “What’s wrong with how things are?” I asked, my voice tremulous. His response was succinct. “I need more, Hazel. Total control. Total Power Exchange.” “And if I don’t want to?” “Then we won’t be getting married.” We had two hundred guests joining us for an extravagant cliff-side ceremony. Thousands of dollars had already been spent. That meant nothing to Benjamin. He would get what he wanted from me, or he would cut me loose. My face burned at the thought of explaining the breakup to my family and friends. And I felt sick when I considered leaving this luxurious life, returning to the damp basement apartment I’d shared with two roommates, stressing and struggling to make ends meet. And I couldn’t do it to my mother. Benjamin had relocated her to a private facility that specialized in her condition. My mother was housed in a bright, spacious home, surrounded by serene, landscaped gardens. They offered art, music, and canine therapy. There was a vegetable garden, a high-end chef, a small movie theater, and a crafts room. My mother no longer knew who I was, but she was happy. She was comfortable. It was all I had wanted. So, I signed Benjamin’s TPE contract. I made a few stipulations to protect myself, but I agreed to give him complete control. The prenup he later presented was even simpler because I had only one request. My husband was to look after my mother for the rest of her life. “As long as we’re married,” Benjamin negotiated, “your mom will be taken care of.” The words didn’t set off any red flags for me. Not then, anyway. A few days later, when we stood up before that crowd of well-wishers, I promised to love, honor, and obey him. 25 CONSENSUAL NONCONSENT IS NOT UNCOMMON in sexual relationships: pretending to resist and protest while prior consent has been given. Plenty of normal, loving couples play this way. For the first few years, it was all a game. But I wasn’t a good enough actress to please Benjamin. Eventually, my pain and humiliation had to be real. He had to break me. The physical abuse was sporadic, but the mental and emotional torture were constant. I was criticized and disparaged. If I displeased him, I was sent to the room. It would be hyperbole to call it a dungeon, but it was in the basement. There was no furniture, only a small rug and a rough woolen blanket. A true submissive would have reveled in the punishment, but it did not arouse me or provide me any kind of satisfaction. I used the time alone to dwell on my isolation, my alienation, my misery. And to hate myself. Since I was a girl in the suburbs, struggling at school, I had dreamed of something more. But not this. Never this. I’d sold my freedom for a life of privilege and | 0 |
44 | Their Eyes Were Watching God.txt | 66 | he done wid all her money?—Betcha he off wid some gal so young she ain’t even got no hairs—why she don’t stay in her class?—” When she got to where they were she turned her face on the bander log and spoke. They scrambled a noisy “good evenin’” and left their mouths setting open and their ears full of hope. Her speech was pleasant enough, but she kept walking straight on to her gate. The porch couldn’t talk for looking. The men noticed her firm buttocks like she had grape fruits in her hip pockets; the great rope of black hair swing- Their Eyes Were Watching God 3 ing to her waist and unraveling in the wind like a plume; then her pugnacious breasts trying to bore holes in her shirt. They, the men, were saving with the mind what they lost with the eye. The women took the faded shirt and muddy overalls and laid them away for remembrance. It was a weapon against her strength and if it turned out of no signif- icance, still it was a hope that she might fall to their level some day. But nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody even thought to swallow spit until after her gate slammed behind her. Pearl Stone opened her mouth and laughed real hard because she didn’t know what else to do. She fell all over Mrs. Sumpkins while she laughed. Mrs. Sumpkins snorted violently and sucked her teeth. “Humph! Y’all let her worry yuh. You ain’t like me. Ah ain’t got her to study ’bout. If she ain’t got manners enough to stop and let folks know how she been makin’ out, let her g’wan!” “She ain’t even worth talkin’ after,” Lulu Moss drawled through her nose. “She sits high, but she looks low. Dat’s what Ah say ’bout dese ole women runnin’ after young boys.” Pheoby Watson hitched her rocking chair forward before she spoke. “Well, nobody don’t know if it’s anything to tell or not. Me, Ah’m her best friend, and Ah don’t know.” “Maybe us don’t know into things lak you do, but we all know how she went ’way from here and us sho seen her come back. ’Tain’t no use in your tryin’ to cloak no ole woman lak Janie Starks, Pheoby, friend or no friend.” 4 Zora Neale Hurston “At dat she ain’t so ole as some of y’all dat’s talking.” “She’s way past forty to my knowledge, Pheoby.” “No more’n forty at de outside.” “She’s ’way too old for a boy like Tea Cake.” “Tea Cake ain’t been no boy for some time. He’s round thirty his ownself.” “Don’t keer what it was, she could stop and say a few words with us. She act like we done done something to her,” Pearl Stone complained. “She de one been doin’ wrong.” “You mean, you mad ’cause she didn’t stop and tell us all her business. Anyhow, what you ever know her to do so bad as y’all make out? The worst thing Ah ever knowed her to do was taking a | 1 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 88 | But then she opened her eyes, and she realized the man still stood there, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t put a name to. Like he wished he could be anywhere else but couldn’t find the strength to move because everything he wanted was right in front of him. “Simon,” she breathed. He moved so quickly that in the space of a breath his lips collided with hers in a fierce kiss that seemed to stop her heart in her chest, leaving her senseless. Though his hands were cold at her neck, his lips were warm, and they explored hers with an urgency she’d never felt before. Kissing Simon was like bringing the sun back, and she was desperate to stay in that spot, so when he pulled away the slightest bit, she followed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers into his hair. “No,” he said suddenly, pushing her away and gasping for air. Shaking his head, he moved several paces away from her, as if he needed the distance to breathe again. “You lied to me. To my family. How can I ever trust you when all I’ve known are lies?” As much as she wanted to tell him that she would never lie again, she had no way of promising in a way that he would believe. And there was nothing she could do to fix that. Her heart already ached for him, and though he was only a few feet away, she knew she would miss him for the rest of her life. “You can’t,” she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. That, at least, was the truth. Though she had never been anyone but herself, he could never trust her, and that—knowing she might have had a chance if only she had told him the truth from the beginning—hurt worse than his hatred. She took one step toward him, one final hope in her heart of making things right, but he held up a hand and closed his eyes. “Go, Miss Hayes,” he said. “Leave. Please.” Then he stepped out into the rain and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Lucy heartbroken and alone. Chapter Twenty-Eight Lucy wasn’t sure why she went up to her room to pack. It wasn’t like she had anything to call hers except a crumpled little leaf—the one she had pulled out of Simon’s hair in the pond. Beyond that, everything she had was borrowed, including the family who might have accepted her if things had been different. When she’d finally stopped crying enough to go back to the house, Nick had been waiting for her at the door, and she didn’t have to say a word for him to recognize what had happened. He had pulled her into an embrace and, for once, said nothing. Even he had no idea how to repair her shattered relationship with Simon. Thankfully, he had let her go up to her room alone, though she knew it wouldn’t last. Olivia would probably try to convince her to stay, as would | 0 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 96 | no one had shaken in days. No one crossed the quad, no one scuttled from Commons with an Eggo and a coffee. I was the only thing moving, because I was late; I’d texted Alder to tell the class to start without me. I left Fran’s car in the lot behind Quincy and raced up the big wooden stairs to the second floor. I took them two at a time, something I’d last done senior year. I’d sobbed on those stairs freshman year after I failed my English midterm. I fell down them once, bruising my tailbone. And one time on the landing, Dorian Culler and the postgrad senior we called Peewee cornered me and Carlotta. I told you before that I had a story about Peewee, and this is it. Carlotta and I sat on the landing, on the top step of the bottom half of the stairs. I wonder if you can picture the way they double back, the curve and deep patina of the banister—but maybe you didn’t spend much time in Quincy. It was after classes; Carlotta was practicing “These Are Days” on her guitar, for one of the several occasions on which she’d perform it that year and make us cry. The song had been around awhile, but didn’t become our emphatic anthem till we found ourselves about to graduate. The boys had a camera, not odd since we were right by the darkroom. Dorian took a picture of us, and Carlotta stopped singing, asked what he wanted. “I’m using up my roll,” he said. And then, “Peewee, get in the picture.” Parkman Walcott bounded up the stairs to plop his huge self between us, smelling like sweat and Drakkar Noir. I wasn’t falling for Dorian’s bullshit, wasn’t about to grin for the camera, and neither was Carlotta. In the instant after the flash went off, Peewee reached around both of us and grabbed my right breast and Carlotta’s left, hard enough to leave fingertip bruises. Carlotta bucked like a horse, getting Peewee off her, off us, and—unintentionally, but conveniently—ramming her guitar head into his Adam’s apple. There was some aftermath with him swearing, her screaming that she’d get his nuts next, me not knowing what to do, Dorian doubled over laughing—but I don’t recall how we got out of there. I hadn’t thought of it more than once or twice between 1995 and that moment. It wasn’t something I’d suppressed, just something I hadn’t revisited. But in 2018, halfway up those same stairs, I did the math. Dorian Culler had shoved his dick in my face three times, had photographed his friend grabbing my breast, had humiliated me in front of my peers for four years. Things had amplified, had gone incrementally from something he could have laughed off as a joke to now, for the first time, physical force. This was fall of senior year, because yes, what Carlotta had been practicing for was the Parents’ Weekend bonfire; I remembered now for sure, because she was cold to me for a few days after the | 0 |
75 | Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt | 98 | are a necessity. A more pleasing phrase we use for a midwife is she who collects the newborn.” Her eyes glide back to Grandfather. “You do not touch blood. I do not touch blood. We consult from afar. I might attend to a woman in labor—giving her herbs to speed delivery and make the baby slippery—and after birth provide the decoctions that will rebuild her vitality, but I would never try to catch an infant—” “Confucius made clear that any profession in which blood is involved is considered to be beneath us,” Grandfather agrees. “A midwife’s contact with blood places her on the same base level as a butcher. Furthermore, midwives are disreputable. They are too much in the world.” “Perhaps.” Grandmother sighs. “But since we physicians acknowledge blood as corrupt and corrupting, then how can a woman give birth without the aid of a midwife?” “Peasant women—” “Work in the fields all day, have their babies in the corners of their shacks, and then cook dinner for their families,” Grandmother finishes for him. “So—” “So nothing!” Grandmother is starting to lose her temper. “Have you seen that with your own eyes? Maybe those women have a mother-in-law in the household who helps them. Maybe there’s a midwife who works in the village. Maybe—” Grandfather holds up a palm in an effort to make peace, but Grandmother isn’t done. “Do men die in childbirth?” she asks. “No, they do not! Even the empress is attended by a midwife. So don’t tell me that a woman can just give birth by herself! If giving birth is so easy and painless—” “I never said it was painless—” “If giving birth is so natural,” Grandmother continues, “then how is it fated that labor and delivery put life at risk? A woman is the only animal on earth who should not deliver her offspring alone, because the baby comes out facedown, making it nearly impossible for a woman to pull it out by herself. A midwife is indispensable, whether you like it or not.” “Indispensable,” Grandfather echoes. “And midwives can receive great rewards—” He nods, finally giving in. “If one is lucky enough to attend to imperial women in the Forbidden City, she is rewarded on a level even men like me can envy.” “Land, gold, titles—” Still trying to make peace, he adds, “We could also say that two families cannot be joined without the consultation of a matchmaker.” But, since he’s entitled to having the last word, he can’t stop himself from finishing with “That doesn’t make these women any less unsavory.” Grandmother gives him a quick look but remains silent. Feeling he’s won, Grandfather brightens. He once again addresses me. “Tell me about qi.” I recite in the same way I do poems, couplets, and the rules by which a girl should live. “Qi is the material basis and life-sustaining force of all existence within the body—” “A parrot can say words,” Grandmother interrupts, still irritated, it seems, by Grandfather’s views on midwives, “but does it understand their deeper meaning?” I try harder. | 0 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 26 | hand under her chin. ‘Oh,’ Siyu breathed. Lukiri waved her fists, frowning. ‘I’ve been putting her over my shoulder.’ ‘That suits some babies.’ Tunuva made sure she had a firm hold on Lukiri before she started to pat and rub her back. ‘Others prefer this way.’ ‘Tuva . . . Imin held me after I was born. He told me so. May Anyso not hold Lukiri?’ ‘Imin was an anointed member of the Priory.’ ‘So might Anyso be,’ Siyu said, appeal in her eyes. ‘Tuva, he could lead a happy life among the men. He’s so gentle and patient. His family are bakers, so he can make bread and cakes, and he helped raise his two sisters. I’m sure he could learn to sew and garden.’ ‘He also loves you.’ ‘Esbar loves you.’ ‘Our situation is different. Anyso wants to marry you and take you to his family. You must see the danger in that.’ Siyu was silent for a time. ‘I could make him understand, if I could talk to him,’ she said, shaken. ‘It’s awful to keep him here like a prisoner, Tuva. He didn’t do anything wrong.’ ‘I know.’ Tunuva gave her a regretful look. ‘This is why we try to stay hidden, sunray.’ ‘I should never have gone to the river. I should never have been seen,’ Siyu said in a disquieted whisper. ‘Tuva . . . if he can’t stay and he can’t leave, what will happen to him?’ ‘That is for the Prioress to decide, when she feels stronger.’ Lukiri broke the silence with a burp and spat up milk, startling herself. Siyu managed a snort of laughter. ‘There.’ Tunuva turned Lukiri and used a fresh cloth to wipe her mouth and chin. ‘Shall I take her to the men?’ ‘Yes, please.’ Siyu set her head on the bolster. ‘Will you ask Imin about the milk?’ ‘I will.’ Tunuva hitched Lukiri up to her shoulder. Her movement woke Lalhar, who twitched her nose and climbed on to the daybed to curl up with Siyu. Tunuva left them both to sleep. Lukiri yawned in her arms, smelling of roses and milk. Tunuva gave her scalp a gentle kiss as she descended. The pang came, as it always did, but it was softer than she had feared. She knew exactly how Saghul would want to remove the difficulty of Anyso. Siyu was supposed to have killed him. He had known too much as soon as he saw a girl in the depths of the Lasian Basin. If there was another way, Tunuva had failed to think of it. ‘Explain to me how this happened, Alanu. Explain it as if I am one of the children.’ Imsurin was holding a grey cloak, glaring at one of the older boys. ‘Brother, we were low on clothing soap,’ Alanu was saying, his tone earnest, ‘so I thought I would try—’ ‘You must forgive my ignorance, Alanu. I was under the foolish impression that you had something to do with maintaining our supplies. Are we usually graced by a soap divinity?’ ‘I | 0 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 30 | once possessed seems to have evaporated back in the eighties, when she was smoking pot and following bands around and naming her children things like Juniper Song and Aurora Whisper. She went back to work after Dad died, and since then has molded herself entirely into the American ideal of a working single mother: perfect attendance at her office job, perfect attendance at our parent-teacher meetings, just enough savings to put Rory and me through good schools with minimal student debt and to set up a retirement account for herself. The demands of such a hustle, it seems, left no room for creativity. She’s the kind of suburban white mother who buys home living magazines at the grocery checkout counter, who drinks crate upon crate of four-dollar wines from Trader Joe’s, who refers to Twilight as “those vampire books,” and who hasn’t read anything other than Costco discount paperbacks for decades. Mom always got along better with Rory. I always got the sense that she didn’t quite know what to do with me. It was Dad who could always follow me wherever my imagination went. But we don’t talk about Dad. We sit in silence for a while, chewing on egg rolls and stir-fried chicken bits so sweet they taste like candy. At last, Mom asks, “How’s your, well, book writing going?” Mom has always had the particular ability to reduce all my aspirations to trivial obsessions with a simple disinterested question. I set down my chopsticks. “It’s, uh, fine.” “Oh, that’s good.” “Well, actually, I’m sort of . . .” I want to tell her why I’ve been so miserable these past few months, but I don’t know where to begin. “I’m in a difficult place. Creatively. Like, I can’t think of anything to write about.” “You mean like writer’s block?” “Sort of like that. Only usually I have all these tricks to break out of it. Writing exercises, listening to music, going on long walks and whatnot. It’s not working this time.” Mom shoves some bits of chicken aside to snag a candied pecan. “Well, maybe it’s time to move on, then.” “Mom.” “I’m just saying. Rory’s friend can always get you into that class. You just have to fill out the application.” Mom has suggested that I do a master’s in tax and accounting at American University every time I’ve seen her in the last four years. She’s even gone so far as to print and mail me the application the summer after my debut novel flopped and I resorted to tutoring kids for the SAT to make rent. “For the last time, I don’t want to be an accountant.” “What’s so wrong with being an accountant?” “I’ve told you, I don’t want to work an office job like you and Rory—” I know what she’ll say next. We’ve been hurling these lines at each other for years. “You’re too good for office jobs? Junie the Yalie won’t put in a hard day’s work like the rest of us?” “Mom, stop.” “Rory puts food on the table. Rory has | 0 |
80 | Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt | 46 | “It’s the paycheck, mostly.” His eyes open wider and he looks at me hard, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place. “I reeeeeally shouldn’t tell you this, but . . . I know someone who has a crush on you.” He says this in a singsong, like we’re at fourth grade recess and he’s relaying a message from a friend. “Ha, ha,” I say. “Well, we don’t have many mutual friends, so—” “It’s me,” he clarifies, holding up his thumb and forefinger. “Just an itty bitty crush when we first met.” “I did, too. That’s kind of why I went back to your hotel room.” His grin deepens, and he wags that finger back and forth. “After that,” he says. “Not just that first time. A little bit in Portland, too, and maybe also Arizona.” A wrinkle of his nose. “I know we’re supposed to be professionals, but maybe . . . maybe also right now, too.” I crane my neck to look over at the desk, hoping he won’t notice the way my cheeks are heating up. “How much of that medicine did you take?” “I’m serious, Chandler Cohen.” He rolls closer to me in bed, his long lashes and freckles and mess of hair. Even with his eyes beginning to droop, he’s still stunning. “But—but you can’t,” I say, as though simply denying it will make it untrue. You can’t and we’ll rewind to thirty seconds ago, back when our relationship still made sense. Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to work. It takes every ounce of strength in me to scoot to the edge of the bed, so violently that I nearly fall off. It’s not real. It’s purely chemical, his brain convincing him that he feels something for the person he’s sleeping with. There should have been a warning on those meds: do not mix with oxytocin. Despite the fact that we’ve seen each other naked a handful of times now, his words linger, wrapping around my heart and setting down roots there, where they could grow into something even more invasive. There’s a terrifying sweetness to them, an innocence that isn’t always there when our hotel room doors are locked. Maybe also right now, too. “Can’t, schmant.” He seems to get another burst of energy, sitting up in bed. “You’re just . . . so smart. So nice. And you wear socks when you shouldn’t and take me to sex shops and read books about people killing each other with poisoned pastries.” He looks up at me with this fierce vulnerability, one that makes my heart swell in my chest. “And you’re beautiful and adorable and cute, and I guess some of those mean the same thing, but I stand by it. I have this monster crush on you, and there it is.” He flings his arms out, punctuating the whole thing with a wide, loopy grin. Then he yawns, drops back to the pillow, and immediately falls asleep. Well . . . fuck. chapter sixteen MIAMI, FL Maddy DeMarco’s face grins back at | 0 |
2 | A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt | 53 | the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third line all the fellows said. Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked: --What is your name? Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus. Then Nasty Roche had said: --What kind of a name is that? And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked: --What is your father? Stephen had answered: --A gentleman. Then Nasty Roche had asked: --Is he a magistrate? He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept his hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt round his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow said to Cantwell: --I'd give you such a belt in a second. Cantwell had answered: --Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see you. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself. That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands: --Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye! --Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye! He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way and then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going home for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would change the number pasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six. It would be better to be in the study hall than | 1 |
42 | The Silmarillion.txt | 6 | vigil with the Valar that when the messengers declared to Manw the answers of Fanor to his heralds, Manw wept and bowed his head. But at that last word of Fanor: that at the least the Noldor should do deeds to live in song for ever, he raised his head, as one that hears a voice far off, and he said: 'So shall it be! Dear-bought those songs shall be accounted, and yet shall be well-bought. For the price could be no other. Thus even as Eru spoke to us shall beauty not before conceived be brought into E, and evil yet be good to have been.' But Mandos said: 'And yet remain evil. To me shall Fanor come soon.' But when at last the Valar learned that the Noldor had indeed passed out of Aman and were come back into Middle-earth, they arose and began to set forth in deeds those counsels which they had taken in thought for the redress of the evils of Melkor. Then Manw bade Yavanna and Nienna to put forth all their powers of growth and healing; and they put forth all their powers upon the Trees. But the tears of Nienna availed not to heal their mortal wounds; and for a long while Yavanna sang alone in the shadows. Yet even as hope failed and her song faltered, Telperion bore at last upon a leafless bough one great flower of silver, and Laurelin a single trait of gold. These Yavanna took; and then the Trees died, and their lifeless stems stand yet in Valinor, a memorial of vanished joy. But the flower and the fruit Yavanna gave to Aul, and Manw hallowed them, and Aul and his people made vessels to hold them and preserve their radiance: as is said in the Narsilion, the Song of the Sun and Moon. These vessels the Valar gave to Varda, that they might become lamps of heaven, outshining the ancient stars, being nearer to Arda; and she gave them power to traverse the lower regions of Ilmen, and set them to voyage upon appointed courses above the girdle of the Earth from the West unto the East and to return. These things the Valar did, recalling in their twilight the darkness of the lands of Arda; and they resolved now to illumine Middle-earth and with light to hinder the deeds of Melkor. For they remembered the Avari that remained by the waters of their awakening, and they did not utterly forsake the Noldor in exile; and Manw knew also that the hour of the coming of Men was drawn nigh. And it is said indeed that, even as the Valar made war upon Melkor for the sake of the Quendi, so now for that time they forbore for the sake of the Hildor, the Aftercomers, the younger Children of Ilvatar. For so grievous had been the hurts of Middle-earth in the war upon Utumno that the Valar feared lest even worse should now befall; whereas the Hildor should be mortal, and weaker than the Quendi to withstand fear | 1 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 49 | Compare the Raveloe attitude toward church-going to your community's attitude. How are they different? How are they alike? When Dolly knocks at Silas' door, Eliot describes his reaction to this visit in more detail than she did with Mr. Macey's. A need for other people is faintly stirring in Silas. Dolly offers him her homemade lard-cakes, speaking gently. Dolly is surprised that Silas can read the letters she traced on the tops of the--I.H.S.-which she copied from the pulpit-cloth at church. Though Dolly doesn't know the formal meaning of these letters (they stand for the Greek spelling of "Jesus"), she has the spirit right. Silas, on the other hand, can read, but these letters weren't part of his church's rituals so he can't understand their spirit. Similarly, he doesn't understand the meaning of church bells, which weren't rung in Lantern-Yard. His sect referred to worship as "chapel," so he doesn't even share the meaning of the word "church" with Dolly. Then Dolly expresses the spirit of her religion--a faith that comforts her through life's troubles. She trusts in God and Heaven, although her concept is almost pagan--she sees a group of divinities, "Them as are above us." This is totally different from the religion Silas knew, and he can't even imagine it. Silas has a hard time communicating with Dolly because he isn't used to talking with people. Yet he's trying. Dolly has brought her little boy Aaron with her, and Silas quietly offers him some cake. Dolly thinks it's good for Silas to have contact with a child (watch for another child to enter his life soon). But short-sighted Silas can hardly see Aaron's face--he's still withdrawn from humanity. Aaron sings a Christmas carol, but Silas' ears aren't used to music--just as his soul isn't used to kindness--and he can't enjoy it. Dolly leaves, with a last bit of advice to give up working on a Sunday. (This is partly because it's against church law, and partly because of old superstitions.) Silas is relieved to be left alone. Eliot paints a bleak picture of his lonely Christmas day. Possessed by grief, he still doesn't lock his door; he thinks of his cottage as "his robbed home." Eliot adds a sad, short paragraph contrasting him to his loving, trusting youthful self. He is now at his lowest point. In comparison, the villagers have a merry Christmas, full of traditional celebrations. In the world of the gentry, though, Squire Cass' party on New Year's Eve is the big event, and Eliot describes the eager preparations for it. (No one worries about Dunstan's absence.) Only Godfrey looks forward to the party with conflicting emotions. Eliot dramatizes this in a dialogue between hopeful Godfrey and his demon Anxiety. He seems literally split in two. Compare Silas and Godfrey at this point. Which do you feel sorrier for? Why? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 11 After hearing so much about her, at last you meet Nancy Lammeter, riding to the Casses' party. Eliot tries not to idealize Nancy. Though she's lovely, she's dressed in dowdy clothes. Clinging | 1 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 6 | a line of blood-tinged spittle hanging from her bottom lip. Her shoulder is sloped in a way that tells me it’s either broken or dislocated. She struggles to get the gun under her control. We’re out the front door and sprinting down the drive in a blink. Javier stumbles but doesn’t let himself fall as he runs ahead of us. We’re halfway down the drive when a gunshot splits the air like a bolt of lightning. I throw myself face-first into the dirt, and Bezi falls beside me. A sharp pain rockets through my knee as it strikes the ground. Another shot rings out and splinters a tree just off the driveway to our right. “She’s shooting at us!” Javier screams. “Get up! Go!” We scramble to our feet and keep running. I ignore the pain in my knee. I keep moving even though it feels like I’m trudging through quicksand. As we get to the crest in the driveway, I slide to a grinding halt. A tall figure stands at the bottom of the drive near the road. Another gunshot ricochets through the trees. The figure stalks toward us, and I panic. We can’t go back. We can’t go forward. I step toward the trees as Javier lights the figure up with his flashlight and, in a rush of relief, I realize it’s Kyle. “Come on!” he yells. “We gotta get out of here!” I’ve never been much of an athlete. I passed gym with a C-plus, but I run the entire two miles back to the rear entrance of the camp without stopping. I ignore the ache in my calves and the burning in my lungs. Each time Bezi tries to stop to catch her breath, I pull her forward. We don’t have time to be winded or tired. At the rear gate, we squeeze through the opening as quickly as we can. As soon as we’re safely inside the fence, I race toward the office. I want to call the sheriff, but a part of me feels like he won’t even care. Still, I have to get ahold of somebody. Anybody. We need help. “The office!” I say, gasping. “We gotta call—” I’m moving past the Western Lodge when something catches my eye. Some subtle movement I realize is coming from inside the lodge itself. I come to a full stop for the first time since we left Ms. Keane’s property. The lodge doors are sitting wide open. The fluorescent lights in the kitchen are on, and they’re casting a cold glow throughout the main hall. Standing in front of the unlit fireplace is a person. Bezi is panting beside me when Kyle and Javier notice the figure too. I nearly stop breathing as a sudden chill runs up my back and settles in the nape of my neck. I take a step toward the open doors, blinking, unable to fully comprehend what I’m seeing. The stooped figure is standing with their back to me. They are barefoot, shirtless, and they have their arms wrapped around their own waist | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 99 | three weeks straight and he reassured her that would be fine. “My schedule’s not much better, so I’ll take whatever I can get.” As verbose as Dale was, his friend was the opposite. Peter ate his meal with a serious expression and spoke very little. Marion wondered why he’d even agreed to go out tonight and tried to not take it personally. Finally, the waiter cleared their plates and they were given coffee and a small plate of French cookies. “So, Marion,” said Dale. “How do you like the big city?” “I’m from Bronxville,” Marion answered. “So it’s not like I’m new to it. My father works here, and I took classes and taught dance on the west side.” “Well, you’re in for a treat, now that you’re living with Bunny. This one knows how to enjoy life, am I right?” Bunny smiled. “What’s there not to enjoy?” “Tell that to Peter here. That man has a tendency to look on the dark side of things.” Bunny turned to Peter. “Why’s that?” Peter considered the question a moment before he answered. “Maybe because I work with schizophrenic patients who are institutionalized and have no hope of survival in the outside world.” His response left them all speechless, then Dale laughed. “Don’t let this guy fool you. Back when we were at Harvard, he was the life of the party, until he got all serious junior year.” He turned to Peter. “You remember the time we tossed all of Scooter’s clothes in the tree outside Lowell House? He had to run out into the courtyard in his pajamas and climb up to get them, while the girls went nuts laughing. Poor sod.” Bunny leaned forward. “You really work with crazy people?” Peter nodded. “At Creedmoor State Hospital, in Queens.” “Do you ever get attacked or anything?” asked Bunny. Peter glanced toward the exit, and Marion wondered if he was planning to dash out and avoid the interrogation. Although he had opened himself up to it by his provocative answer. “I’ve been attacked,” said Peter. “Part of the job, unfortunately.” The words came out quietly, as if he was reluctant to admit as much. Their conversation was interrupted by a loud bellowing that erupted behind Marion. She turned around to see a short, stout man standing face-to-face with the maître d’, practically spitting as he shouted. Off to the side stood a young woman, her face shellacked with makeup, who looked like she wanted to disappear into the folds of her fur coat, her shoulders up near her ears. “I will not be banished to Siberia!” yelled her date. “I may be from out of town, but I was warned that I’d be stuck in the back. Put me up front, with the rest of the bigwigs. Don’t you know who I am?” “Check out that guy,” said Dale, thumbing in the man’s direction. “If the owner, Henri, were here tonight, he’d toss him out on his behind.” They turned back to their meal, but the man would not be placated. “I want the | 0 |
0 | 1984.txt | 31 | of conversation as he approached. '"Yes," I says to 'er, "that's all very well," I says. "But if you'd of been in my place you'd of done the same as what I done. It's easy to criticize," I says, "but you ain't got the same problems as what I got."' 'Ah,' said the other, 'that's jest it. That's jest where it is.' The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. 'May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?'--and so on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it. Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the sky. 'Steamer!' he yelled. 'Look out, guv'nor! Bang over'ead! Lay down quick!' 'Steamer' was a nickname which, for some reason, the proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with fragments of glass from the nearest window. He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast. | 1 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 65 | of the business school lied on her tax return. For sure there’s weed growing in a closet somewhere because there is always weed in a closet, and I guaran-fucking-tee some of your students are engaged in blameless but illegal sex work to pay tuition. The cops will find all of it, some of your kids will have to be expelled, the news people will have a field day.” Bill sours behind the hand. “Are you putting the screws into me, Cal?” “I’m throwing you a lifeline, Bill. I can help, and what I need is what you need me to do, but if you can’t go there, then you can’t. This is why you got me up here, remember? I was going to bed.” “I figured you’d help me calm it all down, not turn my school inside out.” “That is what I’m doing.” “Sure doesn’t feel like it.” But he lowers the hand and we go back to walking. “What the hell is going on? Tebbit, for Christ’s sake? What’s he into? Was he a serial killer? A spy? A drug trafficker?” “He was a Titan, Bill. It’s on his driver’s licence, he was ninety years old and change.” Another moment for him to put that together and then he drops his head into his hands. “Fucking private limited personal health disclosure. It’s university policy, Cal. I’m not allowed to ask questions about medical status unless they are directly relevant to an acute situation. That covers his birthday, even.” I’d feel sorry for him if I didn’t know they made that rule a few years back so that Bill’s predecessor didn’t have to trace embarrassing infections transmitted through her senior staff. “Sleep on it. Let me know in the morning. I was going to swing by about nine, so call me any time before then.” “You put a strain on friendship, Cal, you surely do.” I leave him to his general sense of the sky falling and I go home, again. As I open the door the stupid part of me expects Athena to be there, the way she never is any more, asleep on the sofa or curled up in the bed. I lie down where she isn’t and listen to the sound of the wind. Up above the city there are high clouds, like a second ceiling, and the sky is orange and purple with deep spaces giving onto the endless black. Every so often a helicopter or a drone flies over. Every so often a smattering of rain comes down. When the traffic stops there’s a silence that goes on for miles. I don’t know when I fall asleep, but when I wake it hasn’t been enough, or maybe it’s too much and I can’t tell the difference. 2 “It’s officially official,” Gratton says, in his officially official office. You can imagine it like the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet with a desk against the side wall, and a guy like a skinny cook behind the desk. The precinct house is tucked hard by the border between | 0 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 6 | wealth of architectural gems with origins in the late Saxon period. We have it all here, timber frames, medieval masterpieces and the Ashmolean Museum is Oxford’s finest neoclassical…’ Minnie laughed out loud as she applied her brakes, clambered off her bike and locked it outside the Playhouse in Beaumont Street. She was already taking Jensen on a tour of the city and he hadn’t asked her out yet. To either side of the entrance doors, huge colourful posters advertised Julius Caesar, with photographs of the great Roman wearing a smart suit and red tie, and Mark Antony in a leather coat and another, in battle fatigues, snarling at a uniformed female Brutus. The red lettering was pierced with a dagger spattered with dripping blood. Minnie pushed the door and walked quietly inside. There was no one around but she knew her way into the theatre. No one noticed her sidle into the dark auditorium, past the rows of colourful seats. The stage was lit and an actor wearing a baseball cap stood in a spotlight, shouting out lines from the play towards a woman in an expensive dress. ‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’ The actor paused, put hands to his head and tried again. ‘Cowards die many times…’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t get this right. I want to explain to Calpurnia what I mean, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling right now.’ There was a silence in the darkness and Minnie watched with interest to see what would happen. Then an English female voice shouted, ‘Jensen – can you help here, please?’ ‘Oh, sure.’ Minnie heard his voice, light and confident, then she saw him clamber onto the stage. Warmth exuded from his smile as he wrapped an arm around both actors. ‘Okay, this isn’t going to be difficult. Let’s try some bravado, a bit of macho bluster from Julius.’ Jensen grinned. ‘So, what do we have happening right now? Calpurnia is fretful, she’s had premonitions that her husband Caesar’s life is in danger, but what if he thinks he knows better? She’s wise, he’s not. He thinks he’s a hero, invincible, a god. But we’re playing him as a foolish man in this interpretation. So, what he’s saying here is, “This is me, dammit, I’m Julius Caesar – I’m the main guy and no one can hurt me – I ain’t scared of nobody.”’ A light chuckle came from the darkness below where directors and actors congregated, watching. Minnie smiled too. ‘How do you suggest I say the lines?’ the actor playing Caesar asked. ‘Try it through in modern vernacular, just for fun…’ Jensen shrugged. ‘Okay, Calpurnia, what do you say to your husband in modern speak?’ The actor playing Calpurnia took a step back, put a hand to her head and was immediately in role. ‘I don’t want you going out there, Julius. Are you mad? I know what will happen – you’ll go out and you won’t ever come back and then what | 0 |
6 | Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt | 84 | never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his. Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach. I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with Bartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this;—I would put certain calm questions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if he declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he would prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above whatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer required; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be happy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place, wherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply. The next morning came. “Bartleby,” said I, gently calling to him behind his screen. No reply. “Bartleby,” said I, in a still gentler tone, “come here; I am not going to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do—I simply | 1 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 67 | g r e a t e s t m a n c a n d o f o r h i s f e l l o w - b e i n g ; y o u h a v e r e s c u e d m e , b y y o u r n o b l e h o s p i t a l i t y , f r o m d e a t h . T h i s b e n e f i t c o n f e r r e d g i v e s y o u a n u n l i m i t e d c l a i m o n m y g r a t i t u d e , a n d a c l a i m , t o a c e r t a i n e x t e n t , o n m y c o n f i d e n c e . I w i l l t e l l y o u a s m u c h o f t h e h i s t o r y o f t h e w a n d e r e r y o u h a v e h a r b o r e d a s I c a n t e l l w i t h o u t c o m p r o m i s i n g m y o w n p e a c e o f m i n d m y o w n s e c u r i t y , m o r a l a n d p h y s i c a l , a n d t h a t o f o t h e r s . " I a m a n o r p h a n ; t h e d a u g h t e r o f a c l e r g y m a n . M y p a r e n t s d i e d b e f o r e I c o u l d k n o w t h e m . I w a s b r o u g h t u p a d e p e n d a n t ; e d u c a t e d i n a c h a r i t a b l e i n s t i t u t i o n . I w i l l e v e n t e l l y o u t h e n a m e o f t h e e s t a b l i s h m e n t , w h e r e I p a s s e d s i x y e a r s a s a p u p i l , a n d t w o a s a t e a c h e r L o w o o d O r p h a n A s y l u m , s h i r e : y o u w i l l h a v e h e a r d o f i t , M r . R i v e r s ? t h e R e v . R o b e r t B r o c k l e h u r s t i s t h e t r e a s u r e r . " " I h a v e h e a r d o f M r . B r o c k l e h u r s t , a n d I h a v e s e e n t h e s c h o o l . " " I l e f t L o w o o d n e a r l y a y e a r s i n c e t o b e c o m e a p r i v a t e g o v e r n e s s . I o b t a i n e d a g o o d s i t u a t i o n , a n d w a s h a p p y . T h i s p l a c e I w a s o b l i g e d t o l e a v e f o u r d a y s b e f o r e I c a m e h e r e . T h e r e a s o n o f m y d e p a r t u r e I c a n n o t a n d o u g h t n o t t o e x p l a i n : i t w o u l d b e u s e l e s s , d a n g e r o u s , a n d w o u l d s o u n d i n c r e d i b l e . N o b l a m e a t t a c h e d t o m e : I a m a s f r e e f r o m c u l p a b i l i t y a s a n y o n e o f y o u t h r e e . M i s e r a b l e I a m , a n d m u s t b e f o r a t i m e ; f o r t h e c a t a s t r o p h e w h i c h d r o v e m e f r o m a h o u s e h a d f o u n d a p a r a d i s e w a s o f a s t r a n g e a n d d i r e f u l n a t u r e . I o b s e r v e d b u t t w o p o i n t s i n p l a n n i n g m y d e p a r t u r e s p e e d , s e c r e c y ; t o s e c u r e t h e s e I h a d t o l e a v e b e h i n d m e e v e r y t h i n g I p o s s e s s e d e x c e p t a s m a l l p a r c e l , w h i c h , i n m y h u r r y a n d t r o u b l e o f m i n d , I f o r g o t t o t a k e o u t o f t h e c o a c h t h a t b r o u g h t m e t o W h i t c r o s s . T o t h i s n e i g h b o r h o o d , t h e n , I c a m e , q u i t e d e s t i t u t e . I s l e p t t w o n i g h t s i n t h e o p e n a i r , a n d w a n d e r e d a b o u t t w o d a y s w i t h o u t c r o s s i n g a t h r e s h o l d ; b u t t w i c e i n t h a t s p a c e o f t i m e d i d I t a s t e f o o d ; a n d i t w a s w h e n b r o u g h t b y h u n g e r , e x h a u s t i o n a n d d e s p a i r , a l m o s t t o t h e l a s t g a s p , t h a t y o u , M r . R i v e r s , f o r b a d e m e t o p e r i s h o f w a n t a t y o u r d o o r , a n d t o o k m e u n d e r t h e s h e l t e r o f y o u r r o o f . I k n o w a l l y o u r s i s t e r s h a v e d o n e f o r m e s i n c e f o r I h a v e n o t b e e n i n s e n s i b l e d u r i n g m y s e e m i n g t o r p o r a n d I o w e t o t h e i r s p o n t a n e o u s , g e n u i n e , g e n i a l c o m p a s s i o n a s l a r g e a d e b t a s t o y o u r e v a n g e l i c a l c h a r i t y . " " D o n ' t m a k e h e r t a l k a n y m o r e n o w , S t . J o h n , " s a i d D i a n a , a s I p a u s e d ; " s h e i s e v i d e n t l y n o t y e t f i t f o r e x c i t e m e n t . C o m e t o t h e s o f a , a n d s i t d o w n n o w , M i s s E l l i o t t . " I g a v e a n i n v o l u n t a r y h a l f - s t a r t a t h e a r i n g t h e a l i a s . I h a d f o r g o t t e n m y n e w n a m e . M r . R i v e r s , w h o m n o t h i n g s e e m e d t o e s c a p e , n o t i c e d i t a t o n c e . " Y o u s a i d y o u r n a m e w a s J a n e E l l i o t t ? " h e o b s e r v e d . " I | 1 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 46 | “For now, he’s behind bars.” “But I could still be in danger. Who was he conspiring with? I need to know.” “I’ll see what I can find out,” she says, brow furrowed. “Have the police arranged an officer to guard your home?” “They said they’ll have a car out front.” “Change your alarm code,” she instructs. “Do you have a gun in the house?” “No. I don’t know.” Tears spill over at the thought of my inability to defend myself. I’m like a sitting duck, in a glass mansion. “Maybe Benjamin does. But I don’t know where it is.” Rachelle gets up and moves around the desk. She gently pulls me to my feet, holds me at the elbows. “I’m on your side, Hazel,” she says, eyes penetrating mine. “I’m going to keep you safe. And I’m going to get you through this.” Now I know why the man in the gray suit was crying. Rachelle Graham’s fierce protectiveness in the face of so much hostility undoes me. Not since my friendship with Lee have I felt this sort of compassion, this type of support. Tears stream down my face. “Thank you,” I mumble, sniffling pathetically. Abruptly, Rachelle steps back, resuming her professional manner. “Let’s take care of the paperwork,” she says. “And then I’ll get to work.” 53 AND SO, I GO HOME because there is nowhere else. I have no friends—and even if I did, I wouldn’t jeopardize their safety with my presence. A hotel is an option, but with my financial limitations, I don’t want to spend the money. I need to pay Rachelle Graham. I will need to hire a divorce lawyer eventually. And I will have to start my life over—if I make it through this. If I don’t end up in jail. Or dead. The cop car stationed at the end of the driveway gives me no peace of mind as I wander through the cavernous house. I know better than anyone the many ways in and out of this place. One conspicuous squad car is not going to deter a person who is determined to get to me. There must be ways to circumvent the alarm system. Nate is gone, of course. He is on Team Benjamin. For all I know, he could be the one I am meant to fear. Surely he had knowledge of Benjamin’s plan at the very least. I am too anxious to eat, but I move to the kitchen and turn on the kettle. There are several calming tea blends and I select one, drop a fragrant tea bag into a mug. When the water boils, the whistle is like a scream, and I hurriedly remove it from the heat with a trembling hand. As the tea steeps, I grab a large knife from the block and tentatively finger the blade. Lee slept with a knife for protection every night. She was willing to plunge it into flesh, insert it deep into a man’s belly to protect herself. Jesse—Carter—was going to stab my husband to death for a life with | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 92 | with his brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches. At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said: "Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off." "Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you would if you had thought of it." --------------------------------------------------------- -179- "Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lightingwistfully. "Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?" "I -- well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything." "Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it." "Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way -- he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything." "More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and done it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little." "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom. "I'd know it better if you acted more like it." "I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?" "It ain't much -- a cat does that much -- but it's better than nothing. What did you dream?" "Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him." "Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad --------------------------------------------------------- -180- your dreams could take even that much trouble about us." "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here." "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?" "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now." "Well, try to recollect -- can't you?" "Somehow it seems to me that the wind -- the wind blowed the -- the -- " "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!" Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an | 1 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 15 | then at her again. "I'll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I never," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with now, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul's had an accident or an op'ration or something," said Mrs. Hall. "What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller's coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin' helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin' through it!...Perhaps his mouth was hurt too--maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain't you done them taters yet, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger's lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto. "I have some luggage," he said, "at Bramblehurst station," and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. "To-morrow!" he said. "There is no speedier delivery?" and seemed quite disappointed when she answered "No." Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over? Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a conversation. "It's a steep road by the down, sir," | 1 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 9 | tried to be liked once in a while.” “I do try,” I said, overloud. His words stung more than he could have guessed. I tried and tried—or at least, I used to, and nothing had ever come of it. “Well, either way, you’ve outdone yourself this time. How you’ve convinced almost an entire village to hate you in the space of a week is beyond me. It will not make our research here easier, given the necessity of talking to said villagers.” I gave a wordless sound of frustration, running a hand through my hair and dislodging yet more of it from its tie. He was right, and I hated it. “I did nothing to set them against me. Only somehow I offended Aud, and it seems the others are offended on her behalf.” “Tell me,” he said, using his knee to push the chair onto its back legs. Scowling, I gave him an account of my ill-fated visit to the tavern. By the time I was through, he was wincing and shaking his head. “Oh, Em,” he said. “Em. Did you do no research at all before coming here?” Now that galled me. “No research! What do you—” “I don’t mean the Hidden Ones. I’ve no doubt you scoured all of Cambridge for every passing reference to them—I can picture you terrorizing the poor librarians now. I was referring to the mortal inhabitants of this delightful winter wasteland.” He flicked open his satchel and pulled a book out, which he tossed to me. “What is this?” It appeared to be written in Ljoslander. “A novel,” he said. He pulled out another book, which I barely caught. “On the smutty side, I’m afraid—not to your tastes at all. That one’s an account of a very dull trade war. Here.” He pulled out a third book, also in Ljoslander. “A biography of their last queen. That one’s not bad—she shot one of her suitors in the foot. By accident, of course.” I folded my arms. “Thank you, but you needn’t go on. I understand.” “Do you? Can you even read Ljoslander?” “Well enough to get by,” I lied, for I had no intention of listening to him brag. Bambleby is irritatingly adept at languages. Small wonder—the Folk can speak any mortal language they encounter. As they flit through the physical barriers erected by mortals, so too do they evade those of our cultures. “Hospitality is important to these people,” he said. “You’d know that if you’d bothered to learn anything about them at all. You offended Aud by insisting on paying for your supper.” My mouth fell open. “That’s it? That’s why she hates me?” He sighed. “Perhaps if you were not so covered in prickles, she would have forgiven you by now. But if there’s anyone who could encourage others to go looking for excuses to take offence, it is you. And then you compounded the mistake by barging into her village with your questions, and without seeking her permission first.” “I cannot believe that the villagers require her permission to speak | 0 |
96 | We-Could-Be-So Good.txt | 89 | sends him out on an errand. “Wine,” Nick says. “Three bottles of red, plus another for the chicken.” Andy makes a mental note to buy at least five bottles. Or maybe a full case of wine? Is that the sort of extravagance that might bother Nick? It isn’t as if they aren’t eventually going to drink twelve bottles of wine, right? And buying a case brings the cost down, so maybe it’s the opposite of an extravagance? “And . . .” Nick’s voice trails off as he stirs a pan of onions. “Remember when you brought me—when you got those flowers?” Nick is facing away, so Andy can’t be sure, but he thinks Nick might be blushing. He repeats Nick’s words to himself. When you brought me flowers. He remembers Nick’s expression when Andy walked through the door with all those daffodils; it had lodged in Andy’s memory because it didn’t quite make sense. At the time, he hadn’t been able to tell whether Nick was embarrassed or pleased or something else. If Nick wants flowers, then Andy will fill the apartment with every bouquet and posy and arrangement he can get his hands on. He’ll raid a florist. He’ll break into a funeral home—which, all right, maybe not that. Except, no. He imagines Emily and Jeanne and Linda walking into an apartment filled with flowers. They wouldn’t know what to think—or they would, which might be worse. All right. He needs to buy flowers. Just some. A normal, non-alarming quantity of flowers. Not all the flowers in the world. He can do that. He’s still standing at the door, his wallet in his hand, and Nick is staring at him. “Haha,” Andy says. “I’m going now. Bye!” And he flees. At the wine store, he makes life simple by buying a case of the same wine he bought the last time, because he knows Nick likes it. Then he pays extra to have it delivered within the hour, because carrying a crate of wine anywhere, let alone up four flights of stairs, is something he will happily pay somebody else to do. When he bought the daffodils, he had just seen them outside the corner store. They weren’t anything fancy. Today, in front of that same store, there are only scraggly bundles of carnations and he isn’t having any of that. There’s a flower shop near Washington Square Park, though, so when he returns to the apartment an hour later it’s with an armful of sweet peas. “You’re back,” Nick says, stirring something at the stove. “Too bad there’s no wine left in Manhattan because it’s all at our house. I tipped the kid fifty cents.” With the wooden spoon, he gestures at a crate on the floor next to him, then turns around and sees Andy. And the flowers, presumably. After looking at every flower in the shop, much to the consternation of the florist, Andy settled on sweet peas because one, they’re pretty; two, they smell good; and three, they don’t look expensive, at least to Andy’s notions of | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 13 | but Tom said: "Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt long ago." "So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing." "Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom. "That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk just that way -- haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't." "Yes -- heaps of times," said Huck. "Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?" "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the --------------------------------------------------------- -166- day after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before." "There -- I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it." "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel sick." "Neither do I," said Tom. " I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't." "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him try it once. He'd see!" "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller -- I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it once." "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch him ." "'Deed it would, Joe. Say -- I wish the boys could see us now." "So do I." "Say -- boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was now!" --------------------------------------------------------- -167- "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just bet they will!" So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly: "I've lost my | 1 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 91 | sue, appeal, enlightening, simple, soothing blazing: (adj) flaming, afire, burning, solicit, plead. ANTONYMS: (v) give, bewilderment: (n) astonishment, ardent, aflame, glaring, bright, offer, grant, reject quandary, confusion, surprise, blatant, alight, passionate; (n) blaze. beseeching: (adj) begging, suppliant, wonder, bemusement, maze, chaos, ANTONYMS: (adj) freezing, quiet imploring, pleading, precative, jumble, mess; (adj, n) perplexity. blended: (adj) mixed, miscellaneous, supplicatory, precatory, ANTONYMS: (n) order, clarity composite, assorted, alloyed, importunate; (n) prayer; (v) plead; bidding: (n) behest, order, dictate, amalgamated, beaten, adulterate, (adv) beseechingly. ANTONYM: charge, bid, request, call, dictation, conglomerate; (n) medley; (v) (adj) imperative direction, fiat; (adj) imperative mingle besom: (n, v) broom; (n) brush; (v) bind: (adj, v) attach, fix, fasten, affix; blessed: (adj) happy, holy, cursed, sieve, screen, shovel, rake, filter, (n) band; (v) bandage, lace, fetter, sacred, damned, hallowed, blasted, mop, riddle bundle, truss, combine. fortunate, saintly, lucky, divine. bespatter: (v) vilify, besmear, splash, ANTONYMS: (v) untie, unbind, ANTONYMS: (adj) unlucky, spot, blot, spatter, dabble, fleck, free, unfasten, unravel, permit, condemned, damned, disapproved, begrime, dash, soil loosen, loose, let; (n, v) release; (n) unhappy, unholy, secular bestow: (v) give, confer, grant, pleasure blessing: (n) benediction, approval, impart, contribute, donate, apply, biographical: (adj) biographic mercy, felicity, benison, benefit, award; (adj, v) accord, allow, biography: (n) history, life story, life, luck, advantage, boon, bless, present. ANTONYMS: (v) deprive, life history, memoirs, memoir, story, godsend. ANTONYMS: (n) curse, refuse, withhold, retrieve, withdraw hagiography, animation, misfortune, disaster, condemnation, bestowed: (adj) presented, conferred, biographies, resume adversity, desecration, refusal, veto, awarded, accurate bitterness: (n) acerbity, animosity, disadvantage bestrew: (v) scatter, spread, straw, gall, malice, resentment, enmity, blight: (n, v) blast, decay, plague; (v) disperse, suffuse, cover, acridity, acidity, bitter, rancor, damage, wither, blemish, perish; (n) disseminate, overspread, besprinkle, sharpness. ANTONYMS: (n) joy, bane, pest, curse, rust. ANTONYMS: strew, sprinkle happiness, harmony, kindness, (v) aid, help, guard, protect, betake: (v) wend, apply, address, blandness, friendliness, goodwill, enhance, improve; (n) health, boon, accost, get, obtain, refer, acquire, idealism, affection bounty aim, beget, attach blacken: (v) asperse, bespatter, blighted: (v) broken, wasted, rotten, betimes: (adv) early, soon, anon, rath, malign, denigrate, cloud, darken, moldering, effete, cankered; (adj) betime, ahead of time, rathe defame, calumniate, stain, libel, spoilt, ill-fated, bleak, blasted, bad betoken: (v) augur, foreshadow, tarnish. ANTONYMS: (v) respect, bliss: (n) happiness, joy, ecstasy, prognosticate, bode, foretell, mark, compliment, glorify, honor, pleasure, paradise, blessedness, bespeak, presage, indicate, omen; (n, brighten, praise, lighten felicity, elation, beatitude, heaven, v) denote blackness: (n) black, darkness, sable, blessing. ANTONYMS: (n) misery, betokening: (adj) augural books gloom, nigritude, night, inkiness, sorrow, agony, grief, anguish, betray: (v) deceive, bewray, sell, dark, murk, murkiness, obscurity sadness, suffering, gloom, hell, grass, dupe, reveal, mislead, blacksmith: (n) farrier, horseshoer, dissatisfaction disclose, accuse, befool, bamboozle. forger, locksmith, metalworker, bloodthirstiness: (n) murderousness, ANTONYMS: (v) protect, sailmaker, wheelwright, smithy, blood lust, cruelty, bloodiness undeceive, hide, defend, withhold smith bloom: (adj, n, v) flower; (v) prosper, betraying: (adj) treacherous, blameless: (adj) irreproachable, flourish, thrive, burgeon; (adj, v) revealing, Judas perfect, faultless, unimpeachable, blow, fructify; (n) prime, blush, betwixt: (n) midst; (prep) among, pure, spotless, innocent, guiltless, flush, bud. ANTONYMS: (v) shrivel, amid; | 1 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 54 | broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard some one speak it. Colin began to laugh. "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds." "I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire," answered Mary triumphantly. `I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha' sees I can shape a bit. Doesn't tha' understand a bit o' Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh! I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy face." And then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed. "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like! Whoever on earth would ha' thought it!" There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Colin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked into his ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?" Colin asked. "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure." Colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. "I wish I was friends with things," he said at last, "but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people." "Can't you bear me?" asked Mary. "Yes, I can," he answered. "It's funny but I even like you." "Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. "He said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you are like him too. We are all three alike--you and I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked. But I don't feel as sour as I used to before I knew the robin | 1 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 5 | her belly with approval, and Dany could see the shape of his manhood pressing through his horsehide trousers, below the heavy gold medallions of his belt. She went to him and helped him unlace. 434 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Then her huge khal took her by the hips and lifted her into the air, as he might lift a child. The bells in his hair rang softly. Dany wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck as he thrust himself inside her. Three quick strokes and it was done. "The stallion who mounts the world, " Drogo whispered hoarsely. His hands still smelled of horse blood. He bit at her throat, hard, in the moment of his pleasure, and when he lifted her off, his seed filled her and trickled down the inside of her thighs. Only then was Doreah permitted to drape her in the scented sandsilk, and Irri to fit soft slippers to her feet. Khal Drogo laced himself up and spoke a command, and horses were brought to the lakeshore. Cohollo had the honor of helping the khaleesi onto her silver. Drogo spurred his stallion, and set off down the godsway beneath the moon and stars. On her silver, Dany easily kept pace. The silk tenting that roofed Khal Drogo's hall had been rolled up tonight, and the moon followed them inside. Flames leapt ten feet in the air from three huge stone-lined firepits. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat and curdled, fermented mare's milk. The hall was crowded and noisy when they entered, the cushions packed with those whose rank and name were not sufficient to allow them at the ceremony. As Dany rode beneath the arched entry and up the center aisle, every eye was on her. The Dothraki screamed out comments on her belly and her breasts, hailing the life within her. She could not understand all they shouted, but one phrase came clear. "The stallion that mounts the world, " she heard, bellowed in a thousand voices. The sounds of drums and horns swirled up into the night. Halfclothed women spun and danced on the low tables, amid joints of meat and platters piled high with plums and dates and pomegranates. Many of the men were drunk on clotted mare's milk, yet Dany knew no arakhs would clash tonight, not here in the sacred city, where blades and bloodshed were forbidden. Khal Drogo dismounted and took his place on the high bench. Khal Jommo and Khal Ogo, who had been in Vaes Dothrak with their khalasars when they arrived, were given seats of high honor to Drogo's right and left. The bloodriders of the three khals sat below them, and farther down Khal Jommo's four wives. Dany climbed off her silver and gave the reins to one of the slaves. As Doreah and Irri arranged her cushions, she searched for her brother. Even across the length of the crowded hall, Viserys should have been conspicuous with his pale skin, silvery hair, and beggar's rags, but she did | 1 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 6 | sound of hoofbeats made him glance down the road, to where Theon and the others were coming up. "When he will wake," Robb finished. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword then, and went on in the solemn voice of Robb the Lord. "Bran, I promise you, whatever might happen, I will not let this be forgotten." Something in his tone made Bran even more fearful. "What will you do?" he asked as Theon Greyjoy reined in beside them. "Theon thinks I should call the banners," Robb said. "Blood for blood." For once Greyjoy did not smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and black hair fell down across his eyes. "Only the lord can call the banners," Bran said as the snow drifted down around them. "If your father dies," Theon said, "Robb will be Lord of Winterfell." "He won't die!" Bran screamed at him. Robb took his hand. "He won't die, not Father," he said calmly. 352 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN "Still ... the honor of the north is in my hands now. When our lord father took his leave of us, he told me to be strong for you and for Rickon. I'm almost a man grown, Bran." Bran shivered. "I wish Mother was back," he said miserably. He looked around for Maester Luwin; his donkey was visible in the far distance, trotting over a rise. "Does Maester Luwin say to call the banners too?" "The maester is timid as an old woman," said Theon. "Father always listened to his counsel," Bran reminded his brother. "Mother too." "I listen to him," Robb insisted. "I listen to everyone." The joy Bran had felt at the ride was gone, melted away like the snowflakes on his face. Not so long ago, the thought of Robb calling the banners and riding off to war would have filled him with excitement, but now he felt only dread. "Can we go back now?" he asked. "I'm cold." Robb glanced around. "We need to find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer?" "I can go as long as you can." Maester Luwin had warned him to keep the ride short, for fear of saddle sores, but Bran would not admit to weakness in front of his brother. He was sick of the way everyone was always fussing over him and asking how he was. "Let's hunt down the hunters, then," Robb said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theon dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen. It was nice under the trees. Bran kept Dancer to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk | 1 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 41 | body so I won’t have to pull the car over whenever I leave this fictional place we are all at. Also is “women like to socialize in restrooms” a thing? Is anyone actually “casually chatting” in close proximity to where other people are trying to dislodge their constipated stool? Have I been talking to my friends wrong my whole adult life? If you’re in a clear standoff for some poop privacy, how do you determine who should leave first? I went on a cross-country tour a couple of books ago. Let me immediately disabuse you of the notion that this is a glamorous endeavor. I was supposed to be gone for two months; in theory, that is very exciting. In practice, how am I going to have enough clean underwear? How do I keep my outside clothes from looking like I’ve…worn them outside? Why don’t hotels have washing machines? I would kill for a vegetable served on an actual plate. Where did my charger and my extra travel charger and the charger I packed just in case I misplaced the other two chargers go? People can smell that I don’t have access to my regular toiletries, right? The thing that I was most worried about was the thing I am always the most worried about, i.e., WHERE AM I GONNA POOP? I’m not the one booking the flights, and I’m not in charge of the planes, and, sure, I’m mostly eating Gatorade and Hudson News pretzels, but that doesn’t mean my bowels are gonna cooperate or be predictable! As a matter of fact, they often choose to do the opposite! Most of the days were formatted like this: Flight in the morning; arrive at unfamiliar airport stressed and disheveled after trying to figure out the best way to get a cab in a town that doesn’t have Uber. Land in next tour stop; if it’s too early to check into hotel (call hotel to ask whether it’s too early to check in), collapse in a chair near baggage claim and watch people wrestle their suitcases out of the conveyor until it’s time to check in. Dread the awkward game the front-desk person is gonna make me play while trying to soak in [Denver/Portland/Boston] from the back seat of a speeding car. Arrive at hotel, try not to sound like an asshole while explaining that I’m “On book tour, you know? So my publisher booked the room? You should have a credit card on file from them? I know you need a card to hold for incidentals, but mine will literally catch fire if you insert it into your machine right now? Hold on, let me find the emergency number they put on my itinerary….” Lie down in dark, temperature-controlled hotel room and burn with shame. Put on least-dirty dirty outfit for event, have a lovely time at event, get back to hotel room, and try to do some intestinal math to determine whether I should attempt to eat a real meal that may or may not give me in-air diarrhea the next | 0 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 46 | fetch your money.” Bianca talked with her back to Io, but her voice rang out in the small kitchen, precise and definite. “Your services are no longer required. The Fortuna gang doesn’t get involved with leeches. Whatever you found on Saint-Yves stays between us. I will take care of the rest. Is that understood?” On that last word, she turned, nailing Io with a foreboding look. This was Edei’s warning. This was the danger Io had sensed. She was expected to agree without hesitation. Take her money and leave Saint-Yves and his cops be. But she couldn’t step away now; she was in too deep. Edei must have known. She saw the fear in his face as she opened her mouth to speak. “That’s it?” “That’s it,” Bianca repeated. “This man might have caused the death of six people and have a new wraith under his command, and we’re going to just let it go? Because you want to, what, protect your business from retaliation from the police?” “My business was built on my blood and sweat. Damn right I’m not going to let some murderous rich boy or”—she waved a hand at Io—“some self-proclaimed defender of the weak ruin it. How did you think this was going to go down, little Ora? Let’s say you get your evidence that Saint-Yves is behind the murders. What are you going to do with it? Take it to the City Council? Perhaps you thought you could go higher up to the Agora at Nanzy? Well, I’ve got news for you. These people are as one. They will cover for each other whatever the cost, because if one of them falls, the whole system falls. Who do you think invented Roosters’ Silence to begin with?” “There are other ways.” “Yeah? Like what? Sneak into his house at night, cut his life-thread, and be done with it? You would have done a good deed, but a moira-born killing Alante’s shining hero? You would be hunted to your end of days. So would be Ava and anyone else you might care about. Or maybe you’ll find what’s precious to him and blackmail him to stop. That’s a good plan, isn’t it? No bloodshed, no officials involved. Try it. Go ahead. Try to prevail over the man who believes himself the savior of Alante.” Palms flat on the kitchen island, back straight and rigid, Io thought, This is what cornered animals feel like. Why they lash out with everything they have, killing themselves in the process. Because they can see no other way out. Well, Io didn’t care anymore. She was going to go out with style. “So what you’re saying is you will do nothing,” she snapped. “All that drivel about protecting the Silts, it was just talk?” Bianca took a step closer. “This is my queendom, cutter. I take care of my own. I’ll hire a hundred men if I have to. There won’t be any more wraiths stalking my streets, no more bodies floating in the tide. But I’m not going against Saint-Yves. I’m smarter | 0 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 11 | granted, since it wasn’t granted back in ’95. And all of this was the best-case scenario, the pipe dream. We arrived, finally, at a resort much larger than I’d anticipated, a parking lot teeming with out-of-state SUVs. “God, I didn’t think this through,” I said. I’d had some vision of staking the place out all day, but it was already three p.m., and I didn’t want to make Britt retrace these mountain roads in the dark. She messed around on her phone, then put it on speaker, deftly navigating the phone menu of the resort spa until she reached a silken-voiced woman. “Yes,” Britt said, “my name is Beth Docherty. I believe my husband made an appointment for me today, but he forgot to tell me what time.” Shuffling and confusion on the other end, and the woman said, “I have you as already checked in for your 2:30 facial. Are you not—” Britt hung up on her and tossed me her phone like a hot potato, and we sat gasping with laughter. I said, “My friends and I could’ve used you at Granby. We spent so much time pranking people on the dorm phones. You never knew who’d pick up.” 29 I waited on a cushioned bench outside the second-floor spa, a place called Seasons! that emanated a soothing shea butter scent even through its marbled glass doors. Britt had sauntered into the business center like she lived there and headphoned up to work on edits. Something I wish I’d figured out earlier in life: Walk into any place like you belong, and you will. I killed time watching a video Jerome had sent of Silvie jumping rope on our driveway. Her legs were so strong, her face so jubilant with concentration and success. She jumped normally, then crossed her arms, then normal, crossed, normal, crossed. A new trick. I thought of a friend in LA who’d said recently, of her own daughter, “It feels wrong to give her all this happiness and confidence when we know what’s coming. Seventh grade’s gonna hit like a wall. It feels like fattening a pig for slaughter.” But what was the alternative? Starving the pig? Beth emerged from the spa looking down at her phone. She was makeup-less, her face raw but glowing, and she wore spa-issued green foam flip-flops, cotton between her freshly magentaed toes. She carried her shoes in her hand. I stood from the bench with enough urgency to attract her attention. She looked me fully up and down, as if the bottom half of my body might explain what I was doing here. She said, “What. The fuck.” I had considered whether I’d explain or apologize or try to pretend it was all a coincidence, but what I’d settled on was “I’m going to buy you a drink downstairs and then I’ll get out of your hair forever. But you need to come with me right now.” When you’re kidnapping someone, it’s best to be assertive. And despite muttering to herself and sending a voice message to her husband that | 0 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 5 | so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.'' Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming -- at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire. The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure. ``Let me first see how he behaves,'' said she; ``it will then be early enough for expectation.'' She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance. Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 41 | tick.” I laugh, my breath a gust of white in the space between us. “Should we explain to her that I wasn’t really dating Greg?” “Nah. Millicent’s too busy launching feces wars to care about any of that.” “You . . .” I try to sound casual. “Do you always call her Millicent?” “It’s her name.” “I mean, why not Grandma, or Gram, or Granny, or Mawmaw—” “Mawmaw?” “Whatever. Babushka. Maternal Forebear.” Jack’s expression goes inscrutable. “It’s good, calling people by their names. It minimizes misunderstandings.” I think I see a split second of hesitation, like maybe he’s thinking of saying more, but it’s fleeting, swiftly gone in the glistening snow. “Come on. I’ll take you home before your roommate sends out an Amber Alert.” I nod, because I do need to sort out the mess that is my life in a Smith-free space. But then something occurs to me: the rest of my life is going to be a Smith-free space. A Jack-free space. I’ll probably never see him again. Why would I? The circles we move in are a Venn diagram with little overlap. Maybe we’ll meet at a physics conference two years down the road, when I’m still an adjunct teaching forty classes a week and he’s workshopping his Nobel lecture. But my arrangement with Greg is likely over, which means that this is it. The last time I’ll see Jack. This man, this maddening, impossible, space-taking man who seems to know me despite all that I do to not be known, will be gone from my life. I should be eager to go back to simpler times, when I used to spend zero hours a week in his company and my brain wasn’t made of guacamole, but . . . what a waste. What a surprisingly terrifying perspective. And that’s why I stop him with a tug on the sleeve of his coat. Why I open my mouth and say with no forethought, no premeditation, and a lot of reckless panic, “Youcantakemeout.” It comes out with no pauses or intonation, just a bunch of sounds smooshed together. Which Jack, judging by the knot between his brows, did not understand. I clear my throat. Take a deep breath. “If you still want to. And if it’s okay with Greg. You can take me out.” Jack just stares, motionless, reactionless, for way too long. “Take you out . . . in the mob way?” “No. No! That’s not at all what I—” I blush. I’m cold and tired and my head hurts and I have no idea what I’m doing and why won’t he understand? “I can come to your place. I can take you out.” He nods. Slowly. “In the mob way.” “No, I—” I notice it, the amused gleam in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m trying to say. I press my lips together, because I don’t want to encourage him, I don’t want to smile, but I’m about to. “I hate you.” “Sure you do.” “Why is everything so difficult with you?” “I like to | 0 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 50 | nice to be less alone in the dark. Silence. I don’t know what to call you. Could you tell me your name? I think it will separate us again. Let’s try. We can find our way back to one another. Dumai is my name. And yours? I am— At once, the connexion unravelled, and Dumai fell headlong from the dream, so cold her teeth chattered. She huddled closer to the stove, wishing she could speak to the Grand Empress. Her grandmother might know how to make sense of this. It took mental strength to sustain that dream, and her body was drained from swimming. This time, she let herself descend into a heavy slumber. Halfway through the night, she stirred, thinking of a smile that curved like a blade. Her hand slid to the ache between her thighs. In the loose, warm hold of sleep, she imagined that it was someone else touching her. Have you lost your senses? She sat up with a sharp intake of breath, heart dancing in her chest. This time, the voice in her head was her own: Are you so hungry for touch that you would crave it from a hunter? **** She stole to the bathhouse before dawn to wash, dressing in the garments that had been sent from the palace – a white tunic under a pale blue jacket, trousers of soft yellow silk that sat high on her waist. (The flight had creased her own clothes beyond saving.) She combed her hair, smoothing it several times, frowning uncertainly. She looked down and saw two drops of blood on the floor. A breath of pure relief escaped her. That was why she had yearned in the dark. She often felt soft ripples of desire on her first day. It was nothing to do with Kuposa pa Nikeya. One of the worshippers brought her bloodleaf. No more. Dumai rolled it into a stopper. No more. She faced her reflection. Her father had told her not to take a crown to Sepul – only a modest headpiece and his Privy Seal. She tucked it into a sleeveless overcoat, fastened with a silver belt. Queen Arkoro had been generous to send clothes appropriate for a princess. Kanifa took her to the palanquin at the top of the waterfall, where Nikeya waited on a horse, dressed in a fine pink coat. ‘I don’t recall inviting you, Lady Nikeya,’ Dumai said irritably. ‘Good morning to you, too, Princess.’ Some of her hair was unbound, while the rest was rolled and braided over her scalp. ‘Queen Arkoro has summoned all three dragonriders.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I have no idea, but let’s consider it a blessing. I understand you aren’t yet fluent in Sepuli,’ Nikeya said. ‘Fortunately, I am. I can serve as your interpreter.’ ‘Queen Arkoro will have her own.’ ‘Surely you need one as well, to ensure you don’t blunder Seiiki into a political disaster. You may have learned to swim, Princess, but a fish in a pond does not know the sea.’ ‘This fish is weary of your unsolicited advice,’ | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 84 | Instead I rang the personnel office to figure out what happened, and an hour went by before I got a call back. I was told it would be a while longer. If I wanted to bail on the job, this was probably my last chance. An old mentor had reached out earlier in the week to ask me if I was sure I was making the right choice. Jim Kolbe had served as a congressman for more than twenty years in the House (until 2007) and was one of the rare Republican leaders to oppose Trump in the general election. To him, it looked as if only bootlickers were going into the administration, and I should keep my guard up. At a minimum, Jim told me I should carry a draft resignation letter at all times. “Don’t stay too long,” the ex-lawmaker advised. I assured him I was joining a team that understood the situation. Secretary Kelly was the right leader for DHS and would shield the department from Trump’s never-ending political controversies. No draft resignation letter was needed. I scrolled through Twitter while I waited in the Visitor Center, catching breaking news in my feed. A driver on the Westminster Bridge in London had just mowed down dozens of pedestrians before crashing into the gates outside the UK Parliament. Twitter users reported a nearby knife attack on police. Details were murky, but it looked like a terrorist attack in progress. I got a call. “Where are you?” Kirstjen Nielsen, the DHS chief of staff, was looking for me to brief the secretary on the attack. She was flustered when I told her I was stuck at security, and promptly hung up. Minutes later an assistant from the secretary’s office arrived on a golf cart and told the guards to let me through. They obliged. I was whisked into the complex, toward one of the many red-brick buildings, through several checkpoints, past a skeptical Secret Service agent, and beyond frosted-glass double doors. I was in. The secretary’s suite hummed with activity. A group of staffers huddled on phones and military aides moved purposefully between offices. Kirstjen emerged from their midst. Shoulder-length blond hair and not an inch taller than five-four, she wasn’t exactly intimidating, unless you knew how seriously she took her job. I did. We had worked together briefly during the Bush years, and she had no tolerance for wasted time. She waved me impatiently into John Kelly’s office, without a “How are you?” or “Welcome to DHS!” “Hey Miles.” Kelly greeted me from behind a large brown desk. “Whatta we got?” He and Kirstjen wanted the latest on the London attack. I explained that I’d just arrived and only knew what I’d seen on Twitter—not from any intelligence reports, calls with law enforcement, or any official sources whatsoever. Anything was better than nothing, Kelly said. He was expecting Trump’s call any moment since this was the first terrorist attack in the West during his presidency. Kelly was worried Trump might pin the blame on Syrian immigrants, post about his Muslim | 0 |
99 | spare.txt | 78 | class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We raced to the local hospital. When the doctor walked into the room, I<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">didn’t hear one word she said, I just watched her face, her body language. I<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">422<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">already knew. We both did. There had been so much blood.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Still, hearing the words was a blow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Meg grabbed me, I held her, we both wept.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">by paps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">duty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">And now.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We left the hospital with our unborn child. A tiny package. We went to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">a place, a secret place only we knew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Under a spreading banyan tree, while Meg wept, I dug a hole with my<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">hands and set the tiny package softly in the ground.<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">83.<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">FE IVE MONTHS LATER. Christmas 2020.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We took Archie to find a Christmas tree. A pop-up lot in Santa<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Barbara.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We bought one of the biggest spruces they had.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">We brought it home, set it up in the living room. Magnificent. We stood<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">back, admiring, counting our blessings. New home. Healthy boy. Plus,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">we'd signed several corporate partnerships, which would give us the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">chance to resume our work, to spotlight the causes we cared about, to tell<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">the stories we felt were vital. And to pay for our security.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">It was Christmas Eve. We FaceTimed with several friends, including a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">few in Britain. We watched Archie running around the tree.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">And we opened presents. Keeping to the Windsor family tradition.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">One present was a little Christmas ornament of...the Queen!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I roared. What the—?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span | 0 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 88 | find out all I can about Count Dracula,as it may help me to understand. Tonight he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion. Midnight.--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a Boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we", and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can, for it tells in its way the story of his race. "We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin game them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, aye, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the werewolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?" He held up his arms. "Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we were proud, that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier, that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkeyland. Aye, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for as the Turks say, `water sleeps, and the enemy is sleepless.' Who more gladly than we throughout the Four Nations | 1 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 27 | taking the manila folder he pushed across the table—felt heightened, unconsciously orchestrated. And she gathered his gestures too, like clues: the way he threw back his head as he laughed at her description of forgetting her shoes earlier, the way he caught his lower lip in his teeth as the two of them looked over the laboratory results. “High carbon,” she said. “The conservatory fire?” “Probably.” They were talking about work, but another conversation ran under the surface. She’d had workplace crushes before, most recently on a literary historian in Sussex whom she’d met at a pub for passionate discussions about the flowers in William Wordsworth’s poems until he put his hand on her knee under the table and she realized that she’d gone too far. It was a delicate game, she thought, as she and Gabriel ate, feeding your sensuality, remembering that you had a sense of humor and a clitoris while continuing to follow the rules of marriage. Those rules were out the window now that she and Peter had separated. But she felt more at ease with Gabriel pretending they were still there, so she’d given him no indication that her marriage was in trouble. “Twenty more minutes and we go,” she said, as the moon appeared like an open parenthesis. “If I still prayed, I’d be praying right now.” “When did you stop?” Gabriel was eating chow mein out of a carton. They’d decided to skip the plates and were handing the cartons back and forth. “April 1986.” “You seriously remember? That was a rhetorical question.” “Yes, because I had a bike accident later that month and I thought God was punishing me.” She’d been fourteen, and her liturgy class was reading Thomas Aquinas. Her doubts about the contradictions of Catholicism had been multiplying for some time, but when she realized Aquinas condoned early abortion, her faith crumbled. Now she turned in her shoulder to show Gabriel the fish-shaped scar. “I literally slammed into a brick wall.” “Did you go back to praying after your punishment?” Gabriel said. “No. I figured it was too late. I just moved my lips during Mass. But I have arthritis now in that shoulder, so I’m still being punished.” Once stars had joined the moon in a cobalt sky, they left for the mansion. Gabriel drove behind Maud along the grand drive that led from the farmhouse into a swamp of obscurity, the lines between trunk, branch, sky, and roof indistinct. They parked parallel on the lawn by the conservatory and turned on the high beams. Gabriel stood off to the side while Maud walked past the flagged beds, crouched down, stood up, squinted in the dark. And there, faint as an Etch A Sketch drawing, she made out a vague circle. A figure eight. The suggestion of a square. “I see them,” she called to Gabriel. “No way,” he said, coming closer to look. “You were right.” “It was even bigger than I thought,” Maud said. She almost dropped into one of Louise’s lopsided cartwheels. “There are plenty of flags in | 0 |
53 | After Death.txt | 74 | fabricated shape, which contrasts with the rambled wildness of grass and brush, one other object declares its significance—what appears to be a spade that has been spiked in the earth by its blade and stands erect. After a frozen moment, the green figure, like a specter that might have risen out of dark waters deep in the hollows of the Earth and might now wither back into that sea of damnation, instead drops the body in its arms and pivots toward the SUV. The dead woman doesn’t strike the ground and lie in a pale greenness of tangled limbs, but disappears entirely into the grave that has been dug for her. The license plate of the SUV is fuzzy, the numbers and letters like smeared ink on the green background, but readable. Gog and Magog record it, and Michael burns it in his memory. Although no trial seems necessary to determine guilt, he doesn’t command the robots to shoot down the killer, and they return to the journey on which they were embarked as the engine of the SUV fires up and it wheels away from the open grave. Before his death—or something like death—Michael lamented the evil that humanity condoned. Since his return to life, he’s come to see that the evil he previously recognized was like an ultrasound image of a suspicious mass; with his new gift, he has surgically opened the patient and has found that the cancer is more widespread than he ever imagined. If it is true, as some say, that a beast of supernatural nature is the prince of this world, then no task of greater importance exists than to bring hard justice to him and his legion of princelings in the name of the innocent and generations yet unborn. Since coming to life in a makeshift morgue, Michael has not been able quite to see the shape of his future, to understand how he can best use his power. The encounter at the lonely grave has clarified his intentions for him. If he survives this night, he has a good idea how to be the agent of truth that events have made him. Already he has slid into the DMV records and learned the name of the owner of that SUV. He has obtained the GPS code from the manufacturer of the vehicle and will know where it stops when the fleeing murderer garages it. He has also found a smartphone GPS locater issuing from the identical position of the SUV and moving with it now. It surely belongs to the killer. Rifle in hand, he hurries into the kitchen. Nina and John have packed one cooler and closed it. The boy is almost done layering the last of the money in the second cooler, and Nina is shaping a length of aluminum foil to lay over it. Michael puts the AR-15 down and helps with the ice, then with the cans of soda and beer. They’re finished with the task in two minutes. Nina expects to load the containers in the back of the | 0 |
84 | Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt | 97 | not the point. Abel’s talking magic and counting the days until the spell begins to work,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling, presumably at Abel’s apartment. “You enjoy chatting with him!” “Seven days since we dubbed the film and seven days of calls. He’s even calling me at my job. He phones more than once. Yesterday he called three times. This is serious.” Tristán sighed and tried to maneuver her out of the bedroom, but Montserrat stood her ground. She practically hissed at him. So she was going to be in that kind of mood today. “What are you going to do about this?” “We didn’t promise him results.” “No, but that’s what he wants. He’s asked twice if I did the dubbing correctly. He even wants me to screen the nitrate print again, and he keeps calling me. You told me you’d phone him.” “I’ve been busy.” “He’s drinking too much. Double whiskey hour is turning into double whiskey evening.” “Oh, Abel downs a drink or two, but it’s no big deal.” “I guess you’re not one to judge.” Tristán frowned, prickled by the implication. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Montserrat met his eyes. “Talk with Abel.” “I’ll have a chat with him.” “When?” “I don’t know, tonight or tomorrow. Sometime next week,” he said, his irritation mounting. He hated it when people pressured him, most of all Montserrat, because she was aware that he hated it. He also hated reminders, he hated veiled threats, and he hated the way she was pursing her lips at him. “He called at eleven p.m. last night.” “I need to finish getting ready. Can I have my suits?” “The bill wasn’t paid, and I had to cover it myself. Let me find the receipt,” she muttered, as she tried to fish inside her purse with one hand while holding the hangers with the other. “Oh, give me that!” he said angrily, tugging at the hangers. “I should tell the cleaning lady to pick it up next time. Then I wouldn’t have neurotic fights over my clothes.” Montserrat opened her mouth in surprise. Two seconds later she tossed the garment bags in his face. “Yeah, you should pay the cleaning lady to pick up your clothes,” she said. “You should pay a cab driver to take you places, too. In fact, why don’t you start doing that right now?” “For fuck’s sake, Momo, I have an appointment with Dora! I thought you were giving me a lift!” “I’m not your chauffeur.” She left, slamming the door shut so hard he thought it would fall off its hinges. Tristán hurried to his bedroom and changed. As he buttoned his shirt and stood in front of the mirror, he noticed that the tap was dripping again. It was unbelievable that his brand-new apartment could have plumbing issues, but it was the second time that week that he’d closed the tap only to find a trickle of water flowing when he walked into the bathroom later in the day. He did not want to call a plumber. | 0 |
6 | Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt | 92 | kind. Without loudly bidding Bartleby depart—as an inferior genius might have done—I assumed the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption built all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more I was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I had my doubts,—I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the coolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the morning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever.—but only in theory. How it would prove in practice—there was the rub. It was truly a beautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby’s departure; but, after all, that assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby’s. The great point was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether he would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than assumptions. After breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities pro and con. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and Bartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next moment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I kept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw quite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation. “I’ll take odds he doesn’t,” said a voice as I passed. “Doesn’t go?—done!” said I, “put up your money.” I was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own, when I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had overheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or non-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of mind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my excitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on, very thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary absent-mindedness. As I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood listening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the knob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I was almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the door mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me, when accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a summoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within—”Not yet; I am occupied.” It was Bartleby. I was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in mouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a summer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and remained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one touched him, when he fell. “Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, | 1 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 88 | list lived in Carlotta’s dresser. No one else was supposed to know (not even Marco; he told Sakina about everyone’s dick just for fun), but senior year, on our morning walk to the mattresses, I filled Geoff in. Geoff seemed only amused, especially once I assured him he wasn’t on it. He said, “You need to add me. Please. Can you make me nine inches long with the balls of a god?” For weeks, he’d mouth it to me in the hall or the dinner line: balls of a god. Is it wrong if that still cracks me up? Unlike the bingo sheet, our list didn’t put anyone in danger, didn’t turn anyone into a ring to be grabbed. Plus, dicks were in our faces, figuratively or literally, whether we wanted them there or not. I never sought out a dick, hoping to see it, until college. But here they were. Even nervous Brian Wynn, that summer, had been the one to undo his belt, push my head down with his sweaty hand. Dorian Culler exposed himself to me three times. Once was in the back hallway of the gym. He’d passed where I sat on the floor studying, then returned with a couple of friends, already laughing. He said, “Bodie, when you snuck into my room last night you left a bite mark on my cock.” He pulled it out the top of his gym shorts and managed a confused, wounded look. Instinctively, I held my hand up to block my view—he was only a few feet away—and he said, “God, Bodie, look at you reaching for me again. You’re insatiable. And when I’m wounded! I need medical attention.” I chastised myself for doing the wrong thing. What would the right thing have been? They left, but I had a feeling they’d be back so I scooped up my books and found another floor to sit on. Which is all to say: Documenting the dicks of Granby felt more like revenge than predation. I tried to imagine Jerome whipping it out in front of Jasmine Wilde. But no, Jerome was not Dorian. I tried to imagine Jerome pulling her onto his lap at an after-party. I tried to imagine him saying, “You should come by my studio tonight; I’ll give you some pointers.” Or “You know I can make or break people in this world.” Just because you can’t picture someone doing something doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of it. All of this went through my head in the time it took Lola to find a photo of Mike on their laptop—his official shot from the UConn website—and show the class. Britt was bouncing in her corner seat. “Can I interview him? Lola, can I interview him?” Lola shrugged. I said, “He knew Thalia pretty well. He’d know Omar, too. He was an athlete.” Mike would have more to say than I had: Another ski star, he was one of Robbie Serenho’s best friends. He’d been both in the show and at the mattresses. He’d likely spoken to the police at | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 64 | happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas. "She was main fond o' them--she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th' blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she was one o' them as looked down on th' earth--not her. She just loved it but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful." The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses--the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades --they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. Colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even gray days pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watching things growing," he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. Also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him | 1 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 6 | c a n s e e , i t w o u l d b e w i s e r a n d m o r e j u d i c i o u s i f y o u w e r e t o t a k e t o y o u r s e l f t h e o r i g i n a l a t o n c e . " B y t h i s t i m e h e h a d s a t d o w n ; h e h a d l a i d t h e p i c t u r e o n t h e t a b l e b e f o r e h i m , a n d w i t h h i s b r o w s u p p o r t e d o n b o t h h a n d s , h u n g f o n d l y o v e r i t . I d i s c e r n e d h e w a s n o w n e i t h e r a n g r y n o r s h o c k e d a t m y a u d a c i t y . I s a w e v e n t h a t t o b e t h u s f r a n k l y a d d r e s s e d o n a s u b j e c t h e h a d d e e m e d u n a p p r o a c h a b l e t o h e a r i t t h u s f r e e l y h a n d l e d w a s b e g i n n i n g t o b e f e l t b y h i m a s a n e w p l e a s u r e a n u n h o p e d - f o r r e l i e f . R e s e r v e d p e o p l e o f t e n r e a l l y n e e d t h e f r a n k d i s c u s s i o n o f t h e i r s e n t i m e n t s a n d g r i e f s m o r e t h a n t h e e x p a n s i v e . T h e s t e r n e s t - s e e m i n g s t o i c i s h u m a n , a f t e r a l l ; a n d t o " b u r s t " w i t h b o l d n e s s a n d g o o d w i l l i n t o " t h e s i l e n t s e a " o f t h e i r s o u l s i s o f t e n t o c o n f e r o n t h e m t h e f i r s t o f o b l i g a t i o n s . " S h e l i k e s y o u , I a m s u r e , " s a i d I , a s I s t o o d b e h i n d h i s c h a i r , " a n d h e r f a t h e r r e s p e c t s y o u . M o r e o v e r , s h e i s a s w e e t g i r l r a t h e r t h o u g h t l e s s ; b u t y o u w o u l d h a v e s u f f i c i e n t t h o u g h t f o r b o t h y o u r s e l f a n d h e r . Y o u o u g h t t o m a r r y h e r . " " D o e s s h e l i k e m e ? " h e a s k e d . " C e r t a i n l y ; b e t t e r t h a n s h e l i k e s a n y o n e e l s e . S h e t a l k s o f y o u c o n t i n u a l l y ; t h e r e i s n o s u b j e c t s h e e n j o y s s o m u c h o r t o u c h e s u p o n s o o f t e n . " " I t i s v e r y p l e a s a n t t o h e a r t h i s , " h e s a i d , " v e r y g o o n f o r a n o t h e r q u a r t e r o f a n h o u r . " A n d h e a c t u a l l y t o o k o u t h i s w a t c h a n d l a i d i t u p o n t h e t a b l e t o m e a s u r e t h e t i m e . " B u t w h e r e i s t h e u s e o f g o i n g o n , " I a s k e d , " w h e n y o u a r e p r o b a b l y p r e p a r i n g s o m e i r o n b l o w o f c o n t r a d i c t i o n , o r f o r g i n g a f r e s h c h a i n t o f e t t e r y o u r h e a r t ? " " D o n ' t i m a g i n e s u c h h a r d t h i n g s . F a n c y m e y i e l d i n g a n d m e l t i n g , a s I a m d o i n g ; h u m a n l o v e r i s i n g l i k e a f r e s h l y - o p e n e d f o u n t a i n i n m y m i n d a n d o v e r f l o w i n g w i t h s w e e t i n u n d a t i o n a l l t h e f i e l d I h a v e s o c a r e f u l l y , a n d w i t h s u c h l a b o r , p r e p a r e d s o a s s i d u o u s l y s o w n w i t h t h e s e e d s o f g o o d i n t e n t i o n s , o f s e l f - d e n y i n g p l a n s . A n d n o w i t i s d e l u g e d w i t h a n e c t a r o u s f l o o d t h e y o u n g g e r m s s w a m p e d d e l i c i o u s p o i s o n c a n k e r i n g t h e m ; n o w I s e e m y s e l f s t r e t c h e d o n a n o t t o m a n i n t h e d r a w i n g - r o o m a t V a l e H a l l , a t m y b r i d e R o s a m o n d O l i v e r ' s f e e t ; s h e i s t a l k i n g t o m e w i t h h e r s w e e t v o i c e g a z i n g d o w n o n m e w i t h t h o s e e y e s y o u r s k i l l f u l h a n d h a s c o p i e d s o w e l l s m i l i n g a t m e w i t h t h e s e c o r a l l i p s . S h e i s m i n e I a m h e r s t h i s p r e s e n t l i f e a n d p a s s i n g w o r l d s u f f i c e t o m e . H u s h ! s a y n o t h i n g m y h e a r t i s f u l l o f d e l i g h t m y s e n s e s a r e e n t r a n c e d l e t t h e t i m e I m a r k e d p a s s i n p e a c e . " I h u m o r e d h i m . T h e w a t c h t i c k e d o n : h e b r e a t h e d f a s t a n d l o w . I s t o o d s i l e n t . A m i d t h i s h u s h t h e q u a r t e r s p e d ; h e r e p l a c e d t h e w a t c h , l a i d t h e p i c t u r e d o w n , r o s e , a n d s t o o d o n t h e h e a r t h . " N o w , " | 1 |
5 | Anne of Green Gables.txt | 11 | don't care if I do hurt your feelings by saying so! I hope I hurt them. You have hurt mine worse than they were ever hurt before even by Mrs. Thomas' intoxicated husband. And I'll NEVER forgive you for it, never, never!" Stamp! Stamp! "Did anybody ever see such a temper!" exclaimed the horrified Mrs. Rachel. "Anne go to your room and stay there until I come up," said Marilla, recovering her powers of speech with difficulty. Anne, bursting into tears, rushed to the hall door, slammed it until the tins on the porch wall outside rattled in sympathy, and fled through the hall and up the stairs like a whirlwind. A subdued slam above told that the door of the east gable had been shut with equal vehemence. "Well, I don't envy you your job bringing THAT up, Marilla," said Mrs. Rachel with unspeakable solemnity. Marilla opened her lips to say she knew not what of apology or deprecation. What she did say was a surprise to herself then and ever afterwards. "You shouldn't have twitted her about her looks, Rachel." "Marilla Cuthbert, you don't mean to say that you are upholding her in such a terrible display of temper as we've just seen?" demanded Mrs. Rachel indignantly. "No," said Marilla slowly, "I'm not trying to excuse her. She's been very naughty and I'll have to give her a talking to about it. But we must make allowances for her. She's never been taught what is right. And you WERE too hard on her, Rachel." Marilla could not help tacking on that last sentence, although she was again surprised at herself for doing it. Mrs. Rachel got up with an air of offended dignity. "Well, I see that I'll have to be very careful what I say after this, Marilla, since the fine feelings of orphans, brought from goodness knows where, have to be considered before anything else. Oh, no, I'm not vexed-don't worry yourself. I'm too sorry for you to leave any room for anger in my mind. You'll have your own troubles with that child. But if you'll take my advice-which I suppose you won't do, although I've brought up ten children and buried two-you'll do that `talking to' you mention with a fairsized birch switch. I should think THAT would be the most effective language for that kind of a child. Her temper matches her hair I guess. Well, good evening, Marilla. I hope you'll come down to see me often as usual. But you can't expect me to visit here again in a hurry, if I'm liable to be flown at and insulted in such a fashion. It's something new in MY experience." Whereat Mrs. Rachel swept out and away-if a fat woman who always waddled COULD be said to sweep away-and Marilla with a very solemn face betook herself to the east gable. On the way upstairs she pondered uneasily as to what she ought to do. She felt no little dismay over the scene that had just been enacted. How unfortunate that Anne should have | 1 |
26 | Pride And Prejudice.txt | 19 | not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with: ``It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- _I_ talked about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.'' He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said. ``Very well. -- That reply will do for the present. -- Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. -- But _now_ we may be silent.'' ``Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?'' ``Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of _some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as as possible.'' ``Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?'' ``Both,'' replied Elizabeth archly; ``for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. -- We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.'' ``This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,'' said he. ``How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. -- _You_ think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.'' ``I must not decide on my own performance.'' He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, ``When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.'' The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, ``Mr. Wickham is blessed with | 1 |
16 | Great Expectations.txt | 55 | of utter contempt. "That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with you this very day?" She seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied, "Quite true." "You cannot love him, Estella!" Her fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily, "What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do not mean what I say?" "You would never marry him, Estella?" She looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her work in her hands. Then she said, "Why not tell you the truth? I am going to be married to him." I dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better than I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear her say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a ghastly look upon Miss Havisham's, that it impressed me, even in my passionate hurry and grief. "Estella, dearest dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this fatal step. Put me aside for ever - you have done so, I well know - but bestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham gives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done to the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly love you. Among those few, there may be one who loves you even as dearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can bear it better, for your sake!" My earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have been touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all intelligible to her own mind. "I am going," she said again, in a gentler voice, "to be married to him. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be married soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by adoption? It is my own act." "Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute?" "On whom should I fling myself away?" she retorted, with a smile. "Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if people do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is done. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me into what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me wait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which has very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say no more. We shall never understand each other." "Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!" I urged in despair. "Don't be afraid of my being a blessing to him," said Estella; "I shall not be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary boy - | 1 |
Subsets and Splits