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14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 79 | don't like." "All right, all right," said Julian, beginning to laugh. "My goodness, how you do go up in smoke! Honestly, I believe anyone could light a cigarette from the sparks that fly from your eyes!" That made George laugh, though she didn't want to. It was really impossible to sulk with good-tempered Julian. They went off to bathe in the sea for the fifth time that day. Soon they were all splashing about happily, and George found time to help Anne to swim. The little girl hadn't got the right stroke, and George felt really proud when she had taught her. "Oh, thanks," said Anne, struggling along. "I'll never be as good as you- but I'd like to be as good as the boys." As they were going home, George spoke to Julian. "Could you say that you want to go and buy a stamp or something?" she said. "Then I could go with you, and just have a peep at old Tim. He'll be wondering why I haven't taken him out today." "Right!" said Julian. "I don't want stamps, but I could do with an ice. Dick and Anne can go home with your mother and carry the things. I'll just go and tell Aunt Fanny." He ran up to his aunt. "Do you mind if I go and buy some ice-creams?" he asked. "We haven't had one today. I won't be long. Can George go with me?" "I don't expect she will want to," said his aunt. "But you can ask her." "George, come with me!" yelled Julian, setting off to the little village at a great pace. George gave a sudden grin and ran after him. She soon caught him up and smiled gratefully at him. "Thanks," she said. "You go and get the ice-creams, and I'll have a look at Tim." They parted, Julian bought four ice-creams, and turned to go home. He waited about for George, who came running up after a few minutes. Her face was glowing. "He's all right," she said. "And you can't imagine how pleased he was to see me! He nearly jumped over my head! I say- another ice-cream for me. You really are a sport, Julian. I'll have to share something with you quickly. What about going to my island tomorrow?" "Golly!" said Julian, his eye's shining. "That would be marvellous. Will you really take us tomorrow? Come on, let's tell the others!" The four children sat in the garden eating their ices. Julian told them what George had said. They all felt excited. George was pleased. She had always felt quite important before when she had haughtily refused to take any of the other children to see Kirrin Island- but it felt much nicer somehow to have consented to row her cousins there. "I used to think it was much, much nicer always to do things on my own," she thought, as she sucked the last bits of her ice. "But it's going to be fun doing things with Julian and the others." The children were sent to wash | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 80 | spoon clatters. “Are you not letting him smack the salmon because of the article he wrote? Is his seventeen-year-old self cockblocking him from the past?” I frown—at her usage of salmon and at the reminder that why, yes, the guy I’m going out with did do that. And it’s not that I ever forget. It’s just that I truly cannot reconcile it—the way Jack is when we’re together, kind and funny and even admiring of my work, and the fact that fifteen years ago — “Elsie? Is that it?” “No. No, he’s just . . . not planning on having sex with me.” Her eyes widen. “Are you planning on having sex with him?” Maybe. Probably. No. Should I? I want to. I’m scared. Maybe. “I have to go.” I chew on the inside of my cheek and pick up my purse. Then stop at the door when Cece says, “Hey, Elsie?” I turn around. “You look pretty tonight.” Her big eyes are warm. “Even more than usual.” I smile. I think I look medium as usual, but my heart feels open all of a sudden, open for Cece, this beautiful, odd person who cannot read analog clocks or tell the difference between left and right, who’s been sticking with me through thin and thin and thin for the past seven years. For a moment, all I want is to open my mouth and say, I hate art house movies. Could we watch a rom-com sometimes? Riverdale? Literally any Kardashian show? What comes out is “You look like a weirdo, pouring milk before the cereal, but I love you anyway.” I step out to her middle finger. Then my phone rings, and that’s when my night collapses like an accordion. In my defense, I pick up assuming it’s Jack, calling to say that he’s late, or that I’m late, or that someone hammered him in the frontal lobe and the resulting brain injury helped him realize that he doesn’t want to see me ever again. A tragic miscalculation on my part, because: “Elsie, finally. You need to come home right now.” “Mom?” “Lance is now with Dana. And Lucas punched him after the soccer game. Everyone saw.” God. “But I talked to them last week. Lance said he wasn’t interested—” “He lied, Elsie. I’m disappointed in you for not picking up on it.” “I—” I exhale, stepping out of the building. “He seemed sincere.” “That’s why you need to come home and help me sort this out. I have been so tense and jittery. My poor nerves.” “Mom, I can’t. I don’t have a car, for one. And I have classes.” “Just find a substitute teacher.” “That’s not—I’m not—Mom.” I spot Jack’s car. It’s freezing cold. Every instinct yells at me to first finish my conversation, but I cannot resist getting in. The seat is already heated, Jack’s hair still shower damp, curling in soft wisps on his neck. He looks freshly shaved and smells divine—like soap they sell in fancy boutiques and the hollow of his throat when I slept nestled | 0 |
2 | A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt | 61 | Stephen's arms, he went on again and said: --Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day of Judgement? --What is offered me on the other hand? Stephen asked. An eternity of bliss in the company of the dean of studies? --Remember, Cranly said, that he would be glorified. --Ay, Stephen said somewhat bitterly, bright, agile, impassible and, above all, subtle. --It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. Did you believe in it when you were at school? I bet you did. --I did, Stephen answered. --And were you happier then? Cranly asked softly, happier than you are now, for instance? --Often happy, Stephen said, and often unhappy. I was someone else then. --How someone else? What do you mean by that statement? --I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become. --Not as you are now, not as you had to become, Cranly repeated. Let me ask you a question. Do you love your mother? Stephen shook his head slowly. --I don't know what your words mean, he said simply. --Have you never loved anyone? Cranly asked. --Do you mean women? --I am not speaking of that, Cranly said in a colder tone. I ask you if you ever felt love towards anyone or anything? Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath. --I tried to love God, he said at length. It seems now I failed. It is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant by instant. In that I did not always fail. I could perhaps do that still-- Cranly cut him short by asking: --Has your mother had a happy life? --How do I know? Stephen said. --How many children had she? --Nine or ten, Stephen answered. Some died. --Was your father... Cranly interrupted himself for an instant, and then said: I don't want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father what is called well-to-do? I mean, when you were growing up? --Yes, Stephen said. --What was he? Cranly asked after a pause. Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes. --A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a story-teller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a tax-gatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past. Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and said: --The distillery is damn good. --Is there anything else you want to know? Stephen asked. --Are you in good circumstances at present? --Do I look it? Stephen asked bluntly. --So then, Cranly went on musingly, you were born in the lap of luxury. He used the phrase broadly and loudly as he often used technical expressions, as if he wished his hearer to understand that they were used by him without conviction. --Your mother must have | 1 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 24 | mom. Are you mad at me? Why haven’t you returned any of my texts? Should I message you on Facebook? Sam clicks on the next voice mail. FERNANDO (O.S.) Listen, you never told me whether or not you’d be into joining this intramural badminton league with me, and I gotta let the dude know by tomorrow. Hit me back. Sam rolls her eyes like, “Yeah right,” and clicks Next as we PULL OUT. AMY (O.S.) Samantha, it’s Amy, your boss. Dennis left, frankly, a rather incoherent message on the bakery machine? Something about the van being stolen? Should I— JENNY (O.S.) Jenny again. Are we in a fight? Did that guy from the bar murder you? Also, would you mind blocking my mom on Facebook? HOT BABE (O.S.) Hey, sorry about leaving so fast. But I think I forgot my wallet at your place? Oh, by the way, this is— Sam deletes this last message, and we PULL UP IN A SLOW CRANE SHOT and watch her continue shuffling along the sidewalk. DENNIS (O.S.) Sam! You shit at these white people’s wedding and then left me here without a ride? This is why I told you I don’t trust your sneaky ass. And did you steal the fucking van? Sam! Sammm! Boss lady is gonna kill me, Sam!! * * * — END OF EPISODE what if i died like elvis A reason I don’t do too much superficial maintenance is that it is hard to sustain. Maybe it’s depression, although it also could be apathy or possibly even extreme boredom, but the idea of regularly dragging my lumpy, smelly body into a harshly lit salon to pay for someone, who is wondering what I’m even doing this for, to spread hot sugar wax on my face, and use a little piece of cloth to rip the hairs out of it, feels the same to me as imagining myself waking up bright and early one morning and strapping a pair of hiking boots on to go climb a mountain. I have just taken my first sip of water today at 2:57 p.m., I cannot be a person who reliably gets treatments done to herself. I don’t like the nail salon because in my daily life, I am trying to apologize less for simply existing, and that’s impossible to do in a place where a stranger you’ve known for thirty seconds acts personally insulted by the ragged state of your cuticles. I hate being attended to, even when I’m paying and tipping 25 percent for it, because not only do I not deserve it, but I will also never maintain it. As soon as I’m ushered into the chair (after circling the parking lot for five minutes, and after getting water all up my sleeves during the pre-manicure compulsory handwashing), I automatically begin my well-rehearsed atonement for my weak nails and lack of exfoliation as the nail technician tsks loudly at all the work ahead of her. I don’t even get anything fancy, I just pick whatever deep purplish shade I land on | 0 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 51 | only with miserable dimness, the figures with which I did my best to people it. The characters of the narrative would not be warmed and rendered malleable by any heat that I could kindle at my intellectual forge. They would take neither the glow of passion nor the tenderness of sentiment, but retained all the rigidity of dead corpses, and stared me in the face with a fixed and ghastly grin of contemptuous defiance. "What have you to do with us?" that expression seemed to say. "The little power you might have once possessed over the tribe of unrealities is gone You have bartered it for a pittance of the public gold. Go then, and earn your wages" In short, the almost torpid creatures of my own fancy twitted me with imbecility, and not without fair occasion.% It was not merely during the three hours and a half which Uncle Sam claimed as his share of my daily life that this wretched numbness held possession of me. It went with me on my sea-shore walks and rambles into the country, whenever-- which was seldom and reluctantly--I bestirred myself to seek that invigorating charm of Nature which used to give me such freshness and activity of thought, the moment that I stepped across the threshold of the Old Manse. The same torpor, as regarded the capacity for intellectual effort, accompanied me home, and weighed upon me in the chamber which I most absurdly termed my study. Nor did it quit me when, late at night, I sat in the deserted parlour, lighted only by the glimmering coal-fire and the moon, striving to picture forth imaginary scenes, which, the next day, might flow out on the brightening page in many- hued description. If the imaginative faculty refused to act at such an hour, it might well be deemed a hopeless case. Moonlight, in a familiar room, falling so white upon the carpet, and showing all its figures so distinctly--making every object so minutely visible, yet so unlike a morning or noontide visibility--is a medium the most suitable for a romance-writer to get acquainted with his illusive guests. There is the little domestic scenery of the well-known apartment; the chairs, with each its separate individuality; the centre-table, sustaining a work-basket, a volume or two, and an extinguished lamp; the sofa; the book-case; the picture on the wall-- Thesaurus brightening: (n) blooming, polishing, tonic, brisk, healthy, wholesome, infinitesimally, diminutively, nicely, limb, illumination, first blush, break cordial, benign, curative, crisp, exactly, microscopically. of day. fascinating. ANTONYMS: (adj) noontide: (n) noon, midday, high glimmering: (n) inkling, ghost, soporific, soothing, relaxing, tiring, noon, summit, top, apex, zenith, luminosity, light, hint, apparition, dull, debilitating, deadly. acme, pinnacle, climax, culmination. radiance; (adj) glittering, glimmery, kindle: (adj, v) inflame; (v) fire, excite, torpor: (n) lethargy, lassitude, stupor, crepusculous, sciolism. arouse, burn, flame, awaken, incite, languor, indolence, sluggishness, illusive: (adj) deceptive, false, enkindle, stir; (n, v) light. listlessness, torpidity, torpidness; delusive, imaginary, fallacious, ANTONYMS: (v) enkindle, dampen, (adj, n) inactivity, inertia. unreal, seeming, ostensible, apparent, calm, extinguish, quench, stifle. ANTONYMS: (n) energy, vigor, | 1 |
92 | The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt | 85 | duplicate. Locating his room was laughably easy. It was the only one besides my own with its own set of guards. Wes and Jeru did not look pleased to see me. “Ren came by to tell us he couldn’t find you,” Wes said. “I took a bath.” “Your hair is dry.” “I didn’t wash it. Let me pass. I have a matter of urgency to discuss with the Heir.” Jeru glanced at Wes with a shrug. “He told us she could enter as she pleased.” My brows lifted. He did? Wes knocked on the door twice. “Sire?” “Enter,” came Arin’s distracted voice. Wes sighed and swung the door open for me. Arin didn’t glance up when I slid inside. Wes closed the door with a resentful thud. The Nizahl Heir had his back to me. He wore a pair of loose sleep pants, tied low at his waist, and nothing else. A dinner tray sat abandoned on the bed. Arin bent over a table, hip cocked to the side as he scribbled on some parchment. I studied the strong slope of his shoulders, the notches of his spine. I vaguely wondered if his back would be harder to break than the soldier’s. “Your room is bigger than mine,” I remarked. The muscles in Arin’s back locked. I dropped to the bed, flicking around the items on his tray. I dipped a piece of his bread into the dark green molokhia. It had long since gone cold, and the skin on top stuck to my bread. Arin turned. He sat back, bracing his hands on the table. “Do you want to trade?” I swallowed the bite in my mouth with difficulty. My gaze lingered on his chest. The evidence of our encounter with the Ruby Hound hadn’t fully healed. The bandage looked much cleaner than the sleeves I had haphazardly wrapped around it. “No. Mine is closer to the stairs.” Dania’s sacred skirt, but he was so pale. As though someone stretched a thin sheet of parchment over him and named it skin. On another, I’d call it sickly, but Arin’s torso was long and lean. His body carried the kind of power gained from years of relentless combat. The elegance of his beauty shone in the sharp cut of his hips, the hollows of his collarbones. Arin arched a brow, altogether too entertained for my taste. “Is anything the matter, Sylvia? You’ve grown pale.” I rolled my eyes. Of course he wasn’t ignorant of his effect on others. His appeal was another weapon in his arsenal, honed to deadly perfection. “My natural complexion, I assure you.” The echo of an exchange uttered a lifetime ago. I carried the tray over to the table, giving him his privacy. Arin swiped a tunic from the wardrobe and tugged it over his head. I exhaled when he was clothed again, pressing my knuckles to overwarm cheeks. May Vaida be damned to the tombs. It was strange. I had spent my formative years without more than a passing interest in the men of Mahair. Even if | 0 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 88 | stump near the garden footprint. Now she ripped open the envelope. Punica granatum. Native to the Himalayas. Praised in the Babylonian Talmud. Grown in the gardens of Alcinous. Brought to California by the Spanish. If she planted a new tree soon, it would blossom this spring and lure hummingbirds and swallowtails from the meadows to its crimson flowers. She knocked on the frame of the director’s open door and held up the paper. “Maria,” she said, “it was a pomegranate. Can I go ahead and plant it?” “Maybe.” Maria looked up from her laptop. “I’ve got news for you too. Could you shut the door?” Under an asymmetrical bob, Maria’s round face was punctuated by chunky black glasses. Her office—the epicenter of a proposed restoration at El Polín—abounded with maps and diagrams, sticky notes and charts. She moved a stack of files off a chair so Maud could sit down. “I think I’ve found us a donor,” she said. “Have you heard of Alice Lincoln?” “The artist? The one with the basket at the de Young?” Woven from wrought iron, the basket towered on the lawn outside the museum café. “Yup,” Maria said, “that one. Turns out she’s from old Boston money.” Alice Lincoln’s father, she added, had died six months ago and left his daughter a fortune. “She’s giving it all away as fast as she can to Bay Area nonprofits run by women. I managed to schedule a meeting with her. How quickly can you put together a garden design?” “I can improvise something now,” Maud said, “but it’ll be sketchy. I’m still waiting on lab results.” “Sketchy’s fine. I want to give her an idea of what it would look like. I’m asking for the entire budget, the house and garden restoration, the school programs, the garden maintenance, summer camps. Everything.” “From what I know of Alice Lincoln,” Maud said, “you’d think she’d be interested.” The placard at the de Young described Alice Lincoln as a “feminist icon and lesbian pioneer” and the basket as a “monument to matriarchy.” This would seem to make her the perfect donor for Tennessee Hollow, which had belonged to the family of Juana Briones, an entrepreneur and healer known as the “Mother of San Francisco.” “It’s not so easy to predict with her,” Maria said. “So far, she’s a pain. Totally controlling and totally indifferent. She’s some kind of Luddite hermit. She and I exchanged three letters to set a date for this meeting—and I mean letters on paper with stamps. Apparently she doesn’t have a cell or even internet. She called me from a pay phone in town this morning. And she made it very, very clear that she wants to remain anonymous, so I’m only telling you and the archaeology team.” “Is there anyone else we can ask if she says no?” “No one who could get us the money fast enough,” Maria said. She frowned. “If we don’t secure funding by next month, I’ll have to close the digs.” Maud hadn’t known that was a possibility. Maria was so savvy | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 71 | came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. Colin knew something new was coming. "Because what?" he cried eagerly. Mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. "Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I trust you--for sure--for sure?" she implored. Her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. "Yes--yes!" "Well, Dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him." "Oh! Oh!" Colin cried out in delight. "But that's not all," Mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement. "The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is under the ivy on the wall." If he had been a strong healthy boy Colin would probably have shouted "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath. "Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get into it? Shall I live to get into it?" and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. "Of course you'll see it!" snapped Mary indignantly. "Of course you'll live to get into it! Don't be silly!" And she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and Colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured. "It is just what you thought it would be," he said at last. "It sounds just as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told me first." Mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth. "I had seen it--and I had been in," she said. "I found the key and got in weeks ago. But I daren't tell you--I daren't because I was so afraid I couldn't trust you--for sure!" CHAPTER XIX "IT HAS COME!" Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Colin had had his tantrum. He was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. On this occasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon. "How is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived. "He will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence." "Well, sir," answered Mrs. Medlock, "you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. That plain sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just | 1 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 6 | deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt | 1 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 39 | leave behind. Carlotta wasn’t going to make it. I’d known it for weeks now, I’d felt it as a dull ache, but then Sakina confirmed it as we walked back to the inn that night. And Sakina knew what she was talking about. I’d been right: I’d found out eventually from Carlotta herself, it was her left breast. Well, now it was everywhere, in her bones and liver and lungs. But it had started in her left breast. 9 Early the next morning, before they were due in court, I met for practice testimony with two of the assistant defense counsel in the “Blue Ballroom” of the Calvin Inn—a room that resembled a ballroom only in size. Its blueness came from an elaborate paisley carpet that must have camouflaged a few decades of stains. They’d pushed banquet tables together, and we sat on padded white-and-gold chairs with high backs, ones clearly meant for weddings. We’d originally thought I might testify that afternoon, but the state was taking far more time than anticipated to cross-examine each witness, and now it was likely I’d go late tomorrow. More time to second-guess every word I planned to say. Britt would take the stand today, I knew from Alder’s texts, and speak to the discovery of the blood evidence. I’d told Alder he could let me know who was testifying, as long as he didn’t report what they said. He was also allowed to tell how the judge seemed (Looks like a serious dude who’s secretly a fun grandpa, Alder wrote, unhelpfully. Wish I could read his mindddd) and how Omar was doing (Hard to tell. He’s not supposed to react . . .), but I’d get to see both those things for myself soon. “Amy wanted me to remind you about sequestration,” the younger attorney, Hector, said. I cringed, assuming I was in trouble, but he handed me a sheet from a pile, one with the judge’s orders typed out in bullet points. It wasn’t personal. “It’s a small town,” he said, “so it’ll be hard, but just don’t do anything that would look bad, okay?” Hector was right out of law school, with a trace of what I’d learned was a Colombian accent, and pained, intelligent eyes. He came across as nervous in person as he had on Zoom, every sentence quavering out like he was onstage and hated public speaking. The older one, Liz, looked like Lisa Kudrow. Liz, who would be playing Amy for the session, launched right in. Hector recorded everything on his phone for Amy to review later. Easy questions first: my name, my job, the dates I attended Granby, the dates I roomed with Thalia. Then some tougher ones about my time on campus in 2018, my role in the podcast, my role in the discovery of the blood. Then: “Defense Exhibit 58 is this Granby planner for the 1993 to 1994 school year. Do you recognize this planner?” In this instance it was only a thin stack of colored Xeroxes, but I nodded, then remembered to say “yes.” | 0 |
52 | A-Living-Remedy.txt | 23 | much. A country that first abandons and then condemns people without money who have the temerity to get sick, accusing them of causing their own deaths. It is still hard for me not to think of my father’s death as a kind of negligent homicide, facilitated and sped by the state’s failure to fulfill its most basic responsibilities to him and others like him. With our broken safety net, our strained systems of care and support, the deep and corrosive inequalities we have yet to address, it’s no wonder that so many of us find ourselves alone, struggling to get the help we need when we or our loved ones are suffering. What killed my father, on paper, was diabetes and kidney failure: common indeed, the eighth- and tenth-leading causes of death in the United States in 2020, according to the Centers for Disease Control. But failing organs, life-threatening infections, death in his sixties—these were not inevitable outcomes, nor matters of pure chance and inheritance, an avalanche of genetic misfortune. He needed access to quality health care in order to manage and treat his illnesses. He needed it throughout his life, not only in his final years, when it was granted as a crisis response only after his kidneys had failed. His mother lived longer and had greater access to life-prolonging treatment in the 1960s and 1970s than her son had in the twenty-first century. * * * For her part, for reasons I will never comprehend, my mother assigns herself some blame. She knew that he was slowing down. Should she have realized that his death was close? Had she missed important signs? If she had known more, could she have done more for him? I beg her not to think that way. It’s not her fault. She worked so hard to take care of him. I want to ask if she or Dad blamed me for being so far away. For not being able to help more. I realize that I am afraid to hear the answer, and the question seems too great a burden to add to the ones she already carries. What I feel is not pure self-recrimination—I know his illness wasn’t my fault, either. But the regret and anger I bear is a constant ache, fierce and gnawing and deep, so entwined with my grief that I cannot begin to parse where one feeling ends and another begins. 9 After my father died, his sister asked my mother when she would be shipping his body “home.” Mom was so confused that she had to repeat the question. My parents had spent all but the first few years of their married life in Oregon, and still his family considered Ohio not only Dad’s true home but his final resting place. When Mom told me this upon my arrival in Oregon, it was the first time I’d laughed, really laughed, since learning of his death. There are so many things you do for a person after they die, things they don’t really need—the living do. Rituals, memorial services, acts | 0 |
42 | The Silmarillion.txt | 24 | the deep mansions of Nogrod or Belegost There he learned much of metalwork, and came to great skill therein; and he devised a metal as hard as the steel of the Dwarves, but so malleable that he could make it thin and supple; and yet it remained resistant to all blades and darts. He named it galvorn, for it was black and shining like jet, and he was clad in it whenever he went abroad. But El, though stooped by his smithwork, was no Dwarf, but a tall Elf of a high kin of the Teleri, noble though grim of face; and his eyes could see deep into shadows and dark places. And it came to pass that he saw Aredhel Ar-Feiniel as she strayed among the tall trees near the borders of Nan Elmoth, a gleam of white in the dim land. Very fair she seemed to him, and he desired her; and he set his enchantments about her so that she could not find the ways out, but drew ever nearer to his dwelling in the depths of the wood. There were his smithy, and his dim halls, and such servants as he had, silent and secret as their master. And when Aredhel, weary with wandering, came at last to his doors, he revealed himself; and he welcomed her, and led her into his house. And there she remained; for El took her to wife, and it was long ere any of her kin heard of her again. It is not said that Aredhel was wholly unwilling, nor that her life in Nan Elmoth was hateful to her for many years. For though at El's command she must shun the sunlight, they wandered far together under the stars or by the light of the sickle moon; or she might fare alone as she would, save that El forbade her to seek the sons of Fanor, or any others of the Noldor. And Aredhel bore to El a son in the shadows of Nan Elmoth, and in her heart she gave him a name in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor, Lmion, that signifies Child of the Twilight; but his father gave him no name until he was twelve years old. Then he called him Maeglin, which is Sharp Glance, for he perceived that the eyes of his son were more piercing than his own, and his thought could read the secrets of hearts beyond the mist of words. As Maeglin grew to full stature he resembled in face and form rather his kindred of the Noldor, but in mood and mind he was the son of his father. His words were few save in matters that touched him near, and then his voice had a power to move those that heard him and to overthrow those that withstood him. He was tall and black-haired; his eyes were dark, yet bright and keen as the eyes of the Noldor, and his skin was white. Often he went with El to the cities of the Dwarves in the east of Ered Lindon, | 1 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 5 | much control over my film adaptations—I have no training as a screenwriter, and besides, social media is always abuzz with gossip about this or that novelist who had a falling-out with the director. I don’t want to be a creative diva. And maybe they have a point. Who wants to go to the theater and watch a bunch of people speaking in Chinese for two hours? I mean, wouldn’t you go see a Chinese film instead? We’re talking about a blockbuster made with an American audience in mind. Accessibility matters. “Thanks for understanding.” Justin beams. “We talk to authors sometimes, and they—you know . . .” “They’re very picky,” says Harvey. “They want every scene in the movie to match the book, word for word.” “And they don’t get that film is a totally different medium, and requires different storytelling skills,” says Justin. “It’s a translation, really. And translation across mediums is inherently unfaithful to some extent. Roland Barthes. An act of translation is an act of betrayal.” “Belles infidèles,” says Harvey. “Beautiful and unfaithful.” “You get it, though,” says Justin. “Which is awesome.” And that’s the end of it. This is awesome. I am awesome. We are all so, so excited to make things work. I keep waiting for them to offer more substantive details. How much money is on the table? What’s their timeline? Are they going to start reaching out to this Danny Baker kid, like, tomorrow? (Harvey made it sound like he would DM him right away.) But all they’re giving me are vagaries, and I get the sense that this is perhaps not the right context to press. So I sit back and let them buy me some overpriced strudel (named the “Inglourious Pastry”) and chat at me about how gorgeous the waterfront is. Justin handles the check, and both of them hug me tightly before we part ways. I stroll until they’ve turned around the opposite corner, and then I dash back into the café and pee for a full minute. THAT WENT OKAY. I EMAIL BRETT A SUMMARY OF THE MEETING AS I stroll back over the bridge to Rosslyn. I think they liked me, but it seems like they’re still feeling out some things before there’s cash on the table. I don’t think Jasmine Zhang is attached, which is weird? Pretty standard as far as Hollywood meetings go, Brett responds. They were just getting a sense of you as a person. Hard offers don’t come until later. Not sure what’s going on with Jasmine, though it does seem like the main interest is coming from Justin. I’ll keep you updated if there’s any news. I’m impatient to hear more, but this is how things are. Publishing crawls. Gatekeepers sit on manuscripts for months, and meetings happen behind closed doors while you’re dying from anticipation on the outside. Publishing means no news for weeks, until you’re standing in line at Starbucks or waiting for the bus, and your phone pings with the email that will change your life. So I head down into the metro, | 0 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 64 | the sperm whale, once struck, is allowed time to rally, he then acts, not so often with blind rage, as with wilful, deliberate designs of destruction to his pursuers; nor is it without conveying some eloquent indication of his character, that upon being attacked he will frequently open his mouth, and retain it in that dread expansion for several consecutive minutes. But I must be content with only one more and a concluding illustration; a remarkable and most significant one, by which you will not fail to see, that not only is the most marvellous event in this book corroborated by plain facts of the present day, but that these marvels (like all marvels) are mere repetitions of the ages; so that for the millionth time we say amen with Solomon --Verily there is nothing new under the sun. In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magistrate of Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor and Belisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his own times, a work every way of uncommon value. By the best authorities, he has always been considered a most trustworthy and unexaggerating historian, except in some one or two particulars, not at all affecting the matter presently to be mentioned. Now, in this history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term of his prefecture at Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured in the neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmora, after having destroyed vessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty years. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be gainsaid. Nor is there any reason it should be. Of what precise species this sea-monster was, is not mentioned. But as he destroyed ships, as well as for other reasons, he must have been a whale; and I am strongly inclined to think a sperm whale. And I will tell you why. For a long time I fancied that the sperm whale had been always unknown in the Mediterranean and the deep waters connecting with it. Even now I am certain that those seas are not, and perhaps never can be, in the present constitution of .. <p 209 > things, a place for his habitual gregarious resort. But further investigations have recently proved to me, that in modern times there have been isolated instances of the presence of the sperm whale in the Mediterranean. I am told, on good authority, that on the Barbary coast, a Commodore Davis of the British navy found the skeleton of a sperm whale. Now, as a vessel of war readily passes through the Dardanelles, hence a sperm whale could, by the same route, pass out of the Mediterranean into the Propontis. In the Propontis, as far as I can learn, none of that peculiar substance called brit is to be found, the aliment of the right whale. But I have every reason to believe that the food of the sperm whale --squid or cuttle-fish --lurks at the bottom of that sea, because large creatures, but by | 1 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 82 | date. This same shop-door had been a subject of No slight mortification to the present occupant of the august Pyncheon House, as well as to some of her predecessors. The matter is disagreeably delicate to handle; but, since the reader must needs be let into the secret, he will please to understand, that, about a century ago, the head of the Pyncheons found himself involved in serious financial difficulties. The fellow (gentleman, as he styled himself) can hardly have been other than a spurious interloper; for, instead of seeking office from the king or the royal governor, or urging his hereditary claim to Eastern lands, he bethought himself of no better avenue to wealth than by cutting a shop-door through the side of his ancestral residence. It was the custom of the time, indeed, for merchants to store their goods and transact business in their own dwellings. But there was something pitifully small in this old Pyncheon's mode of setting about his commercial operations; it was whispered, that, with his own hands, all beruffled as they were, he used to give change for a shilling, and would turn a half-penny twice over, to make sure that it was a good one. Beyond all question, he had the blood of a petty huckster in his veins, through whatever channel it may have found its way there. Immediately on his death, the shop-door had been locked, bolted, and barred, and, down to the period of our story, had probably never once been opened. The old counter, shelves, and other fixtures of the little shop remained just as he had left them. It used to be affirmed, that the dead shop-keeper, in a white wig, a faded velvet coat, an apron at his waist, and his ruffles carefully turned back from his wrists, might be seen through the chinks of the shutters, any night of the year, ransacking his till, or poring over the dingy pages of his day-book. From the look of unutterable woe upon his face, it appeared to be his doom to spend eternity in a vain effort to make his accounts balance. And now--in a very humble way, as will be seen--we proceed to open our narrative. II The Little Shop-Window IT still lacked half an hour of sunrise, when Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon--we will not say awoke, it being doubtful whether the poor lady had so much as closed her eyes during the brief night of midsummer--but, at all events, arose from her solitary pillow, and began what it would be mockery to term the adornment of her person. Far from us be the indecorum of assisting, even in imagination, at a maiden lady's toilet! Our story must therefore await Miss Hepzibah at the threshold of her chamber; only presuming, meanwhile, to note some of the heavy sighs that labored from her bosom, with little restraint as to their lugubrious depth and volume of sound, inasmuch as they could be audible to nobody save a disembodied listener like ourself. The Old Maid was alone in the old house. Alone, except for | 1 |
71 | Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt | 66 | secrets unspoken. Bishop’s car crunched away down the road. I made my way up the steps. Dad hadn’t locked the door. Never did. Even after what had happened to me, he’d never shaken the belief that bad things just didn’t happen in a town like Chester. The day he had to lock his door, he’d tell me, was the day he’d find a good rope and a strong beam and put himself out of his misery. I pushed open the door, not yet stepping over the threshold. I knew exactly where Dad would be: in his chair, magazines stacked four feet high beside him, an avalanche of boxes, busted shelves, books, and God-knew-what filling every bit of the living room apart from a narrow path to the chair and sightlines to the TV. Only there wasn’t a path to the armchair. In a couple places the mustard-brown carpet showed through, but newspapers, magazines, Tupperware, and random detritus I couldn’t identify covered most of it. The house smelled rank, like something had died in here. For a minute I was afraid it was Dad, until I remembered that Bishop had just talked to him. “Dad?” I called, hovering in the doorway. Indistinct shifting and settling marked his movement, but it was a long time before he actually appeared. I was still unprepared when he emerged from the warren and we stood face-to-face. He’d gotten old. Obviously he’d gotten older, but I hadn’t expected that he’d get old. He’d withered like a dead beetle drying out in the sun. His hair had receded, baring flaky, red skin, and he stood canted like he was trying to find an angle that didn’t ache. He wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, both of them faded but relatively clean. He looked me up and down with his pale, watery eyes and grunted. “Didn’t know you were in town.” “Good to see you, too, Dad,” I replied. I swallowed. “You going to invite me in?” “No,” he said. I crossed my arms; he grunted again. “Suit yourself.” He backed up, because there wasn’t room to step aside. I followed him into the gloom. He took a right, weaving his way between stacks of plastic grocery bags. I didn’t know what was in them. I could only hope it wasn’t perishable food. “What are you here for?” he asked. “Checking in on you,” I said, balancing on one foot as I stepped over a spilled pile of magazines. “Still alive, aren’t I?” he asked. “I crossed paths with Chief Bishop just now.” “Nice lady,” he said, pausing to look at me. “Wants to evict me. Put me in a home.” I raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.” “Sarcasm. That’s all you’ve got,” he muttered. “Are you here to tell me I’ve got to clean this place up? Because I’ve already heard it.” He lurched his way toward the kitchen. I followed apprehensively. I braced myself, ready for mold and rat droppings, but it wasn’t as far gone as I’d feared. The stove had two burners clear, and | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 45 | webbed shoes to make it easier for them. Francois, guiding the sled at the gee- pole, sometimes exchanged places with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was no ice at all. Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition. He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old life. A dainty eater, he found that his mates, finishing first, robbed him of his unfinished ration. There was no defending it. While he was fighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of the others. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did hunger compel him, he was not above taking what did not belong to him. He watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever malingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when Perrault's back was turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting away with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was unsuspected; while Dub, an awkward blunderer who was always getting caught, was punished for Buck's misdeed. This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect private property and personal feelings; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper. Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller's riding-whip; but the completeness | 1 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 15 | chapter?) Although the Miss Gunns dwell on this difference, Eliot remarks that Nancy is more of a lady than they are, despite her lack of education. Next you see Nancy beside another Raveloe lady, her sister Priscilla. By comparison, Nancy's special qualities shine out. Priscilla definitely talks like a country girl. The same dress that makes Nancy look lovely makes Priscilla look sallow and dumpy. Nancy, however, insists that as sisters they should dress alike. (What does this tell you about Nancy?) Priscilla does have common sense. Compare her realistic attitude toward staying home and keeping house for their father (as George Eliot did) to Nancy's high-minded reluctance about Godfrey. Downstairs at tea, Nancy reflects that marrying Godfrey would make her mistress of this house. She admits to herself that she loves him but her morals won't let her unbend. Eliot speaks of this as Nancy's "inward drama." Do you think she approves or disapproves of Nancy's attitude? While Godfrey and Nancy sit silently, highly conscious of each other, the rest of the party comes alive. Squire Cass is in a loud, merry, patronizing mood. Mr. Lammeter sits in self-contained dignity. Dr. Kimble busily chats to everyone in the room. Eliot points out that these people aren't aristocrats. The Squire's comments about Godfrey and Nancy are boorish. Even Dr. Kimble is not a great doctor--he inherited his practice. Imagine how Godfrey and Nancy feel as they sit here. Music, which is so important to Raveloe, is introduced by white-haired Solomon Macey, the fiddler. He respects the gentry but he respects his music, too, and it gives him a special role. He plays the tunes people expect to hear, old songs rich in memories. Music gives him power over them, like a Pied Piper, as he leads the party into the parlor to dance. Not only are all the gentry here, selected villagers round out the scene. An elaborate social ritual is at work, which everyone seems to enjoy. The villagers comment as they watch the gentry dance, much as people today may comment upon a TV show they're watching. From this quarter, you get another view of Nancy and Godfrey. The villagers agree on Nancy's beauty, but opinion on Godfrey is divided. An accident (fate or bad luck?) calls Nancy and Godfrey off the dance floor. Nancy's dress has been torn, and she must sit in the next room until Priscilla can help her fix it. Eliot presents the lovers' conversation dramatically, letting you know just enough of what each is feeling to add an undertone of passion to the careful banter. Godfrey tries to tell Nancy he loves her. She rebuffs him coldly, firmly, but with a trace of hurt pride that gives him hope. Even after Priscilla arrives, Godfrey stays near, hanging on to these few moments with Nancy. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 12 Just then, while Godfrey is happily forgetting his marriage, his wife is headed toward the Red House. This isn't a coincidence--she chose this night deliberately so she could shame Godfrey in public. She wants revenge because | 1 |
99 | spare.txt | 38 | a trick, and laugh. Oh,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">how he’d laugh! Then he’d realize it was me. And laugh louder!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I couldn’t wait.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The next night, as everyone tucked into their dinner, I tiptoed out of the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">meal tent. I went down the footpath, fifty meters, into the kitchen tent, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">poured a whole teacup of Tabasco into Marko’s bowl of pudding. (It was<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">bread and butter, Mummy’s favorite.) The kitchen crew saw me, but I put a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">finger to my lips. They chuckled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Scurrying back into the meal tent, I gave Tiggy a wink. I’d already taken<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">her into my confidence and she thought the whole caper brilliant. I don’t<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">remember if I told Willy what I was up to. Probably not. I knew he wouldn’t<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">have approved.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I squirmed, counting the minutes until dessert was served, fighting back<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">giggles.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Suddenly someone cried out: Whoa!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Someone else cried: What the—!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">In unison we all turned. Just outside the open tent was a tawny tail<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">swishing through the air.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Leopard!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Everyone froze. Except me. I took a step towards it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Marko gripped my shoulder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The leopard walked away, like a prima ballerina, across the footpath<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">where I’d just been.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I turned back in time to see the adults all look at one another, mouths<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">open. Holy fuck. Then their eyes turned towards me. Holy fuuuuck.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">They were all thinking the same thing, picturing the same banner headline<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">back home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Prince Harry Mauled by Leopard.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">The world would reel. Heads would roll.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking about Mummy. That<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">leopard was clearly a sign from her, a messenger she’d sent to say:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Allis well. And all will be well.<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">59<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">At the same time I also thought: The horror!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">What if Mummy were to come out of hiding | 0 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 68 | slightly too broadly and gave people the unnerving impression that he was about to go for their neck. He struck most of the friends he had made on Earth as an eccentric, but a harmless one -- an unruly boozer with some oddish habits. For instance he would often gatecrash university parties, get badly drunk and start making fun of any astrophysicist he could find till he got thrown out. Sometimes he would get seized with oddly distracted moods and stare into the sky as if hypnotized until someone asked him what he was doing. Then he would start guiltily for a moment, relax and grin. "Oh, just looking for flying saucers," he would joke and everyone would laugh and ask him what sort of flying saucers he was looking for. "Green ones!" he would reply with a wicked grin, laugh wildly for a moment and then suddenly lunge for the nearest bar and buy an enormous round of drinks. Evenings like this usually ended badly. Ford would get out of his skull on whisky, huddle into a corner with some girl and explain to her in slurred phrases that honestly the colour of the flying saucers didn't matter that much really. Thereafter, staggering semi-paralytic down the night streets he would often ask passing policemen if they knew the way to Betelgeuse. The policemen would usually say something like, "Don't you think it's about time you went off home sir?" "I'm trying to baby, I'm trying to," is what Ford invariably replied on these occasions. In fact what he was really looking out for when he stared distractedly into the night sky was any kind of flying saucer at all. The reason he said green was that green was the traditional space livery of the Betelgeuse trading scouts. Ford Prefect was desperate that any flying saucer at all would arrive soon because fifteen years was a long time to get stranded anywhere, particularly somewhere as mindboggingly dull as the Earth. Ford wished that a flying saucer would arrive soon because he knew how to flag flying saucers down and get lifts from them. He knew how to see the Marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairan dollars a day. In fact, Ford Prefect was a roving researcher for that wholly remarkable book The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Human beings are great adaptors, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur's house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur's accepted role to lie squelching in the mud making occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr Prosser's accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers' accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage. | 1 |
83 | Romantic-Comedy.txt | 83 | that ideas that seem right in the moment can seem wrong later, and that a lot of things are reversible but killing yourself isn’t. She said this matter-of-factly, not unlike the way she used to say that you don’t brush your teeth because it’s interesting, you brush your teeth because you need to brush your teeth (as a kid, I complained that brushing my teeth was “boring”). I suspect that my dad’s demons are part of what drew my mother to Jerry’s stability and reliability. But from the time I was young, there was this category of things my mother would refer to as Mommy-Sally secrets, like eating leftover cake for breakfast, or both of us taking a sick day and having a picnic just because the weather was beautiful, or, even though she didn’t curse in front of Jerry, if just she and I were in the car and she thought another driver was being unsafe, she’d say in a quiet but crisp voice, “What a fucking asshole.” She conveyed to me without ever saying it outright that we all have public and private selves, which also was a very important lesson. Oddly, this ties into why I’ve been thinking I should leave TNO. With every passing year, I can feel how the writers coming up behind me are increasingly different from me. This, to be honest, is anxiety-inducing but also refreshing and appropriate and cycle-of-lifey—like, maybe it’s time for me to make way for other people. And one of the ways that the writers in their twenties are different is that they DON’T seem to think we all have public and private selves. They’re fine just having public selves and openly discussing their mental health issues and their medical issues and their sex habits and their family trauma. I find it really nice to be able to talk to you about all this stuff (or, so far, some of it), but I wouldn’t talk about it with most people. Would you? Regarding my relationship with alcohol, in normal life, I have a drink or two at the TNO after-party, and I don’t drink much otherwise—maybe a glass of wine if I’m meeting Viv for dinner, but after she got pregnant, when she didn’t order one, I didn’t either. The one time besides the TNO party when I always have a drink is on a first date, to calm my nerves. So I guess the truth is that I do use it as a crutch, just not very often (oops, did I just reveal I don’t go on first dates very often? By choice!). But it seems very understandable that you wonder about other people’s drinking habits. You actually are not my first pen pal. You’re probably my best one, though, or at least this little diversion we have going is very enjoyable. Do you think it’s beautiful when two people are each other’s firsts, or do you think that inevitably creates awkwardness and it’s better when one is more experienced and can guide the other? from: Noah Brewster <[email protected]> to: | 0 |
43 | The Turn of the Screw.txt | 1 | with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked, I have no doubt, as if I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart. The person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little Miles himself. My perambulations had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation as a consequence of his having at the piano, the day before, kept me, in Flora's interest, so beguiled and befooled. The stamp of publicity had of course been fully given by her confinement and departure, and the change itself was now ushered in by our nonobservance of the regular custom of the schoolroom. He had already disappeared when, on my way down, I pushed open his door, and I learned below that he had breakfasted-- in the presence of a couple of the maids--with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as he said, for a stroll; than which nothing, I reflected, could better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. What he would not permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled: there was a queer relief, at all events--I mean for myself in especial--in the renouncement of one pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him. It sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for my dignity, I had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity. He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never to touch it again; as I had amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, I had uttered, on the subject of the interval just concluded, neither challenge nor hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet when he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the accumulations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow. To mark, for the house, the high state I cultivated I decreed that my meals with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs; so that I had been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which I had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present I felt afresh--for I had felt it again and again-- how my equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will | 1 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 53 | I find a YMCA with a gym and pay to use the shower. Afterward, I go to the laundromat, where I doze in a chair as my clothes and sleeping bag wash and dry, and then I go to work. I force a cheerful demeanor, but it doesn’t increase my tips. By the end of the shift, I’ve stopped trying. With the night’s meager earnings in my pocket, I drive back up north, to that upscale community, to the secluded alcove. In the dark, I struggle to find the bags I stashed in the bushes, but they are still there, untouched. I put them in the car, recline my seat, and sleep. Hard and deep. Until I hear it. A sharp tapping on the glass beside my head wrenches me into consciousness. I lurch forward, hands groping for the knife in my lap. I grasp it, just as I make out the face framed in the window, backlit by the rising sun. It’s not a cop or a thief or a rapist. It’s her. The drowning woman. 7 TENTATIVELY, I OPEN THE CAR door and step out. The morning sky glows a promising shade of peach, and there’s already a whisper of warmth in the crisp air. The woman is in another expensive jogging outfit, dark hair pulled back from a flawless, makeup-free face. But she looks different now, softer. Smiling. “I realize that I never thanked you,” she says. “For saving me.” “It’s fine.” “I thought I wanted to die. But I don’t. I’m grateful that you found me when you did.” I shrug because there is really nothing to say. The woman removes a small pack from her back and unzips it. “I brought you something. To say thanks.” She presses a small object into my hand. It’s smooth and white, a hole through its center. “It’s a netsuke,” she explains. “Traditionally, Japanese men used them as toggles on their kimonos. It’s carved from bone.” I look at the figurine: an intricate figure of a coiled snake. “My husband collects them,” the woman says. “This one’s from the early nineteenth century.” I’d have preferred a package of bagels. Or a latte. “Thanks.” “It’s quite valuable. I’m not sure what it’s worth but it’s signed.” Turning it over, I see the artist’s name in Japanese characters. “Sell it if you want. Or keep it. Put it somewhere in your new place, once you’re back on your feet.” What is it worth? I wonder. It would be rude to ask. But if I can get even a hundred bucks for it, I’m selling it. I appreciate the sentiment, but money is more important than a trinket right now. “And…,” she says, digging deeper into the pack, removing a brown paper sack, “breakfast.” That’s more like it. My stomach churns with the promise of food. Free food. “Shall we eat on the beach? Watch the sunrise?” Before I can answer, she’s moving toward the path. She calls over her shoulder, “Your car is safe. I jog here every morning. No one ever comes | 0 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 12 | “No.” “Donna—” “Not any faster than you. Actually breaking it—that’s fiddly. Boring. I’m sure someone can do it. I’m not interested.” “Not interested why?” “Because I’m fucking lazy, Cal. I’m lazy and I’m an addict and I like it that way. It would take days of sobriety. Long enough for my hangover to catch up with me. Long enough to remember all the things I drink to forget. Maybe even long enough that I’ll start thinking about stopping. And it’s not necessary. They’ll be perfectly simple words. Tricksy, maybe, but simple. They’ll be memorable and meaningful. Who hid this and why?” “I’m not sure.” “Did they want it buried forever?” “Very much not.” “Was it someone’s insurance? Were they scared of it getting out before time?” “I think they wanted someone to carry on where they left off. Contingency.” “Then it’ll be guessable, won’t it? All you have to do is be the person they want, not the person they’re hiding from.” “That’s what I wanted the file to tell me.” “Well, then you’re shit out of luck, aren’t you? Buy me another.” “No.” “One more, Cal.” “What do I get?” “My gratitude, of course.” I buy her another because otherwise she’ll cry. Then I go back to the office and send the food order before I forget. I sit at my desk and think about Peter and Lillian until it’s time. * * * — The Heraklion is the biggest tower as you walk along the Chersenesos east shore, the one that gets the sun in the morning. On the west side, where people love sunsets, there’s the Perseid. It’s the same building facing the other way, except that the Heraklion is where Athena has a penthouse. The security is a lot better than it is on my apartment. “She dropped by my place,” I tell Ken the doorman. “Yes, sir,” Ken says. “It was a movie scene. She sat behind my desk. Surprised me.” “That must have been very dramatic, sir.” “I figured I could pay her back. Just head right on up.” “Yes, sir.” “You’re good with that?” “Of course, sir.” “So I can go right on up?” “As soon as she confirms, sir.” There are sixteen Tonfamecasca apartments in this building. Figure Ken has seen some shit. Figure Ken is not remotely interested in mine. I wait for Athena to confirm. * * * — “Come on in, Cal,” she says. She has a shoe in one hand, something from that Portuguese designer, custom-made for her. The heels have to be flared just before the stiletto tip or the weight of her body will put them through most engineered hardwoods. “I’m just getting ready.” “I don’t mean to intrude.” “You’re not. Come on in. I’ve got about forty minutes.” She’s wearing a blue silk thing that looks like she stole midnight and wrapped it around her shoulders. I go to sit down in the living room. “I’m not getting dressed out there, Cal.” “I thought you were done.” “This is a bathrobe. Don’t be an ass, get in | 0 |
52 | A-Living-Remedy.txt | 61 | the flowers we sent her and thanks us, but even from the other side of a screen I can see that the online shop I ordered from has failed us. More than half the blooms are wilted. * * * May rolls around, and toward the end of one particularly long day, I text a friend: I think Mom forgot my birthday. It’s understandable, I think. It’s more and more difficult for her to talk on the phone or over Skype. She’s on pain meds that are only available to the dying, the kind of medication she refused when she first started hospice care, and she is sleeping more often. I wouldn’t be surprised if she no longer keeps close track of the days. I’m about to head upstairs to get ready for bed when my phone rings. Mom flashes on the screen. My breath catches. When I answer, she doesn’t even say hello. We both know why she is calling. “Happy birthday to you . . .” She sings with as much life as she can, more than I’ve heard from her in days. I wonder if I should tell her to save her strength. I know this call is an effort. But I also know that she called because she believes this is important: she’s my mother, and she has a job to do. After I left home, my parents called on every birthday to sing to me—Dad in his gravelly baritone, Mom enthusiastic and slightly off-key—and she has continued the tradition alone since he died. She always sends me a card, too, and sometimes flowers, but the birthday call is the most important part of the long-distance celebration: sacrosanct, for all that I have taken it for granted. “Happy birthday to you . . .” After she sings the first two lines, she takes a shuddery breath and surprises me with an edit. “Your mom didn’t forget your birthday, and she really loves you.” Tears are rolling down my face. My husband, sitting next to me on the couch—close enough to have heard my mother singing—reaches over to take my hand, squeezing it hard. All of us know it’s the last birthday call. I manage to thank her with only a little wobble in my voice. “Well, of course,” she says. “I just woke up from a nap and thought, I’d better call Nikki. I’m glad I made it in time.” 21 The week after Mother’s Day, her hospice nurse calls me. “She had a great day! She’s such a fighter—she has a real chance at more quality time.” It seems too good to be true, but of course I am desperate to believe it after so many bleak days. When I get ahold of Mom, my husband and kids join me in crowding around my phone. I tell her how glad we are to hear she’s had a good day and that we wish we were with her. She speaks slowly, with some effort, and sometimes forgets to hold the tablet at the right angle, so we can | 0 |
28 | THE SCARLET LETTER.txt | 81 | a word’s meaning within context serves to improve vocabulary retention and understanding. Each page covers words not already highlighted on previous pages. If a difficult word is not noted on a page, chances are that it has been highlighted on a previous page. A more complete thesaurus is supplied at the end of the book; Synonyms and antonyms are extracted from Webster’s Online Dictionary. Definitions of remaining terms as well as translations can be found at www.websters-online- dictionary.org. Please send suggestions to [email protected] The Editor Webster’s Online Dictionary www.websters-online-dictionary.org 1 PSAT® is a registered trademark of the College Entrance Examination Board and the National Merit Scholarship Corporation neither of which sponsors or endorses this book; SAT® is a registered trademark of the College Board which neither sponsors nor endorses this book; GRE®, AP® and Advanced Placement® are registered trademarks of the Educational Testing Service which neither sponsors nor endorses this book, GMAT® is a registered trademark of the Graduate Management Admissions Council which is neither affiliated with this book nor endorses this book, LSAT® is a registered trademark of the Law School Admissions Council which neither sponsors nor endorses this product. All rights reserved. Nathaniel Hawthorne 3 EDITOR'S %NOTE Nathaniel Hawthorne was already a man of forty-six, and a tale writer of some twenty-four years' standing, when "The Scarlet Letter" appeared. He was born at Salem, Mass., on July 4th, 1804, son of a sea-captain. He led there a shy and rather sombre life; of few artistic encouragements, yet not wholly uncongenial, his moody, intensely meditative temperament being considered. Its colours and shadows are marvelously reflected in his "Twice-Told Tales" and other short stories, the product of his first literary period. Even his college days at Bowdoin did not quite break through his acquired and inherited reserve; but beneath it all, his faculty of divining men and women was exercised with almost uncanny prescience and subtlety. "The Scarlet Letter," which explains as much of this unique imaginative art, as is to be gathered from reading his highest single achievement, yet needs to be ranged with his other writings, early and late, to have its last effect. In the year that saw it published, he began "The House of the Seven Gables," a later romance or prose-tragedy of the Puritan-American community as he had himself known it - defrauded of art and the joy of life, "starving for symbols" as Emerson has it. Nathaniel Hawthorne died at Plymouth, New Hampshire, on May 18th, 1864. The following is the table of his romances, stories, and other works: Thesaurus divining: (adj) oracular; (n) dowsing. musing, brooding; (v) philosophical, tactlessness, coarseness, heaviness, marvelously: (adj, adv) astonishingly, sedate. vulgarity. amazingly, strangely; (adv) superbly, prescience: (n) forecast, precognition, uncanny: (adj) weird, eerie, strange, magnificently, wondrously, anticipation, prevision, ghostly, unearthly, unnatural, terrifically, fantastically, foreknowledge, forethought, vision, eldritch, mysterious, odd, frightful, marvellously, excellently, presentiment, prediction, hunch, hideous. ANTONYMS: (adj) normal, miraculously. ANTONYMS: (adv) insight. common, ordinary. abysmally, terribly, unremarkably, stories: (n) tale. uncongenial: (adj) unfriendly, hostile, incompetently, mildly, poorly. subtlety: (n) refinement, elegance, incongenial, cold, unfit, unsuited, meditative: (adj, v) | 1 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 12 | he had remained within propriety over the years, but that had been when she was employed in his brother’s house. In his business boastings, he had made it clear he was a man who didn’t often take no for an answer. If she finally found her way to the Winthrops’ home, would he be there waiting for her? “Are you sure?” she whispered. Rebecca nodded. “Robert Granger and his wife are decent people, but his brother . . . none of us belowstairs liked him. Us maids, in particular. He always looked at us like . . .” Lucy didn’t want to know how he looked at them; she had been on the receiving end of plenty of his looks, and she didn’t like it at all. “What am I to do?” she asked. “Without a recommendation, finding employment anywhere else will be difficult, if not impossible. You know that.” Rebecca took hold of her hand. “We can stay here a while longer.” Jaw dropping, Lucy tore her hand free. “We can’t—” “Only until Mr. Granger has tried finding you, as I know he will. It shouldn’t take him more than a day or two to arrive at the Winthrops’ and find you missing. Then he’ll move on.” “But—” “Where else can you go?” As harsh as the question sounded, Lucy knew it was a good one. Rebecca knew well the difficulties of living without money, and seeing as Lucy had little, she couldn’t afford a journey of any considerable length. Remaining nearby without some sort of place to hide, like here with the Calloways, would make it easier for Mr. Granger to find her. She didn’t want to believe she was in as much danger as Rebecca said she was, but she had little proof to back an argument. She had never felt safe around Mr. Granger. But could she really lie to this family? They had been so kind to her so far, and perhaps if she told them the truth, they might help her. As if she knew what Lucy was thinking, Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t think you can tell them, miss. Everyone downstairs says the Calloways don’t like trouble; they’d sooner throw you out than get mixed up with something of this sort.” Well, that couldn’t possibly be true, but Lucy didn’t know the family well enough to say with confidence how they might react if she told them she was being pursued, particularly because she would have to admit to her lie in doing so. What reason would they have to trust her at that point? They didn’t have any reason now, and surely Lord Calloway would care more about his family’s station than the liar who had infiltrated his estate. He would be the one she had to convince if she wanted assistance, and he rather frightened her. She had never seen the same intensity she had seen in his eyes. “I think we shouldn’t be too hasty,” Rebecca said. “You don’t have to decide right this minute. Besides, imagine if you really were | 0 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 19 | Nancy's thoughts, to show that she's a gentle, sensitive girl, insecure and confused about Godfrey's courtship. Then you see her through the eyes of the fashionable, town-bred Gunn sisters. They see that she is pretty, well-mannered, and neatly dressed. Nevertheless, she disapproves of their low-cut dresses, and they disapprove of her country dialect--she is clearly part of her country environment. You can see the signs of hard work on Nancy's hands. In general, Eliot describes Nancy's looks and character in glowing terms. Her only faults, Eliot tells you, are a touch of pride and inflexibility. Having a positive view of Nancy may make you feel more kindly toward the upper class in general (notice that the men at the Rainbow, too, speak well of the Lammeters). It may also give you more sympathy for Godfrey. She seems to be a good influence on him. On the other hand, are her moral standards too high? She keeps Godfrey at arm's length because she's heard bad rumors about him. Even after Molly has died and he is free to marry Nancy, Godfrey is reluctant to tell her about Molly because he fears her disapproval. Later, Nancy's strict code also keeps her from agreeing to adopt a child, which creates the only unhappiness in her marriage to Godfrey. As you read, consider: Is Nancy a good moral example or are her strict principles a flaw in her character? ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: DOLLY WINTHROP Dolly represents Raveloe's values of what an individual should be. She's hardworking, skillful, and so efficient that she has time left over to care for her neighbor Silas. She doesn't hesitate to give advice and get involved with other people's lives. She is motherly, not only toward her own child Aaron but toward Eppie. As a wife, she's tolerant of her husband's drinking but fairly independent. She knows she's no scholar, but she earns great respect from Silas for her ability to see matters clearly, almost instinctively. Dolly's friendship with Silas demonstrates concretely how the village gradually accepts him. But Dolly serves another function, too--she is the spokesperson for Raveloe religion, holding it up against Silas' Lantern-Yard beliefs. Dolly believes in religion without knowing the fine points of doctrine. While the rituals of the church comfort her, she concentrates on good deeds here on Earth rather than on a relationship with God. Her concept of God is almost pagan, a fuzzy vision of "Them up above." But with true peasant wisdom, she sees a divine pattern in events, working out over long years. She makes Silas look upon his life with this kind of long-range view, showing him that all his sorrows were simply a path leading to his finding Eppie. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: EPPIE On the title page of Silas Marner, George Eliot placed a quotation from Wordsworth's poem "Michael": A child, more than all other gifts That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. In the novel, that prophecy is fulfilled by Eppie, the abandoned child that Silas Marner adopts. Symbolically, she is the | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 39 | “Welcome to Mycenae, Lord Aegisthus,” Orestes says with a dazzling smile as he sits next to Electra. Clytemnestra takes the place at the head of the table. “Thank you,” Aegisthus replies. “It must feel strange to be back here after all these years,” Orestes says. Aegisthus tilts his head. “I didn’t think the queen would accept me.” “My mother is a woman of many virtues,” Orestes replies, choosing a piece of mutton. “Strength, wisdom, bravery, generosity. She has them all.” Aegisthus studies him, trying to understand whether he is mocking or not. “Where do you come from, my lord?” Chrysothemis asks him. “The forest,” Aegisthus replies. “Did you survive on goat’s milk? Did you hunt?” “Something like that.” “I once heard of a man who lived in the forest for so long that naiads came for him. They left the ponds and marshes and gave him food and shelter. But when he wanted to leave, they held him captive. They were jealous, you see.” There is eagerness in Chrysothemis’s voice, as there has been ever since her father left—a constant need to tell stories cheerfully to avoid grief or struggle, any outburst of violence. She is like a blanket of glittering snow: she buries ugliness beneath it until it melts and she must find another cover. “My daughter knows the most wonderful stories,” Clytemnestra says. “Do you want to tell some, Chrysothemis? Perhaps you can entertain our guest.” “Of course.” Chrysothemis smiles. “There was the one about Boreas and the stallion . . .” She speaks so fast, so excitedly that she forgets to eat. Aegisthus listens, frowning, and barely touches any food. At times, his gaze flickers to Clytemnestra and she pretends to be absorbed in her daughter’s story, laughing on cue. She wants to ask him questions, to spill stories from him and know what lies behind that troubled face. But she doubts he would talk. A man like him probably hasn’t talked in his entire life. She imagines his thoughts crawling inside him, like worms in the earth, doomed to stay in the shadows. Helen would have charmed him with her beauty and subtle cleverness, softening him until he opened like a peach. Castor would have mocked him, pricked him with words like needles until he talked. Timandra and Polydeuces wouldn’t have tried. “He is dangerous,” they would have said. “Better get rid of him.” And they would have been right. He is dangerous, but she can’t get rid of him, so she has to find a way to crack him. She must dirty her hands and dig into the earth until she finds those wriggling worms. * * * She walks back through the corridors alone. The noises of the palace are dying out, fading like sounds underwater. She has ordered Aegisthus to be escorted back to the guests’ quarters, and now all she can think about is whether he will be able to sleep. She knows she won’t—she must keep cautious and awake. When she reaches her room, a familiar figure emerges from the shadows. Leon. “I | 0 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 54 | and school fees. He’d gone for days without food before and would gladly do so this week to avoid begging in the streets again. “Three thousand two hundred and ninety,” Ẹniọlá’s mother said. “We made 3,290 naira yesterday.” It had been almost nine p.m. by the time they all got home the previous evening, and Ẹniọlá’s mother had refused to count money in the dark. They’d been on the street twice since Ẹniọlá’s mother suggested it. Last Sunday and yesterday. Today would be the third day. “Today will be better than yesterday,” Ẹniọlá’s mother said, folding the bills she’d just counted. “People are more generous on Sundays. Remember last Sunday? Six thousand o, almost six thousand in total.” His mother also believed people were more generous on Fridays. That, fresh from Jummat, most people were eager to do good deeds. After their first outing last Sunday, she had suggested they all go and beg in front of the central mosque that Friday, but Ẹniọlá’s father found his voice and insisted that the children should be in school instead. When his mother did not argue, Ẹniọlá had wondered if she was simply too surprised by his father sounding as if he cared about something for the first time in a while. Ẹniọlá assumed that she went to the mosque while he was at school but did not ask her about it. He’d noticed crayfish in the soup that night and tried to enjoy it without thinking about how wasteful it was for them to eat like that, since the landlord’s rent was not completely paid off and not a naira of his or Bùsọ́lá’s school fees had been paid. “So, 10,000 naira deposit to keep us in school, and 25,000 balance for the landlord. That’s 35,000 naira. Minus this 3,290, you have 31,710 naira. We have 31,710 naira to go,” Bùsọ́lá said, flipping a page and scribbling in her notebook. She was intent on completing all her homework before leaving the house that morning. “It’s not that much.” Ẹniọlá’s mother gave the money she just counted to his father. “We paid the landlord five thousand naira on Friday.” Although Ẹniọlá’s father never went begging with the rest of his family, all the money they got was always handed over to him. He took the notes to their landlord upstairs, paying in instalments and pleading for an extension on the ultimatum the man had given them. None had been granted yet, but since today was just over a week since the landlord’s angry visit, the family assumed that the partial payments had appeased him somewhat. Yesterday, Bùsọ́lá had complained that nothing was being set aside for their school fees. “So, 26,710,” Bùsọ́lá said. “Okay.” Ẹniọlá’s mother spread out a scarf on the bed and flattened the wrinkles with her palm. Bùsọ́lá chewed her Biro. “Or 36,710 naira.” “What?” Ẹniọlá’s mother said. “Thirty-six thousand seven hundred and ten naira if you want to pay our school fees in full.” Bùsọ́lá shut her notebook. “Nobody is going to be that generous.” “We’re not paying school fees | 0 |
30 | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt | 47 | it, and soon she paced a soil so contrasting with that above it that the difference was perceptible to the tread and to the smell. It was the heavy clay land of Blackmoor Vale, and a part of the Vale to which turnpike-roads had never penetrated. Superstitions linger longest on these heavy soils. Having once been forest, at this shadowy time it seemed to assert something of its old character, the far and the near being blended, and every tree and tall hedge making the most of its presence. The harts that had been hunted here, the witches that had been pricked and ducked, the green-spangled fairies that "whickered" at you as you passed;--the place teemed with beliefs in them still, and they formed an impish multitude now. At Nuttlebury she passed the village inn, whose sign creaked in response to the greeting of her footsteps, which not a human soul heard but herself. Under the thatched roofs her mind's eye beheld relaxed tendons and flaccid muscles, spread out in the darkness beneath coverlets made of little purple patchwork squares, and undergoing a bracing process at the hands of sleep for renewed labour on the morrow, as soon as a hint of pink nebulosity appeared on Hambledon Hill. At three she turned the last corner of the maze of lanes she had threaded, and entered Marlott, passing the field in which as a club-girl, she had first seen Angel Clare, when he had not danced with her; the sense of disappointment remained with her yet. In the direction of her mother's house she saw a light. It came from the bedroom window, and a branch waved in front of it and made it wink at her. As soon as she could discern the outline of the house--newly thatched with her money--it had all its old effect upon Tess's imagination. Part of her body and life it ever seemed to be; the slope of its dormers, the finish of its gables, the broken courses of brick which topped the chimney, all had something in common with her personal character. A stupefaction had come into these features, to her regard; it meant the illness of her mother. She opened the door so softly as to disturb nobody; the lower room was vacant, but the neighbour who was sitting up with her mother came to the top of the stairs, and whispered that Mrs Durbeyfield was no better, though she was sleeping just then. Tess prepared herself a breakfast, and then took her place as nurse in her mother's chamber. In the morning, when she contemplated the children, they had all a curiously elongated look; although she had been away little more than a year their growth was astounding; and the necessity of applying herself heart and soul to their needs took her out of her own cares. Her father's ill-health was the same indefinite kind, and he sat in his chair as usual. But the day after her arrival he was unusually bright. He had a rational scheme for living, and Tess asked him | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 4 | Is there any feeling more painful than regret? It spreads like a fever, invisible, and you can do nothing to fight it. Mother is dead too, so the envoys from Sparta tell me. It must have been the wine. To me, she had been dead for quite a long time. I only remember glimpses of her hunting and fighting when I was little, but I think you, Helen, Castor, and Polydeuces had the best of her. She was tamed after a while. You should never be tamed. Your men don’t bend to you because you are someone else’s wife: they do it because they respect your power. So rule them, keep their respect, make sure they are loyal and faithful to their last day. Then you will have a city and an army at your will. Echemus always told me that some men are destined for greatness and others aren’t. He believed the gods decided that and we had no power in the matter. That is probably why he did nothing to earn his kingdom or the love of his people and also why he will die and wither into obscurity. Agamemnon, Calchas, and Odysseus, on the other hand, know that one doesn’t grow powerful thanks to the gods: they take matters into their own hands and fight to have their names written into eternity. It is no wonder they have survived for so long: they are cruel and cunning. Although they are very different from one another, they have something in common—they believe they are special because no one but them sees the horrible things that need to be done. They believe others shy away from the brutal nature of life but that they are clever enough to see and act upon it. This is also what they tell everyone else: we have no choice, the gods demand it, war is a brutal affair, and we can’t win unless we too are brutal. These are all lies. They had a choice. The gods didn’t need Iphigenia to die for a whiff of wind. You don’t win wars by sacrificing little girls. You do it by killing your opponents. You taught me that. Your sister Timandra My dear Clytemnestra, I am writing these words, which you will never read, sitting by a window in Troy, looking at the battlefield. It is a wasteland of broken wheels, circling crows, and putrefying bodies. Sometimes a severed arm is lying on the muddy ground, detached from everything else, as if it doesn’t remember where it belongs. I can see the battle from here every day, but I can’t hear it. It is strange to look at the fighting and dying men. Their mouths are open, but it is as if no sound comes out. Sometimes I think this is how the unburied must feel, wandering around the world, destined not to hear and not to be heard. What a wretched state. Heroes come and go on the plain, but I haven’t seen Castor and Polydeuces. I used to look for their heads among the spears | 0 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 74 | might not have made us invisible to these creatures, it certainly made us less interesting. We kept our pace slow and aimless, as if we were merely off for a stroll. There was no reason for these Folk to think differently—apart from the one with the stars in his face, it was clear that none of them had ever considered the possibility that a mortal could evade their magic. Perhaps none ever had. At first I was relieved to put the fair behind us. But we hadn’t been walking through the wilderness for long before I realized that it wasn’t right. The footprints I had left petered out, as if someone had followed behind me with a broom and swept them away, and though we walked for an hour or more, we saw no sign of the little camp Wendell and I had made. The dawn didn’t come. The aurora shone above us in all its colours, the stars clustered like swarms of bright bees in an undulating garden. I walked with my hands shoved in the pockets of my ridiculous faerie cloak. At one point, my fingers brushed something cold and smooth. I drew it out, and found myself holding a compass. In all honesty, I was too weary to appreciate this impossible magic. “I suppose the cloak gives the wearer what they need,” I told Lilja, my voice almost dismissive—well, after all, what we really needed was a door, and you couldn’t fit that in a pocket. She took the compass and used it to guide us south and east, from whence Bambleby and I had come. “Is there anything else in there?” she said. I dug around in the pockets again, but my hands were empty when I withdrew them. She swallowed and turned back to the compass. I made us keep going, even as hours passed and it became clearer and clearer that we were still tangled up in the faerie world, like a fly struggling in a web. Shadow felt it too. He growled and paced ahead of us and then back again, his nose snuffling at the snow, searching for a way out, like a fold in a stage curtain he might slide beneath. We had to rest after a while, if only out of sheer exhaustion. I drew Lilja and Margret into my ridiculous cloak, which had an itchy, prickly sort of warmth, as if the garment were irritated by the use I made of it. It made me yearn all the more for my old cloak, even though Bambleby had made it ostentatious. But at least I found a flask of water in the pocket of the faerie cloak, which we shared among the three of us. It seems clear that the cloak was indeed enchanted to supply its owner with whatever he or she requires, though it doles out those gifts in a most miserly way—some food would have been nice, along with the water, or a lantern and some flint. Perhaps it is only miserly when forced to serve mortals. Margret was | 0 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 97 | said she didn’t want to hear it. Then she apologized, and we cried. So this was October. And October was when I stopped eating, my veganism a convenient cover. It was when I started smoking like cigarettes were my only oxygen. It was when I began starving my body to the point that, by spring, I couldn’t row a Girl Scout canoe, let alone compete in sprint season. From this distance, it was clear: I had been in the process of erasing my body. It wasn’t that a boob grab was the worst that could happen to me. I had survived far worse. It was just one thing too much. And then when Thalia died—the way her body had been mangled—the way she’d been tossed in the water—the way every girl was just a body to be used, to be discarded—the way that if you had a body, they could grab you—if you had a body, they could destroy you— And I ended up by that tree in the woods. And I ended up hurting myself in slower ways, too. Loretta Young didn’t understand that Clark Gable had raped her. She considered their daughter a “walking mortal sin” until, in her eighties, she learned about date rape by watching Larry King Live and realized her inability to fend him off hadn’t been her fault. I decided to tell the Loretta Young story to my film class that afternoon. It was something to send them off into the world with. For now, I was at the door of Quincy 212, my podcasters waiting inside for our last meeting. I had a lot of news for them. I took my coat off, fixed my hair. When I opened the door, the sun shone behind them and they were made of light. 60 Saturday morning, Anne drove me to the airport while Fran took the boys to tumbling class. On NPR, they were talking about the news story—the one where the small-town mayor killed himself the day after his former secretary reported him for sexual harassment. Or rather, the one where the chef hanged himself in his empty restaurant because the rape charges were about to be filed. The one where the ex-husband showed up at her door and said he’d already swallowed pills, and unless she took him back he wouldn’t let her drive him to the hospital. I’d brainstormed conversation topics ahead of time, lest the hour and a half in the car grow awkward, but it turned out Anne had an agenda. We were only turning out of the campus drive when she said, “The thing with Fran is she’s just so protective of the school.” I had picked up a piece of purple onion skin from the passenger seat, a stowaway from some grocery trip, and now I folded it into smaller and smaller pieces, felt its fibers crack cleanly each time. I said, “She wants me to drop it. I’m aware.” “I know it comes out as her disagreeing with you, telling you you’re making things up. She doesn’t want | 0 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 32 | a thinker, and was certainly of a thoughtful turn, but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly yet reached the point where an educated man begins to think. The true value of his character lay in that deep consciousness of inward strength, which made all his past vicissitudes seem merely like a change of garments; in that enthusiasm, so quiet that he scarcely knew of its existence, but which gave a warmth to everything that he laid his hand on; in that personal ambition, hidden--from his own as well as other eyes--among his more generous impulses, but in which lurked a certain efficacy, that might solidify him from a theorist into the champion of some practicable cause. Altogether in his culture and want of culture,--in his crude, wild, and misty philosophy, and the practical experience that counteracted some of its tendencies; in his magnanimous zeal for man's welfare, and his recklessness of whatever the ages had established in man's behalf; in his faith, and in his infidelity. in what he had, and in what he lacked,--the artist might fitly enough stand forth as the representative of many compeers in his native land. His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country where everything is free to the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the world's prizes within his reach. But these matters are delightfully uncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with young men of just about Holgrave's age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but of whom, even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear another word. The effervescence of youth and passion, and the fresh gloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false brilliancy, which makes fools of themselves and other people. Like certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their first newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very sober aspect after washing-day. But our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular afternoon, and in the arbor of the Pyncheon garden. In that point of view, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much faith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,--so little harmed, too, by the many tests that had tried his metal,--it was pleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought had scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so, he had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on her part, and unconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a home to him, and the garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on which he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through Phoebe, and all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child's story-book. But these transparent natures are often deceptive in their depth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain | 1 |
6 | Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt | 12 | few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to have among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an aspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty temper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers. I should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my premises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners, the other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors, or closed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the folding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man within easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were conjoined. At first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long famishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my documents. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night line, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been quite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully industrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically. It is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener’s business to verify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or more scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this examination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original. It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily imagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand. Now and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist in comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for this purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me behind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial occasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of instant compliance, I sat with my head | 1 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 95 | this floor clean. Resnick took the broom and immediately began shoving it into the mass of wires and cables within the console. Sparks crackled and flashed from inside. Smoke started to rise from the console board. “I think it’s on fire,” Aubrey said. “You think,” Resnick said sarcastically, getting to his feet. They all glanced to the monitors, the now-unshielded asteroid, and USS Adams continuing its winding trek through the asteroid field. “We’ve done all we can here, people. Time to go,” Resnick said. “What about him?” Aubrey said, pointing to the now somewhat more subdued Liquilid. Pristy bent over, looked at the chair’s still intact wheels. “We should take him with us.” “Are you crazy!” Dr. Kline said. “She’s right,” Resnick said. “Killing him, leaving the body wouldn’t be easily explained, and leaving him alive, well … he’ll talk.” “But don’t we have to get him down to the lower level? Where we arrived from, to enter back into the ringularity portal?” Derrota asked. Pristy was losing patience. “We’ll take turns pushing … let’s go.” But Resnick was engrossed in his ChronoLink, this time speaking with someone. “Just make sure the timing is perfect … There can be no question, no suspicion, Church. Have I made myself clear?” “Crystal,” came the voice at the other end. “What was that all about?” Pristy asked. “Eavesdropping is impolite, Captain Pristy.” “So is keeping secrets. What were you telling Captain Church?” Resnick almost smiled. “That his and his crew’s mission was done here. That it was time for Portent’s untimely demise.” “What are you talking about, untimely demise? Her crew—” “Will be just fine. As will Portent. There’s technology on board that vessel that can never fall into the wrong hands. She’s already been here too long. Let’s just say all concerned here in Liquilid space will witness Portent following in the same fateful footsteps as Boundless Wrath, while in truth, they will be perfectly timing their jump through a spatial ringularity portal.” Chapter 57 Liquilid Empire Star System USS Adams Captain Galvin Quintos Grimes lifted his hands and splayed them questionably, while glowering toward the halo display. “I have no idea where I’m going. None.” Before Adams, the field had opened, revealing far fewer of the smaller asteroids while leaving gargantuan ones, rocky islands on a sea of black. “He’s right,” Akari said. “The signal’s indeed stronger here, but it’s like it’s coming from all around us. Like we’ve entered an echo chamber.” It’s not so much that I was ignoring my bridge crew. I heard what they were saying at some level, but what was being displayed on the halo display was like nothing I had ever witnessed. A dinosaur, a T-Rex no less, was in the throes of a battle so intense, so vicious, it was impossible not to watch. Sonya had arrived at my side at one point, but I couldn’t say when. She said, “Look at him. I can’t believe you made me do this … feed Reggie to those … those … bugs.” “I don’t know. Looks like | 0 |
43 | The Turn of the Screw.txt | 27 | could pretend we were pleasantly jesting. "Only that, I think, was to get me to do something for YOU!" "It was partly to get you to do something," I conceded. "But, you know, you didn't do it." "Oh, yes," he said with the brightest superficial eagerness, "you wanted me to tell you something." "That's it. Out, straight out. What you have on your mind, you know." "Ah, then, is THAT what you've stayed over for?" He spoke with a gaiety through which I could still catch the finest little quiver of resentful passion; but I can't begin to express the effect upon me of an implication of surrender even so faint. It was as if what I had yearned for had come at last only to astonish me. "Well, yes--I may as well make a clean breast of it. it was precisely for that." He waited so long that I supposed it for the purpose of repudiating the assumption on which my action had been founded; but what he finally said was: "Do you mean now--here?" "There couldn't be a better place or time." He looked round him uneasily, and I had the rare--oh, the queer!--impression of the very first symptom I had seen in him of the approach of immediate fear. It was as if he were suddenly afraid of me--which struck me indeed as perhaps the best thing to make him. Yet in the very pang of the effort I felt it vain to try sternness, and I heard myself the next instant so gentle as to be almost grotesque. "You want so to go out again?" "Awfully!" He smiled at me heroically, and the touching little bravery of it was enhanced by his actually flushing with pain. He had picked up his hat, which he had brought in, and stood twirling it in a way that gave me, even as I was just nearly reaching port, a perverse horror of what I was doing. To do it in ANY way was an act of violence, for what did it consist of but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt on a small helpless creature who had been for me a revelation of the possibilities of beautiful intercourse? Wasn't it base to create for a being so exquisite a mere alien awkwardness? I suppose I now read into our situation a clearness it couldn't have had at the time, for I seem to see our poor eyes already lighted with some spark of a prevision of the anguish that was to come. So we circled about, with terrors and scruples, like fighters not daring to close. But it was for each other we feared! That kept us a little longer suspended and unbruised. "I'll tell you everything," Miles said--"I mean I'll tell you anything you like. You'll stay on with me, and we shall both be all right, and I WILL tell you--I WILL. But not now." "Why not now?" My insistence turned him from me and kept him once more at his window in a silence during | 1 |
43 | The Turn of the Screw.txt | 89 | before! Yet I can't bear it," the poor woman went on while, with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing table, at the face of my watch. "But I must go back." I kept her, however. "Ah, if you can't bear it--!" "How can I stop with her, you mean? Why, just FOR that: to get her away. Far from this," she pursued, "far from THEM-" "She may be different? She may be free?" I seized her almost with joy. "Then, in spite of yesterday, you BELIEVE--" "In such doings?" Her simple description of them required, in the light of her expression, to be carried no further, and she gave me the whole thing as she had never done. "I believe." Yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder to shoulder: if I might continue sure of that I should care but little what else happened. My support in the presence of disaster would be the same as it had been in my early need of confidence, and if my friend would answer for my honesty, I would answer for all the rest. On the point of taking leave of her, nonetheless, I was to some extent embarrassed. "There's one thing, of course--it occurs to me--to remember. My letter, giving the alarm, will have reached town before you." I now perceived still more how she had been beating about the bush and how weary at last it had made her. "Your letter won't have got there. Your letter never went." "What then became of it?" "Goodness knows! Master Miles--" "Do you mean HE took it?" I gasped. She hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance. "I mean that I saw yesterday, when I came back with Miss Flora, that it wasn't where you had put it. Later in the evening I had the chance to question Luke, and he declared that he had neither noticed nor touched it." We could only exchange, on this, one of our deeper mutual soundings, and it was Mrs. Grose who first brought up the plumb with an almost elated "You see!" "Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead he probably will have read it and destroyed it." "And don't you see anything else?" I faced her a moment with a sad smile. "It strikes me that by this time your eyes are open even wider than mine." They proved to be so indeed, but she could still blush, almost, to show it. "I make out now what he must have done at school." And she gave, in her simple sharpness, an almost droll disillusioned nod. "He stole!" I turned it over--I tried to be more judicial. "Well--perhaps." She looked as if she found me unexpectedly calm. "He stole LETTERS!" She couldn't know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow; so I showed them off as I might. "I hope then it was to more purpose than in this case! The note, at any rate, that I put on the table yesterday," I pursued, "will have given him so scant | 1 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 97 | cheeks. According to his first video, which I had to scroll to find, he was “between jobs” when he first saw the Dateline special, and he had an epiphany, felt he could contribute. When he said Thalia’s name, oozed over the vowels, I felt the skin on my neck tighten. He was about my age, and I imagined he fancied that if only he and Thalia had crossed paths, he could have saved her, bedded her, won her love. He showed a yearbook photo of Puja Sharma and said, “This one wasn’t as pretty as her friend, and you have to think, that could have been a source of jealousy. Miss Sharma is a real possibility here. Someone we can never question, unfortunately.” I nearly slammed my laptop shut at that one, at the gall, the wrongheadedness, the slime. Puja might have been a hanger-on—might have used Thalia’s kindness as entry into the crowd that spent Feb Week at Mike Stiles’s ski house, that went to the Vineyard on long weekends—but she was devastated by Thalia’s death. Two weeks afterward, Puja took off on foot in the middle of the night, walking the roadsides until police picked her up two towns over, muddy and disoriented. She was sent home to London, and we never saw her again. Her overdose two years later at Sarah Lawrence—I always wondered if it was related. Every time this guy said Robbie Serenho’s name, jealousy crossed his face like a moth. He believed Robbie knew something, thought Robbie was “an entitled boarding school prick” with a “suspiciously airtight alibi.” In one video, he manages to get Robbie on the phone. Calling his office, he pretends to be a Granby alumni liaison looking for updated information. He gets Robbie to give his home address, which he’s mercifully bleeped out of the video. Then he asks Robbie who else from the class of ’95 he’s in touch with. “We have so many missing addresses,” he says. “Would you still be in communication with someone named Angela Parker?” Robbie says no. “How about”—and here Dane pretends to struggle with the pronunciation—“Thalia Keith?” Robbie says, “Ah, she—Thalia Keith passed away in 1995.” “Oh!” Dane says. “I’m sorry to hear that. I just started working here, and that’s not in our records.” Robbie says, “That’s odd. Yeah, you should cross her off your list.” Dane says, “Can you tell me more about that? More details? I’d love to update our files.” There’s a pause, Robbie catching on. He says, “I’m hanging up now.” I first met Robbie when we were put in the same freshman orientation group, playing games on the quad in groups of twelve, trying to knock pegs down with Frisbees. There were kids who made Frisbee look like ballet. I didn’t know how to throw one (who would have taught me?) and was initially mortified. But Robbie, with no patronizing, showed me how to throw the disc. He was patient, called me by my name, which no one else had bothered learning yet. You have to understand: He wasn’t | 0 |
91 | The-One.txt | 72 | It’s going to be a long night. Chapter 19 Evelyn stands from her computer when Sloane marches toward the nurses’ desk in the middle of the ER. Sloane just finished stabilizing a homeless man who’d been brought in with multiple stab wounds to the abdomen before he was taken to the OR. She pulls her personal phone from her scrub pocket—something she never carried on shifts before her fling with Brody. She hasn’t heard from Ethan since he stormed out of the house two nights ago. But she’s not worried. If he was going to leave her for good, he would’ve done it already. She’ll let her affair with billionaire Brody Carr sink in for one more night before she tells Ethan the truth. “What’s the ETA on the ambulance?” Logan asks from the doorway of one of the treatment rooms. “They said they’ll be here in five minutes.” Evelyn sounds tired. Sloane’s stomach growls as she leans against the desk and sees she has a message from Brody. It was sent two hours ago. When can I see you again? She bites her lip and slides her phone into her pocket. She has to break it off with him. Now that their affair has served its purpose. She thinks of the kiss she shared with Brody on his boat after he pulled her to the surface when she nearly drowned. It was the excitement of the affair, and the new-found attraction that she had been drawn to. Not Brody Carr. While it was fun, it would never compare to the deep connection she shared with Ethan. “You better take a break while you can, Dr. Marks. It’s shaping up to be one of those days,” Logan says, before disappearing into the room behind him. Evelyn yawns as she steps out from behind the nurses’ desk. “You look pale,” Sloane says. Evelyn shrugs, adjusting the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “I didn’t sleep well. Threw up three times in the night.” The dark circles under Evelyn’s eyes are the color of the Sound. “Why don’t you take a break?” She shakes her head. “I’ve got a drowning victim coming in via ambulance.” “I’ll take it. Go ahead.” “Are you sure? You’ve been here longer than me. You should go.” “It’s fine,” Sloane says, ignoring a stab of a hunger pang. “All right. The patient coming in is a thirty-two-year-old female found unresponsive while diving near Alki Beach.” “Diving?” Evelyn nods. “That’s what the medic said. Actually, he called it freediving. She still had a weak pulse after her husband dragged her to shore but lost it shortly after the medics arrived.” The room suddenly feels cold. “She’s intubated,” Evelyn adds. “And they’re running a full code. At least the water is cold; it should give her a chance. Anyway, thank you, I could really use a Sprite.” “Hey, Logan,” Evelyn says as she moves past the treatment room. “Sloane is taking the new one for me. I’m going on break.” “Okay.” He heads toward the ambulance entrance. “You coming, Dr. Marks?” She | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 65 | Medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they'd send for the doctor," she said. Colin giggled himself. He could see how they would all look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright. "I wish my father would come home," he said. "I want to tell him myself. I'm always thinking about it--but we couldn't go on like this much longer. I can't stand lying still and pretending, and besides I look too different. I wish it wasn't raining today." It was then Mistress Mary had her inspiration. "Colin," she began mysteriously, "do you know how many rooms there are in this house?" "About a thousand, I suppose," he answered. "There's about a hundred no one ever goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy day I went and looked into ever so many of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my way when I was coming back and I stopped at the end of your corridor. That was the second time I heard you crying." Colin started up on his sofa. "A hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It sounds almost like a secret garden. Suppose we go and look at them. wheel me in my chair and nobody would know we went" "That's what I was thinking," said Mary. "No one would dare to follow us. There are galleries where you could run. We could do our exercises. There is a little Indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants. There are all sorts of rooms." "Ring the bell," said Colin. When the nurse came in he gave his orders. "I want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary and I are going to look at the part of the house which is not used. John can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us alone until I send for him again." Rainy days lost their terrors that morning. When the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As soon as Mary had made sure that John was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, Colin got out of his chair. "I am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other," he said, "and then I am going to jump and then we will do Bob Haworth's exercises." And they did all these things and many others. They looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger. "All these," said Colin, "must be my relations. They lived a long time ago. That parrot one, I believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts. She looks rather like you, Mary--not as you look now but as you looked when you came here. Now you are a great | 1 |
22 | Lord of the Flies.txt | 22 | we ought to go too." Ralph looked at him quickly and Piggy blushed. "I mean--to make sure nothing happens." Ralph squirted water again. Long before Ralph and Piggy came up with Jack's lot, they could hear the party. There was a stretch of grass in a place where the palms left a wide band of turf between the forest and the shore. Just one step down from the edge of the turf was the white, blown sand of above high water, warm, dry, trodden. Below that again was a rock that stretched away toward the lagoon. Beyond was a short stretch of sand and then the edge of the water. A fire burned on the rock and fat dripped from the roasting pigmeat into the invisible flames. All the boys of the island, except Piggy, Ralph, Simon, and the two tending the pig, were grouped on the turf. They were laughing, singing, lying, squatting, or standing on the grass, holding food in their hands. But to judge by the greasy faces, the meat eating was almost done; and some held coconut shells in their hands and were drinking from them. Before the party had started a great log had been dragged into the center of the lawn and Jack, painted and garlanded, sat there like an idol. There were piles of meat on green leaves near him, and fruit, and coconut shells full of drink. Piggy and Ralph came to the edge of the grassy platform; and the boys, as they noticed them, fell silent one by one till only the boy next to Jack was talking. Then the silence intruded even there and Jack turned where he sat. For a time he looked at them and the crackle of the fire was the loudest noise over the droning of the reef. Ralph looked away; and Sam, thinking that Ralph had turned to him accusingly, put down his gnawed bone with a nervous giggle. Ralph took an uncertain step, pointed to a palm tree, and whispered something inaudible to Piggy; and they both giggled like Sam. Lifting his feet high out of the sand, Ralph started to stroll past. Piggy tried to whistle. At this moment the boys who were cooking at the fire suddenly hauled off a great chunk of meat and ran with it toward the grass. They bumped Piggy, who was burnt, and yelled and danced. Immediately, Ralph and the crowd of boys were united and relieved by a storm of laughter. Piggy once more was the center of social derision so that everyone felt cheerful and normal. Jack stood up and waved his spear. "Take them some meat." The boys with the spit gave Ralph and Piggy each a succulent chunk. They took the gift, dribbling. So they stood and ate beneath a sky of thunderous brass that rang with the storm-coming. Jack waved his spear again. "Has everybody eaten as much as they want?" There was still food left, sizzling on the wooden spits, heaped on the green platters. Betrayed by his stomach, Piggy threw a picked | 1 |
66 | Hell Bent.txt | 63 | in pin-striped trousers hummed happily to himself in the hallway, gazing at a glass case full of black-and-white photos. The interior of Scroll and Key was strangely heavy in contrast to its graceful exterior, rough rock punctuated by elaborate Moorish arches. It felt as if they’d stepped into a cave. Alex snatched the keys from Robbie’s hand before he could reconsider. “Wait outside, please.” This time he didn’t protest, just said an eager “Sure! Take your time.” When the door was closed behind them, Alex expected a lecture or at least a disapproving scowl, but Dawes only looked thoughtful. “What is it?” Alex asked as they headed down the hall to the sanctum. Dawes shrugged, and it was as if she were still wearing one of her heavy sweatshirts. “You sound like him.” Had Alex been doing her Darlington act? She guessed she had. Every time she spoke with the authority of Lethe, it was with his voice really— assured, confident, knowledgeable. Everything she wasn’t. She opened the door to the ritual room. It was a vast star-shaped chamber at the heart of the tomb, a statue of a knight in each of its six pointed corners, a circular table at its center. But the table wasn’t really a table at all; it was a doorway, a passage to anywhere you wanted to go. And some places you didn’t. Alex smoothed her hand over the inscription on its edge. Have power on this dark land to lighten it, and power on this dead world to make it live. Tara had stood at this table before she’d been murdered. She’d been an intruder here, just like Alex. “Is this going to work?” Alex asked. “The nexus has a wobble.” It was why the Locksmiths had resorted to psychedelics, why they’d had to rely on a town girl and her drug dealer boyfriend to mix up a special concoction that would help open portals and ease their passage to other lands. “We don’t have any of Tara’s special sauce.” “I don’t know,” Dawes said, chewing on her lip. “I … I don’t know what else to try. We could wait. We should.” Their eyes met over the big round table, supposedly made from planks of the same table where King Arthur’s knights had once gathered. “We should,” Alex agreed. “But we’re not going to, are we?” Alex shook her head. More than three months had passed since Sandow’s funeral, since Alex had shared her theory that Darlington wasn’t dead but trapped somewhere in hell, the gentleman demon who had so terrified the dead and whatever monsters gathered beyond the Veil. Nothing Alex and Dawes had learned in the time since had given them cause to believe that it was anything more than wishful thinking. But that hadn’t stopped them from trying to piece together a way to reach him. Galaxias. Galaxy. A cry from the other side of the Veil. What would it mean to be an apprentice once more? To be Dante again? Months of seeking clues to the Gauntlet had added up | 0 |
10 | Dune.txt | 29 | seeing Stilgar's eyes go wide. She heard a rustling of many robes in the background. "I see a . . . Fremen with the book of examples," she intoned. "He reads to al-Lat, the sun whom he defied and subjugated. He reads to the Sadus of the Trial and this is what he reads; "Mine enemies are like green blades eaten down That did stand in the path of the tempest. Hast thou not seen what our Lord did? He sent the pestilence among them That did lay schemes against us. They are like birds scattered by the huntsman. Their schemes are like pellets of poison That every mouth rejects." A trembling passed through her. She dropped her arm. Back to her from the inner cave's shadows came a whispered response of many voices: "Their works have been overturned." "The fire of God mount over thy heart," she said. And she thought: Now, it goes in the proper channel. "The fire of God set alight," came the response. She nodded. "Thine enemies shall fall," she said. "Bi-la kaifa," they answered. In the sudden hush, Stilgar bowed to her. "Sayyadina," he said. "If the Shai-hulud grant, then you may yet pass within to become a Reverend Mother." Pass within, she thought. An odd way of putting it. But the rest of it fitted into the cant well enough. And she felt a cynical bitterness at what she had done. Our Missionaria Protectiva seldom fails. A place was prepared for us in this wilderness. The prayer of the salat has carved out our hiding place. Now . . . I must play the part of Auliya, the Friend of God . . . Sayyadina to rogue peoples who've been so heavily imprinted with our Bene Gesserit soothsay they even call their chief priestesses Reverend Mothers. Paul stood beside Chani in the shadows of the inner cave. He could still taste the morsel she had fed him--bird flesh and grain bound with spice honey and encased in a leaf. In tasting it he had realized he never before had eaten such a concentration of spice essence and there had been a moment of fear. He knew what this essence could do to him--the spice change that pushed his mind into prescient awareness. "Bi-la kaifa," Chani whispered. He looked at her, seeing the awe with which the Fremen appeared to accept his mother's words. Only the man called Jamis seemed to stand aloof from the ceremony, holding himself apart with arms folded across his breast. "Duy yakha bin mange," Chani whispered. "Duy punra bin mange. I have two eyes. I have two feet." And she stared at Paul with a look of wonder. Paul took a deep breath, trying to still the tempest within him. His mother's words had locked onto the working of the spice essence, and he had felt her voice rise and fall within him like the shadows of an open fire. Through it all, he had sensed the edge of cynicism in her--he knew her so well!--but nothing could stop this thing | 1 |
54 | Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt | 77 | Danny was gone, really gone, and here she was still on the outside, gazing up at his vast and glistening house. Nobody had answered the tradesman’s door. She banged on it, hard. “Oi!” she shouted. “Let me in!” * * * The kitchen impressed her—she couldn’t help it. It bustled with life. Stove belching heat, tiles as white as teeth. Mrs. Bone felt stirred up by the glinting surface of everything. She eyed a line of gigantic fire irons. Mr. Bone would have liked those, she thought, with a little pang. “Very busy, ain’t it?” she said to the cook, who was giving her the tour. Clearly, the woman had schooled the new people before, had perfected her system. She described the contents of every cupboard, taking her time about it. Mrs. Bone was itching to get on, get upstairs, take a look at the good stuff. “You’ll need to be patient,” Mrs. King had warned her. “Don’t let them know you’re a little racehorse. Don’t give yourself away.” “I know how to do my preliminaries, thank you,” she’d said brusquely. “What shall I call you, mum?” Mrs. Bone asked the cook now, trying humble on for size. “Cook,” said the cook. “Now, then. Here’s where you empty the cinder pails. I suppose you know how to do that? You’ll need to make up the housemaids’ boxes, do the tea leaves for the carpets, get the hot-water buckets filled.” Mrs. Bone sniffed. “All right.” Cook eyed her, suspicious. “You bring the fresh dust sheets out. My girls don’t do that. And you do the napkin press, all right? Mr. Shepherd don’t like seeing no utensils out and about in the kitchen, and nor do I.” She glared at Mrs. Bone. “Got that?” I’m a worm, thought Mrs. Bone. I’m a slug. She bowed from the waist. “Oh, yes, mum. That’s all most familiar to me.” Cook liked being bowed to. It showed on her face. But it went against the rules. “You don’t call me mum, you call me Cook,” she said. “Now, are you f’miliar with brushes?” Mrs. Bone had rolled her eyes when Mrs. King lectured her on this point. Hard brush for mud, soft brush for blacking, and the blacking went in a corked bottle. Always a corked bottle. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I know ever such a lot about brushes!” “And look out—you’re in Mr. Shepherd’s way.” Mrs. Bone only vaguely recalled the butler. The one who’d brought out a jug of lemonade to the park, carrying his silver tray. He plowed heavily toward them, followed by a train of bootboys, oblivious to her, nodding vaguely. He smelled of camphor and oil, and he was sweating. She saw a flash of light, the bright and perfect glitter of a key, attached to a chain around his waist. Oh, I could snap it off with my teeth, she thought. “We don’t like dawdlers,” Cook said, and grabbed Mrs. Bone by the elbow. And I could snap you in two pieces and all. Mrs. Bone grinned like an idiot, and | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 6 | McLean, Virginia. I looked on the map. The office building I was scheduled to visit was about six minutes away from CIA headquarters, which made sense, because I was meeting former spooks. The security firm that employed Dennis had arranged for a technical surveillance countermeasures sweep of my vehicle. For reasons I won’t get into, they were concerned someone could have planted a location tracker or listening device inside the car. Former law-enforcement and CIA technicians were scheduled to comb through the interior and exterior with sophisticated tools to ensure it wasn’t bugged. I granted myself a slow start that day. The evening prior, I had joined a friend and top House aide for my first non-drinking night out in a long time. I was attempting a “dry January” and had a great time, sans alcohol, albeit a very late night. The next morning I answered emails from prospective employers and scrolled through job listings. I was looking to return to the private sector once Trump was gone. Then I could put politics out of my mind, maybe for good. In the early afternoon, I left to grab coffee on the other side of Capitol Hill before heading out to Virginia. I might pop in to see my friend in his congressional office, too. Happy to be behind the wheel, I was driving myself again for the first time in months. The security detail had wound down at my request, with the expectation that the threat environment would probably ease in the lead-up to Biden’s inauguration—and as long as they didn’t find a tracker stuck to my car. Admittedly, the days were a little lonely without Dennis. Outside the air was chilly and overcast when I parked. I knew there was a rally planned at the White House, but as I passed within a block of the U.S. Capitol, I heard chanting. “USA! USA! USA!” Protesters had gathered at the east front of the building with Trump flags, pressing against pedestrian barriers as Capitol Police stood guard. I steered clear of the scene and continued on to the coffee shop. When I emerged maybe fifteen minutes later, the situation had deteriorated considerably. “We want Trump! We want Trump!” The chanting was louder. More protesters were pouring into the area. A man-and-woman couple walked past me wearing dark green bulletproof vests, while another group in winter coats and MAGA beanies marched across the street. They were headed for the same place, like a magnet pulling them to the Capitol. I decided against visiting my friend’s office. At the corner, police officers held us in place as the area went into lockdown. At first I was annoyed. I was late for my appointment, but it quickly dawned on me that I had a higher priority: avoiding notice. Staffers streamed out of a nearby congressional building, crowding my route back to the car. They were evacuating. The aides were as bewildered by the scene as I was when they emerged onto the sidewalk, watching in the distance as protesters climbed over barricades and into the | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 94 | “I was excited that you’d be here tonight, that we’d see each other. I wanted a chance to explain, finally.” He pauses. “Although I admit I was worried that there was some assistant director in the picture.” I laugh, and he does as well. But he’s still looking at me like he’s serious. Good Lord. The man is caught up in the moment, not thinking straight. “No, no assistant director. But it’s too late, Peter, although I appreciate the sentiment.” My heart is thudding in my chest. “Come with me. We need a do-over.” “What?” Back inside we grab our coats and awards at the coat check—he refuses to allow me to leave mine behind—and take a long elevator ride to the lobby. He leads me out into the plaza and then we’re standing on the edge of the ice rink. Exactly the spot where we parted thirty-six years ago. So much has changed. And so little. He turns to me and puts his hands gently on my shoulders. “Ask me again.” “Ask you what?” “What you did last time we were here.” “I don’t remember.” But I do. He waits. “Why do we have to go our separate ways?” I say finally. “We don’t. As a matter of fact, I’m free for the next however-many years, and I want to be by your side for them all. Will that do?” “I don’t want you to do this out of pity,” I say. “I’m not my father. I’m going to have a different trajectory and I don’t plan on needing anyone. My doc says I’ll die of something else before the Parkinson’s gets to me.” “We were a good team, Marion. You and me. There’s no pity in this face.” He points to his head. “Do you see any pity in this face?” “No.” “My guess is there’s some unsolved murder out here in the Big Apple that could use a crack team of middle-aged sleuths to break it wide open. What do you think? Shall we give it a go?” Taking a leap this late in life is crazy, I think to myself. Don’t let yourself get hurt again, I warn myself. But the answer is obvious. As the skaters glide across the ice below us, I lean into him and we kiss, his lips tasting of champagne. The answer is yes. AUTHOR’S NOTE All my books are set in iconic New York City landmarks, but choosing the building is only the first step in the process. I also do a wide search for seminal events that were going on in the city during the building’s history, keeping an eye out for a “hook” that will hopefully help ground the story in whatever decade (or decades) I end up focusing on. As I was researching the 1950s for The Spectacular, a news item caught my attention. In January 1957, a man named George Metesky was arrested and charged with planting thirty-two bombs over sixteen years around New York City. Known in the press as the “Mad Bomber,” Metesky left explosives in | 0 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 75 | when we emailed a few weeks back, that Jerome had moved out and was living next door. And now Fran needed all the information, including why I hadn’t told her already. “We’re still married,” I said. “It’s just not what our grandparents would have considered marriage.” It happened so slowly that it didn’t seem a thing to announce on social media, text old friends about. “We went through a rough patch,” I said, leaving out that this was two years ago, when the kids were five and three, that their loud ubiquity was part of the stress. We got to the point where everything I said to Jerome was the wrong thing, came out in the wrong voice. Everything he said to me was worse. We’d slowly grown allergic to each other, eventually realized we were each unfairly shackled to a person who was sick of our face. “And right around then,” I did tell her, “Jerome’s mom went into hospice. She’d been in the other half of our duplex, so he moved over there.” He’s a painter, and the decision was partly practical: He could use the second bedroom as a studio and stop paying rent on the one downtown. We could stay married, with one address, for tax reasons and convenience—and, honestly, out of sheer laziness. The kids could go back and forth, we figured, but really Jerome ended up going back and forth, and so, for instance, while I was at Granby he stayed in my bed, which was our old bed, which occasionally he also stayed in when I was in it, because he was good at sex and now that we didn’t see each other all day, we didn’t hate each other. I was actually enormously fond of him: grateful when he took the kids, nostalgic when we slept together, bemused by his dating life, equal parts flattered and revolted and possessive when he came to me for romantic advice. I found everyone he dated borderline crazy, couldn’t figure out if that was on him or on me. Fran said, “You know I love how you never give up on people, but it’s kind of hilarious that your way of breaking up involves him still living in your house.” “Well, next door.” “So the upshot is,” she said, “you’re single?” “Essentially. Married but single.” “It’s funny that my marriage is more traditional than yours.” I hadn’t told her about Yahav, maybe because I didn’t want to jinx it. Yahav was skittish and unpredictable, a handsome Israeli bunny rabbit, equally likely to drive straight here as to vanish into the woods forever. I’d texted him from the airport that afternoon: As warned, I’ve invaded New England. He texted back only an exclamation point. I had not yet been sleeping with Yahav when I split from Jerome, but his friendship then had been a helpful reminder that not everyone was tired of me, not everyone blamed me for the weather. Yahav had enormous, warm hands. He had dark stubble so thick it consumed his chin and neck, more darkness | 0 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 67 | crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate. "Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach. Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was. "Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter. There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were an institution, and the girls called them `muffs',for they had no others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other lunch and were seldom home before two. "Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. We are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!" And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do. They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine. "If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind. "Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Meg from the depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world. "I like good strong words that mean something," replied Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away altogether. "Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch and I don't choose to be called so." "You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with." "How ridiculous you are, Jo!" But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself. "Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be dismal, as you do, we | 1 |
71 | Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt | 64 | about Liv by now. But I couldn’t face her. Anger and guilt tangled inside me. She’d left me on that trail. She’d turned away from me and from Liv, and she hadn’t been there when I needed her. When Liv needed her. It was absurd. She’d been hurt. Of course she turned back. But I felt like I had when we fought all those years ago, desperate to hurt each other, desperate for the pain of being hurt. “No. There’s no one,” I said. “You can go. I’ll be all right.” “I’m two doors down if you change your mind,” he said. “Room four.” “Is that some kind of come-on?” I asked him. “What? No,” he said. “Jesus, you really don’t have a high opinion of humanity, do you?” “At least I’m up-front about it,” I said with a one-shouldered shrug. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he only shook his head. He let himself out and shut the door behind him. I let gravity pull me down onto the bed, not bothering to take off my shoes, and lay on my side staring at the wall. I felt like I was drifting. It was the same sensation as when I lay against that rotting log, dizzy from the lack of blood, listening to the birds call uncaringly overhead. It was the feeling of waiting for the world to end. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke up an hour later, the exhaustion gone and the grief hardened into a knife’s edge, sliding across my tender skin. I sat up gingerly. I needed to do something—staying still was suddenly impossible, nervous energy crackling through me. I needed to talk to Cass. We had to figure out what to do about what Liv had found. And I wanted to be with her. For all the fights and stumbles along the way, she was still one of the two people in the world who knew me best. The only one now. When I drove up to Cass’s house, she wasn’t alone. There was a truck out front, a brand-new monstrosity that could have hauled an elephant trailer. I almost turned around when I saw it, but as I hovered outside the door opened and Cass’s mother stepped out, waving to me. I couldn’t very well leave now. I walked up the drive, tumbling backward through time with every step. Meredith Green was a tiny woman, like a twist of wire. Age had distilled her down to her essence, hard and sharp, and what vanity she displayed with her dyed-blond hair and understated makeup had a utility of its own. She was the mayor’s wife, and she played the role with efficiency and unwavering dedication. “Naomi. I’m glad you’re here,” she said. She took both my hands in hers. She’d always had warm hands, but now they had that papery feel of age. The first time she’d held my hands like this, a soft and inescapable touch, I’d still been in the hospital. The woman who’d sighed | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 50 | walks in. AMY Jesus, that sounds medical. We’re short-staffed, and I’ve got errands to run, so I’m gonna need you and Dennis to do this wedding cake delivery to the Woman’s Club today. Sam continues vomiting without looking up or acknowledging Amy in any way. AMY Great! The cake is boxed up in the walk-in, all the venue info is next to the order phone, the van keys are on the hook. You’ve driven it before, right? Sam starts to stand, feels a fresh wave of nausea, puts her head into the garbage can, and retches. AMY Okay, good talk. Remember that this is the most important day in someone’s life, so try to not fuck it up. Maybe tuck in your goddamn shirt. Amy walks away, to go file invoices or something, and Sam dusts herself off and starts for the door but immediately has to turn around and hurl again. You know, this was gonna be my one shot to get a realistic vomiting scene on prime-time television, and it’s shit like that that bums me out about not making this show. I don’t care about vital storytelling or whatever *jerkoff motion*. I care about eye-bulging, capillary-bursting thunder puke. I don’t need a show about me and my stupid-ass friends, at all, ever, but I do want to right the biggest and most consistent wrong in TV and movies today: that weird little spit-up “oopsies, I puked” vomiting that everyone does. That “obviously just spitting out a mouthful of oatmeal” fake-ass vomiting is infuriating to me. I’m supposed to fully immerse myself in the story of someone who just dribbles a little chunky soup out of the side of their mouth and passes that off as vomiting? I can’t! Every time I throw up, I shatter all the blood vessels in my eyes and face, salty tears pour from my eyes like a waterfall and mix with a river of snot, and I expend so much violent energy I have to go lie down afterward to recover; what is this delicate puke-burping we see all over television? I hate it. We were gonna make a spectacular vomiting scene. A deep-from-the-pit-of-her-belly upheaval of the entire contents of her stomach, complete with realistic sound effects, in stereo. I wanted you to have to pause the TV in disgust after hearing that shit. I was very explicit in my desire to go down in television history for unleashing the most realistic vomiting on the American public, and maybe that is the reason the people with the money wouldn’t give me millions of dollars to make that happen. I get it. EXT. BAKERY PARKING LOT—LATER Three months after I started at Judy’s real bakery, I was promoted to working in the office for much of the week, but tapping on a calculator and printing accounts receivable reports on a dot matrix printer does not for exciting television make, so, for the pilot, we decided that I was going to tag along on deliveries, trying to keep platters of assorted petit fours and other fancy | 0 |
25 | Oliver Twist.txt | 89 | worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so long has made her restless--eh?' 'That's it, my dear,' replied the Jew in a whisper. 'Hush!' As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing. 'Why, now she's on the other tack!' exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of excessive surprise on his companion. Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs. 'Light him down,' said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. 'It's a pity he should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a light.' Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl, said, in a whisper. 'What is it, Nancy, dear?' 'What do you mean?' replied the girl, in the same tone. 'The reason of all this,' replied Fagin. 'If HE'--he pointed with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs--'is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you--' 'Well?' said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. 'No matter just now. We'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog--like a dog! worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes--come to me. I say, come to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.' 'I know you well,' replied the girls, without manifesting the least emotion. 'Good-night.' She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea--not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees--that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a | 1 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 44 | own ilo which was as old as the village itself and where all the great ceremonies and dances took place. The drums beat the unmistakable wrestling dance - quick, light and gay, and it came floating on the wind. Okonkwo cleared his throat and moved his feet to the beat of the drums. It filled him with fire as it had always done from his youth. He trembled with the desire to conquer and subdue. It was like the desire for woman. "We shall be late for the wrestling," said Ezinma to her mother. "They will not begin until the sun goes down." "But they are beating the drums." "Yes. The drums begin at noon but the wrestling waits until the sun begins to sink. Go and see if your father has brought out yams for the afternoon." "He has. Nwoye's mother is already cooking." "Go and bring our own, then. We must cook quickly or we shall be late for the wrestling." Ezinma ran in the direction of the barn and brought back two yams from the dwarf wall. Ekwefi peeled the yams quickly. The troublesome nanny-goat sniffed about, eating the peelings. She cut the yams into small pieces and began to prepare a pottage, using some of the chicken. At that moment they heard someone crying just outside their compound. It was very much like Obiageli, Nwoye's sister. "Is that not Obiageli weeping?" Ekwefi called across the yard to Nwoye's mother. "Yes," she replied. "She must have broken her waterpot." The weeping was now quite close and soon the children filed in, carrying on their heads various sizes of pots suitable to their years. Ikemefuna came first with the biggest pot, closely followed by Nwoye and his two younger brothers. Obiageli brought up the rear, her face streaming with tears. In her hand was the cloth pad on which the pot should have rested on her head. "What happened?" her mother asked, and Obiageli told her mournful story. Her mother consoled her and promised to buy her another pot. Nwoye's younger brothers were about to tell their mother the true story of the accident when Ikemefuna looked at them sternly and they held their peace. The fact was that Obiageli had been making inyanga with her pot. She had balanced it on her head, folded her arms in front of her and began to sway her waist like a grown-up young lady. When the pot fell down and broke she burst out laughing. She only began to weep when they got near the iroko tree outside their compound. The drums were still beating, persistent and unchanging. Their sound was no longer a separate thing from the living village. It was like the pulsation of its heart. It throbbed in the air, in the sunshine, and even in the trees, and filled the village with excitement. Ekwefi ladled her husband's share of the pottage into a bowl and covered it. Ezinma took it to him in his obi. Okonkwo was sitting on a goatskin already eating his first wife's meal. Obiageli, | 1 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 25 | and “Opera Star!” and “Sad Drunk.” I wonder if they let you add the class to the elective schedule just so it’d sit, forever, in the list of courses sometimes offered at Granby. “Wow!” the moms of bored eighth graders have said every year since, leafing through the viewbook in the admissions office. “History of opera! That’s like a college course!” Robbie Serenho was only there because Thalia was, and Kellan was only there because Robbie was. A ski star, Robbie oozed privilege. And he had swagger: the way he wore shorts even in snow, his floppy hair, the way he’d show up late to class, chewing gum, and no teacher called him out. Dating Thalia certainly bolstered his status. I hadn’t had class with Robbie since ninth grade English, and was mildly surprised now to find him insightful. He’d be picking at a hole in his khakis like he wasn’t listening, then pop in with “Beethoven was the Miles Davis of his time. Like, constant reinvention.” Robbie might not have come in an opera fan, but he was at least a casual music geek, knowledgeable about anything he deemed cool enough; he’d go on about laser tag or World Cup soccer in the same way. He’d sit with his arm slung around the back of Thalia’s seat, keeping her anchored to the floor of the classroom. I’ll forever remember the operas we saw that October at the Met. Three operas in three days, missing our other classes. Le Nozze di Figaro, La Bohème, Tosca. I owe you that: A girl from southern Indiana got to see three operas at the Met. It was exhausting, but it rewired my brain. Thalia was dating Robbie, and Beth was all over Kellan, and all four were friends—which left me and Kwan the odd ones out. The trip was unstructured; we had nothing to do between waking up and meeting for dinner. Kwan and I were both awkward enough that we weren’t going to suggest exploring the city together—so I set out alone every day, seeing how far I could walk, doing mental math on calories burned per block. The biggest city I’d seen was Indianapolis. Well, and I’d flown through O’Hare, which didn’t count. I didn’t mention this, not wanting to seem like a rube. I’m sure if you’d known you’d have given me more direction, at least taught me how to hail a cab. Everything was enormous, and the sidewalks were broad, and I loved it all, even the way the streets started smelling like garbage at five p.m. when the trash came out. I was terrified the whole time of pickpockets, of crime, of wandering into a gang war (ah, the notorious gang wars of Lincoln Square), but otherwise it was heaven. I had thirty dollars for the three days, and while Granby covered our Met tickets and dinners, those thirty dollars needed to get me through breakfasts and lunches and transportation. I’d rise early (my body woke at four a.m. for crew, even here in New York), sneak out of the | 0 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 52 | drawled, "great to see you, you're looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you've stolen." Arthur goggled at him. "You mean you know this guy?" he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod. "Know him!" exclaimed Ford, "he's ..." he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round. "Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent," he said, "I saved him when his planet blew up." "Oh sure," said Zaphod, "hi Arthur, glad you could make it." His right-hand head looked round casually, said "hi" and went back to having his teeth picked. Ford carried on. "And Arthur," he said, "this is my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeb ..." "We've met," said Arthur sharply. When you're cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your bonnet in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his. "Err ... what?" "I said we've met." Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply. "Hey ... er, have we? Hey ... er ..." Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking. "What do you mean you've met?" he demanded. "This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon." "I don't care," said Arthur coldly. We've met, haven't we Zaphod Beeblebrox - or should I say ... Phil?" "What!" shouted Ford. "You'll have to remind me," said Zaphod. "I've a terrible memory for species." "It was at a party," pursued Arthur. "Yeah, well I doubt that," said Zaphod. "Cool it will you Arthur!" demanded Ford. Arthur would not be deterred. "A party six months ago. On Earth ... England ..." Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile. "London," insisted Arthur, "Islington." "Oh," said Zaphod with a guilty start, "that party." This wasn't fair on Ford at all. He looked backwards and forwards between Arthur and Zaphod. "What?" he said to Zaphod. "You don't mean to say you've been on that miserable planet as well do you?" "No, of course not," said Zaphod breezily. "Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere ..." "But I was stuck there for fifteen years!" "Well I didn't know that did I?" "But what were you doing there?" "Looking about, you know." "He gatecrashed a party," persisted Arthur, trembling with anger, "a fancy dress party ..." "It would have to be, wouldn't it?" said Ford. "At this party," persisted Arthur, "was a girl ... oh well, look it doesn't matter now. The whole place | 1 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 15 | salt, silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this business of buying and selling. Dany liked the strangeness of the Eastern Market too, with all its queer sights and sounds and smells. She often spent her mornings there, nibbling tree eggs, locust pie, and green noodles, listening to the high ululating voices of the spellsingers, gaping at manticores in silver cages and immense grey elephants and the striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai. She enjoyed watching all the people too: dark solemn Asshai'i and tall pale Qartheen, the bright-eyed men of Yi Ti in monkey-tail hats, warrior maids from Bayasabhad, Shamyriana, and Kayakayanaya with iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks, even the dour and frightening Shadow Men, who covered their arms and legs and chests with tattoos and hid their faces behind masks. The Eastern Market was a place of wonder and magic for Dany. But the Western Market smelled of home. As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and brought a fond smile to her face. Under that she smelled the heady sweet perfumes of Lys. She saw slaves carrying bolts of intricate Myrish lace and fine wools in a dozen rich colors. Caravan guards wandered among the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics of quilted yellow cotton, empty scabbards swinging from their woven leather belts. Behind one stall an armorer displayed steel breastplates worked with gold and silver in ornate patterns, and helms hammered in the shapes of fanciful beasts. Next to him was a pretty young woman selling Lannisport goldwork, rings and brooches and torcs and exquisitely wrought medallions suitable for belting. A huge eunuch guarded her stall, mute and hairless, dressed in sweat-stained velvets and scowling at anyone who came close. Across the aisle, a fat cloth trader from Yi Ti was A GAME OF THRONES 517 haggling with a Pentoshi over the price of some green dye, the monkey tail on his hat swaying back and forth as he shook his head. "When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the bazaar," Dany told Ser Jorah as they wandered down the shady aisle between the stalls. "It was so alive there, all the people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at . . . though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything . . . well, except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers . . . do they have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms, the kind they bake in Tyrosh?" "Cakes, are they? I could not say, Princess." The knight bowed. "If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek out the captain and see if he has letters for us." "Very well. I'll help you find him." "There is no need for you to trouble yourself." Ser Jorah glanced away impatiently. "Enjoy the market. I will rejoin you when | 1 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 71 | stirring—I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t dislodge you when you slumped against me in sleep, your head coming to rest on my shoulder. No, silly me; of course you’ll mind, but perhaps I don’t care. 22nd November I thought long and hard about throwing all that into the fire. Well, all right, not that long and hard; Wendell’s account is helpful, I admit, and in fact put about a dozen research questions into my head—not least of which regards the ability of faerie monarchs to manipulate time—but no doubt he would only smirk if I posed them to him and make some joke about bibliographies. As much as it infuriates me when anyone else so much as touches my journal, let alone has the gall to fill it with their perfect handwriting (for of course his handwriting is beautiful, even when composed in a horse-drawn sleigh), I am not going to let my pet peeves take precedence over scholarship. I slept most of the way back to Hrafnsvik, which astonished me. During one of my few waking moments, Wendell explained that I had allowed myself to take part in a powerful enchantment—the making of the sword— and as I had no magic myself, the enchantment had instead absorbed much of my mortal strength, and it would take time for that to recover. This fascinating statement immediately filled me with questions: Is that what Deirdre did, sacrificing her own strength for her faerie husband’s sake, and is that why she died shortly thereafter? By what alchemy does mortal strength contribute to faerie magic, and is it only the courtly fae who have access to this? But I was asleep again before I could ask him. Once we returned to the cottage, I tumbled into bed and slept for another night and a morning, and when I awoke, I felt whole again. “Wendell?” I called. I don’t know why I did so—I was on the edge of sleep still, and for some reason the quietness of the cottage alarmed me. But he came into the room, smiling smugly. “I have been up for hours,” he said, which I did not for a second believe. “Shall I send for breakfast?” “Oh, yes.” He had already eaten, but that did not stop him from helping himself to the food brought by Finn and Krystjan—hearty dark bread, smoked fish, goose eggs, a variety of cheeses, and blueberries that had been canned fresh in syrup, which they had mixed into oatmeal and yogurt and piled with toasted sugar. It was a more elaborate breakfast than any we’d been served before, and even stranger, both Finn and Krystjan delivered it. Bambleby invited them jovially to dine with us, an overture that was immediately accepted. This suited me well, as I was able to eat in peace while Bambleby entertained himself with directing his charms at two willing recipients, both of whom were full of questions regarding our exploits. Lilja and Margret, I learned, had been safely delivered by Wendell to Lilja’s family home, and were both in | 0 |
91 | The-One.txt | 44 | do that?” she yells over the siren, aware of the weight of the pistol in her front pocket. The ambulance pulls to a stop in front of the ER’s double doors, the sound of the siren replaced by the vehicle’s doors opening. Ethan shoots another glance in its direction, but Sloane doesn’t turn around. It’s Evelyn’s turn for a new patient, not hers. Ethan’s wary eyes return to hers. “We should have the footage by tonight. So, if you hurry, you can ask your old pal to delete it. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he already has. But I doubt he’s gone to such lengths to protect you. And if not, you should be ready for some very hard questions. Questions I hope you have a good answer for. Because I’ll be honest, Sloane.” Ethan leans toward her. “What was his last BP?” she hears Logan ask one of the medics as they roll the patient inside. “Seventy over forty.” Ethan’s red eyes remain fixed on hers. “The odds of your innocence in all this are becoming…real thin. Even for someone who wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Sloane reaches for his hand, but he pulls away. His jaw is set, and she doesn’t like the way he’s looking at her. Does he really think, after a decade of marriage, that she’s guilty of premeditated murder? She thinks of Kay at dinner after Ethan left. “I’m scared of Brody. I should’ve told you before, but he’s been stalking me. He was waiting inside my car the other night after work—” “What!” Ethan takes a step back. The ambulance driver turns in their direction. Sloane steps forward. “I thought I could get him to leave me alone, but he’s become totally unhinged. Since this whole thing with his wife.” “You should’ve told me.” “I know.” Her hospital phone rings. She sighs and pulls it out of her pocket. It’s the nurses’ desk. She holds up a finger to Ethan to indicate she’ll just be a minute. “Dr. Marks.” Ethan is already walking away. “Hi, Dr. Marks. It’s Rachel—” “I’ll have to call you back.” After hanging up, she starts to jog after him, but stops suddenly when she feels the pistol jiggle inside her pocket. “Ethan, wait!” He wears a pained expression on his face when he turns. “I have to get back.” “Is there any way you can delay Jonah getting that video footage? Or at least watching it?” There has to be something he could do. He shakes his head. “This is all the help I can give you.” “Brody’s dangerous, Ethan.” “If you see him again, you call me. Don’t go anywhere near him. No more secrets, Sloane.” She nods. “Got it.” He walks away without another word. The waiting room hasn’t gotten any less crowded in the few minutes she was outside. The homeless man is still lying on the floor between two rows of chairs, but his screams for help have morphed into indiscernible utterings under his breath. Sloane heads straight for the locker room, | 0 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 19 | the opening to George, and she told me she was interested in applying. She’s at Harvard right now, and physics academia is an old boys’ club everywhere, but . . . Harvard’s bad. So she sent in her materials, and . . . You said you’re familiar with her work. As you can imagine, everyone knew it was going to be her from the start.” I can imagine it very well. Her thesis experiments were stepping stones to massive advancements in particle physics. Georgina is the epitome of inspiring. “Then you applied. And Monica was so impressed by your CV, she decided to bring you in despite the committee recommending against it. It was pointed out to her that there was nothing you could have done during the interview that would have gotten you the job, but she insisted, reasoning that George already had an excellent position at Harvard and might decide not to accept an offer.” He sighs. “Even if George weren’t a rock star, you have to understand: she and I were in grad school together. We’ve had half a decade longer than you in the field. Half a decade worth of scientific output, publications, grants.” You’re the ideal candidate, Monica told me the first night we met, but I wasn’t. I simply wasn’t. “Why did Monica . . . ?” “She tried her all to hire a theorist. And I have to admit, she played her cards well by choosing you as her candidate.” He leans forward. I drag my eyes up to his. “Elsie, I was there for the final vote. George won, because she was best qualified, but everyone in the department was impressed with you. Which doesn’t surprise me, after I saw your talk and read your articles.” “Right.” I press my fingers into my eyes. “My articles.” “They’re excellent. And also . . .” I look at him. “Also?” He wets his lips, like he needs time to phrase something. “Sometimes, when I read them, I can almost hear them in your voice. Your personality.” He shakes his head, self-effacing, like he knows he’s being fanciful. “A turn of sentence here. A formula there.” I thought we’d agreed that I don’t have a personality, I’m tempted to say. But I’m too tired to be bitter, and Jack . . . he’s been nothing but kind. I try for a smile. “I can’t blame you for voting for her.” “I didn’t.” My eyes widen. “I recused myself.” “Why?” He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come immediately. “I had a . . . conflict of interest.” “Because of George.” He smiles faintly. “Because of you, Elsie.” I have no idea how to interpret this. So I just don’t. “Aren’t you and Georgina . . . ?” He cocks his head, confused. God, he’s going to make me say it. “Together. Aren’t you two together?” He laughs. “No. But we are close friends. And unlike Dora, her wife, I’m scared enough of her to let her drag me to see movies that bend the spacetime continuum | 0 |
96 | We-Could-Be-So Good.txt | 4 | the building, or possibly the world, leaves their windows open so feral cats can wander in. “I don’t know how he isn’t dead yet,” Nick says. “Have you thought about keeping him inside?” “He’s a wild animal.” “He’s the opposite of that.” The cat tries to swat at a floating soap bubble, missing by a mile. “If you want to keep him, I’m not going to stop you.” “Really?” Nick shrugs. Andy wonders if they’d have the same conversation if this hadn’t happened in the middle of the night. Nick is barely awake. There’s a red line on his face from where it was pressed against a crease in his pillow, and his eyes aren’t quite focused. Andy’s never had a pet. As a kid, it would have made no sense, what with his mother never being around. After that, he was away at school. Since then, he guesses he could have gotten a cat, but he doesn’t trust himself to look after another living creature. Although, looking at the animal in the sink, he couldn’t do much worse than this cat has been managing on his own. But it doesn’t seem right to start bringing animals into what’s really Nick’s apartment. He’s said Andy can stay, but open-ended isn’t the same as permanent. At least Andy doesn’t think so. He feels like there ought to at least be some kind of conversation about it, but he can’t imagine what that conversation would even sound like. “I probably ought to bring him downstairs,” Andy says, and proceeds to do exactly that. Chapter Nineteen On the day Emily and Jeanne are coming for dinner, Nick wakes Andy at seven in the morning. “It’s Saturday!” Andy protests, grabbing a pillow and holding it over his head to block out the sun. “This is obscene.” “If we have guests and not enough food, I won’t be responsible for my actions. We need to do the shopping.” Some barely awake part of Andy’s mind registers that Nick could buy groceries on his own and let Andy sleep in like a normal person, but Nick knows how much Andy hates waking up alone. This is Nick’s idea of a compromise. “Okay, okay.” Andy lets himself be tugged out of bed. Obviously Nick has lost his mind, because walking to the Christopher Street A&P, getting groceries, and walking back takes no more than an hour. They’ve been doing it every week for two months now. But Andy will humor him. Nick throws a shirt at him and sticks a cup of coffee in his face. It isn’t until he stumbles down the steps and out onto the sidewalk, into a shockingly warm and sunny spring morning, that the penny drops: Nick is nervous. “You know,” Andy says slowly, “you could make lasagna like you did when Linda and her friends came over.” Nick glares at him as if he suggested putting bowls of cereal out for supper. “That is the problem. I made lasagna when Linda came over the last time. And anyway, lasagna is . . .” | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 35 | out. Which feels a little weird, but also I have a general idea of where she is and what she’s doing, so it’s fine. We should teach seminars on how to break up! When my mom was dying—and I mean, when my mom’s fragile-bird body lay in a hospital bed in the ICU surrounded by beeping metal boxes, spiderwebs of tubes snaking in and around her brittle frame, when she was dying dying—her doctor gathered all of us girls outside of the room and told us that the pneumonia she’d developed while in hospice was so advanced that her death was imminent. They were going to put her on a morphine drip so she could ride a wave of narcotics into the afterlife. He told us that she would probably lose consciousness soon, and that each of us (me, my sisters, and my mother’s mother) would each be allotted thirty seconds to say goodbye, or whatever we needed to say to her, before she slipped into an incommunicative state. I had turned eighteen almost four months to the day before this moment; I had been working at a bakery for most of the summer, my first non-babysitting job, and earlier that day, I had clocked out early and asked my best friend, Sarah, to drive me to see my mom at the nursing home at Touhy and Western, where she’d lived since I was thirteen. It’s so…funny is the wrong word to use, but it’s the only one I can come up with that captures it—weird? strange?? absolutely fucked-up and absurd???—to think about what it must have been like to be my friend back then, for those kids with nice clothes and limitless futures and phone numbers and Volvos in their driveways, to be friends with someone who sometimes didn’t have a place to live, whose parents were not ever coming to school for conferences, who needed to be picked up from her mom’s nursing home to go to the movies. For me it just felt normal, right? Because that was just my reality. No one fell from grace or was otherwise derailed by illness or injury from a promising life; we started bad and hovered right above bad for many years until sliding incrementally into worse before landing in godawful. But I wonder what that was like for other people, people whose lives had so far been untouched by terrible shit, not knowing what kind of shape I was gonna show up in or where I was coming from or where I was going and what I’d be facing once I got there. I like to think that I hid the turmoil well. And it’s comforting to think that no one clocked how bad my situation was, but I’m sure I didn’t. I got to the nursing home that day, and my mom started gasping for breath as soon as we walked into the room. The hospice nurse told me she’d been trying to stay alive until I could get there, which is an unreal thing to hear that I could | 0 |
80 | Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt | 55 | feel in control, like I did during our earlier lessons, when I told him what to do. Now he knows what I want, and he knows how to give it to me. He hooks his arms around my thighs, stretching me wider. “Finn,” I manage, remembering how much he liked it when I said his name. He moves his tongue faster, grazing the spot I want him most until I think I might scream if he doesn’t lick me there. And then he does—a sweep of his tongue before he sucks on my clit for just a moment. “Oh my god. Do that again.” I can feel him laugh as he obeys, sucking me longer this time before letting go. My thighs start shaking, and he keeps up a relentless rhythm, licking and sucking and anchoring me to his face with his hands squeezing my ass, until I throw an arm over my eyes, my body finally clenching tight—and then let it all go. I incinerate. We both go quiet afterward, breathing in sync as the ceiling above continues to spin. I settle back onto the bed and he tucks me against him, fingertips sliding into my hair. “I love your hair.” “Yeah?” We’ve never done this, been so generous with compliments. He nods. “One, it’s adorable,” he says, and despite what just happened with his mouth between my legs, I feel my face grow warm. “And two . . .” The rest of the sentence fades out as he seems to weigh what he wants to say next. “I get to see your whole face. And whatever you’re feeling—well, you’re not the best at hiding it. It’s right there.” He tilts my face toward him, tapping my nose ring for a moment before drawing a fingertip along my eyebrows, resting right in the middle. “When you’re angry, you get this little furrow right here. When you’re horny, you blush . . . here.” That finger lands on my collarbone. Dips lower. “And here. And here.” I swipe his hand away, and while he’s laughing, I couldn’t be further from it. Everything he’s saying makes my heart twist in the way I’ve tried to avoid since the night we met. That feeling I’ve been running from, finally catching up with me. And yet: “What about when I’m happy?” I can’t help asking. An easy smile. “That’s the best one. One of your eyes gets squinty. Just one.” “Sounds charming.” “It is,” he insists, moving forward to drop a kiss onto each eyelid as I let out a yelp. It’s probably a good thing that I’m leaving tomorrow and won’t see him for a few days. In Ohio, I wanted to send him away to protect my heart, but maybe the fact of it is that my body is stronger than my mind. Right now, he is mine, and I’m going to show him just how proud I am of his progress. I beckon him closer. I want to tell him everything I like about his face, too, his freckles and the angle | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 18 | is nicely appointed and stocked well enough to accommodate a C-list celebrity on vacation: Aesop hand soap and toothpaste on the sink, Aveda shampoos in the shower, Kiehl’s body products on the big block thing with the spare towels and washcloths in it (What is that called? A credenza? A toilet cupboard?? A washroom dresser???), and everything smells good and looks expensive and has an air of fancy, but not fancy fancy? It’s “the nice mall with good air-conditioning” fancy. “The chain restaurant with a valet stand” fancy. MIDWEST FANCY. This year, I had to switch to a more, uhh, utilitarian grooming regimen to manage my allergies and whatnots, but even if you wanted to use my unscented, non-lathering soap with the waterlogged prescription label hanging on by the one remaining drop of adhesive, I would be okay with that! You would be bored and depressed, but at least you wouldn’t be breaking out in hives. I would still go out and get something nice for you to use in my shower if steroid body wash isn’t really your ministry, and you should use as much of it as you want, especially since it’s only in there so you will think I love myself and have good taste. My boss and I walk into the bathroom together. Am I supposed to carry on the conversation? No, as soon as you reach the door and you discover that she’s not headed to the coffee room, or wherever you thought she was going, you are supposed to pretend you forgot some essential bathroom item at your desk (cell phone? tampon? rocket launcher?!), and bang the heel of your hand against your forehead the way people do in cartoons and excuse yourself, clenching your butthole and bladder as tightly as you possibly can while peering around the wall of your cubicle to clock her walking back to her office, then squeeze every muscle below your belly button taut as you painfully waddle back to the bathroom to relieve yourself in peace. Can I keep talking on my cell phone in the restroom? WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?! Who in the world are you talking to who doesn’t immediately clap their flip phone shut the minute they hear your voice echoing off the metal stalls of a public bathroom? What do you have to say that can’t wait thirty seconds, or thirty minutes? Is a child lost? Has a dam broken? Did your car burst into flames? Have two celebrities whose happiness you are deeply invested in decided to get married?! Please tell me, what is the emergency that is so fucking dire you must subject a lady who is just trying to have discreet burrito diarrhea in a shopping mall to a conversation you could easily resume after you’ve done your business? I don’t want to talk to you while you’re sitting very still in a dark, air-conditioned room where no one’s privates are exposed, let alone when there is a chorus of other people’s farts providing musical accompaniment. No one ever says anything important, | 0 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 31 | was running across the tennis lawn to the house. "You can't come in," said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts. "I'm very sorry if he's after you, but you can't come in!" Kemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and then shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts were useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to hammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the front of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring from his window--a face of horror--had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish, ere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen. At that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the chase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he heard the side gate slam. Emerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward direction, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race he had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only four days ago. He ran it well for a man out of training; and though his face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with wide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever there came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone dazzling, he crossed it and left the bare invisible feet that followed to take what line they would. For the first time in his life Kemp discovered that the hill- road was indescribably vast and desolate, and that the beginnings of the town far below at the hill foot were strangely remote. Never had there been a slower or more painful method of progression than running. All the gaunt villas, sleeping in the afternoon sun, looked locked and barred; no doubt they were locked and barred--by his own orders. But at any rate they might have kept a lookout for an eventuality like this! The town was rising up now, the sea had dropped out of sight behind it, and people down below were stirring. A tram was just arriving at the hill foot. Beyond that was the police station. Was that footsteps he heard behind him? Spurt. The people below were staring at him, one or two were running, and his breath was beginning to saw in his throat. The tram was quite near now, and the Jolly Cricketers was noisily barring its doors. Beyond the tram were posts and heaps of gravel--the drainage works. He had a transitory idea of jumping into the tram and slamming the doors, and then he resolved to go to the police station. In another moment he had passed the door of the Jolly Cricketers, and was in the blistering fag end of the street, with human beings about him. The tram driver and his helper--arrested by the sight of his furious haste --stood staring with the tram horses unhitched. Further on | 1 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 13 | and horny as hell, while he’s so cool and calm. He’s just in my field of vision, and I watch the flex and pull of the muscles of his back under his T-shirt as he changes the song. Immediately, a sweet, almost childlike female voice starts to sing about watching me. Oh, I like this song. Christian turns and his eyes lock on mine as he moves around to the front of the sofa and sinks gracefully to his knees in front of me. Suddenly, I feel very exposed. “Exposed? Vulnerable?” he asks with his uncanny ability to voice my un- spoken words. His hands are on his knees. I nod. Why doesn’t he touch me? “Good,” he murmurs. “Hold out your hands.” I can’t look away from his mesmerizing eyes as I do what he asks. Christian pours a little oily liquid onto each palm from a small clear bottle. It’s scented—a rich, musky, sensuous scent that I can’t place. “Rub your hands.” I squirm beneath his hot, heavy gaze. “Keep still,” he warns. Oh my. “Now, Anastasia, I want you to touch yourself.” Holy cow. “Start at your throat and work down.” I hesitate. 380/551 “Don’t be shy, Ana. Come. Do it.” The humor and challenge in his expres- sion is plain to see along with his desire. The sweet voice sings that there’s nothing sweet about her. I place my hands against my throat and let them slide down to the top of my breasts. The oil makes them glide effortlessly over my skin. My hands are warm. “Lower,” Christian murmurs, his eyes darkening. He doesn’t touch me. My hands cup my breasts. “Tease yourself.” Oh my. I tug gently on my nipples. “Harder,” Christian urges. He sits immobile between my thighs, just watch- ing me. “Like I would,” he adds, his eyes shining darkly. My muscles clench deep in my belly. I groan in response and pull harder on my nipples, feeling them stiffen and lengthen beneath my touch. “Yes. Like that. Again.” Closing my eyes I pull hard, rolling and twisting them between my fingers. I moan. “Open your eyes.” I blink up at him. “Again. I want to see you. See you enjoy your touch.” Oh fuck. I repeat the process. This is so . . . erotic. “Hands. Lower.” I squirm. “Keep still, Ana. Absorb the pleasure. Lower.” His voice is low and husky, tempting and beguiling at once. “You do it,” I whisper. “Oh, I will—soon. You. Lower. Now.” Christian, exuding sensuality, runs his tongue along his teeth Holy fuck . . . I writhe, pulling on the restraints. He shakes his head, slowly. “Still.” He rests his hands on my knees, holding me in place. “Come on, Ana—lower.” My hands glide over my stomach down over my belly. “Lower,” he mouths, and he is carnality personified. “Christian, please.” His hands glide down from my knees, skimming my thighs, toward my sex. “Come on, Ana. Touch yourself.” 381/551 My left hand skims over my sex, and I rub in a slow circle, my mouth | 1 |
92 | The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt | 12 | seal,” I said. Seeing Vaida’s ring open the doors to her disturbing underground room had planted the seed. My deal with Arin was well and good, but no plan was complete without a contingency. “I will need your and Marek’s help to steal the Sultana’s seal at the Omal palace. We can use it to negotiate our safety.” A knock at the door interrupted Sefa’s response. She straightened, her petrified gaze colliding with mine. “Enter!” I shouted. “Sefa, what is it?” The door swung open, and my neck pricked. Eerie foreboding arrived seconds before I heard his voice. “Our Champion wakes at last,” Supreme Rawain said. The axis of my world ground to a scraping halt. A quiet shatter echoed in my head. A man with a raven-headed stick sits near a woman drowning in her Nizahlan garb. An older lady with soft brown eyes keeps glancing at me and then away. Teta Palia said she was the Queen of Omal, and I wasn’t to speak to her. At the other end of the oak table, Gedo Niyar hands me a sesame-seed candy. Teta puts her hand onto my knee to stop my restless legs from kicking. I want to go home. Dawoud said he would take me to Har Adiween so I can climb the dancing trees. I glance around the table. Something important is being discussed, probably. I go back to staring at the raven-headed stick. I wonder if I would be allowed to hold it. The man in violet and black catches my eye. He winks. The table explodes. Dangling from the rope in Ayume was nothing, nothing compared to the war waging inside me. My cuffs became shackles of fire around my wrists, damming the magic baying for violence in my blood. Furious tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. Iron filled my mouth as I bit my bottom lip. I wasn’t ready. I turned my head. Thousands of Jasadis shadowed the Supreme. Their murky outlines warped, mournful, and folded into the scepter at his side. My memory had done Supreme Rawain a disservice. Age had laid a conservative touch on his handsome features and powerful build. He was shorter than his son, but taller than me. Gray streaked the hair at his temple. His eyes. The same unnatural shade that met mine the day I lost everything. The day he stole my world. As unblemished by the trappings of compassion or kindness as they had been at the Summit. My bedridden state had one advantage; he would not question why I would not kneel, and I didn’t need to explain that I would sever my legs before I knelt to him. Supreme Rawain strode into the room. Framed in the door, Arin’s indecipherable gaze followed his father. “Well? How is she doing?” the Supreme asked. The physician slunk back, clearing his throat. “Superbly, Your Highness. The venom has passed without ill effects, and the worst damage was to her palms.” Rawain clapped his hands. “Wonderful. You gave us a fright, Sylvia. I’ll admit, I had reservations | 0 |
39 | The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt | 49 | pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy. The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self- command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her. In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied expression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her: Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world's contagious circle, die. St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was | 1 |
16 | Great Expectations.txt | 1 | expenditure, and to patronize Herbert, and to boast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my lips. It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the development of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious way at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off. It was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our conversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied for coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his. Drummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to our company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that as to strength he could scatter us like chaff. By some invisible agency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity about this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show how muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in a ridiculous manner. Now, the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian, taking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her, was leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and showing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable. Suddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper's, like a trap, as she stretched it across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do this, that we all stopped in our foolish contention. "If you talk of strength," said Mr. Jaggers, "I'll show you a wrist. Molly, let them see your wrist." Her entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other hand behind her waist. "Master," she said, in a low voice, with her eyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him. "Don't." "I'll show you a wrist," repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable determination to show it. "Molly, let them see your wrist." "Master," she again murmured. "Please!" "Molly," said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking at the opposite side of the room, "let them see both your wrists. Show them. Come!" He took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table. She brought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by side. The last wrist was much disfigured - deeply scarred and scarred across and across. When she held her hands out, she took her eyes from Mr. Jaggers, and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us in succession. "There's power here," said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews with his forefinger. "Very few men have the power of wrist that this woman has. It's remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these hands. I have had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw stronger in that respect, man's or woman's, than these." While he | 1 |
89 | The-Last-Sinner.txt | 36 | her and Caroline said she left the restaurant first because she was running late. Sam was settling up—paying the bill, I guess. Anyway, I know it hasn’t been that long, but it’s just not like her. And she has work tonight. She wouldn’t be this late. She was gonna come home and help with the boys, then head to the studio.” He sounded beyond distraught and Bentz didn’t blame him. “So, of course, I called the restaurant. The waitress remembered her because there was some kind of commotion at her table as she was leaving. It was bumped and dishes went everywhere, so anyway, the waitress said she left about an hour and a half ago. There’s a time stamp on her credit card receipt. “And here’s the real worry,” he said. “She has a locator on her phone. She and I each do, and hers is nowhere near the restaurant or home. It’s in the bayou.” “Jesus,” Bentz whispered. “But we can track her, from the device.” “I’m already on my way.” “Whoa. Hold on. This is a police matter,” Bentz said, thinking of the brutality of the killer. “Yeah, I know that. But it’s also my wife. Do any of you have an Apple watch or iPhone?” “Yeah. This number.” “I’ll link you up. All you have to do is accept.” “Got it.” A second later he got an alert. “We’re on our way.” Bentz flipped on his emergency vehicle lights and hit the gas. Ty Wheeler’s concern was infectious. “Keep trying to reach her!” He disconnected, pulled over to the curb, and eyed the screen with its map of the area. “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. The pulsating red dot indicating the location of Samantha Wheeler’s phone was in the swamp and not far from Cyrus Unger’s place. Probably half a mile from where they’d come across the bodies, what were presumed to be the rotting remains of Maizie and Willard Ledoux, though there had yet to be an official ID. Father John’s work. Bentz was sure of it. And now the maniac had Samantha Wheeler. Bentz called for backup, and as he did, he added, “And a boat. We’re gonna need a boat.” * * * Through the old car’s windows, Sam saw the lights of New Orleans fade to darkness. The Chevy picked up speed; she heard the whine of the tires on pavement and the smooth rumble of the engine. She didn’t want to think where they were going or what he was going to do to her when they got there. Somehow, someway, she had to save herself. Her convulsions had stopped and the quivering in her limbs had lessened, but there was still a problem getting her muscles to do what her mind wanted. She was frantic, her breathing wild, her heart trip-hammering crazily. Try, Sam! You’ve got to try! Clamping her jaw tight, she concentrated. Attempted to move her fingers and kept one eye on the back of his head. Come on, come on. She gritted her teeth. Told herself | 0 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 40 | idea that so gigantic a sum was involved," said he. "Sir Charles had the reputation of being rich, but we did not know how very rich he was until we came to examine his securities. The total value of the estate was close on to a million." "Dear me! It is a stake for which a man might well play a desperate game. And one more question, Dr. Mortimer. Suppos- ing that anything happened to our young friend here -- you will forgive the unpleasant hypothesis! -- who would inherit the estate?" "Since Rodger Baskerville, Sir Charles's younger brother died unmarried, the estate would descend to the Desmonds, who are distant cousins. James Desmond is an elderly clergyman in Westmoreland." "Thank you. These details are all of great interest. Have you met Mr. James Desmond?" "Yes; he once came down to visit Sir Charles. He is a man of venerable appearance and of saintly life. I remember that he refused to accept any settlement from Sir Charles, though he pressed it upon him." "And this man of simple tastes would be the heir to Sir Charles's thousands." "He would be the heir to the estate because that is entailed. He would also be the heir to the money unless it were willed otherwise by the present owner, who can, of course, do what he likes with it." "And have you made your will, Sir Henry?" "No, Mr. Holmes, I have not. I've had no time, for it was only yesterday that I learned how matters stood. But in any case I feel that the money should go with the title and estate. That was my poor uncle's idea. How is the owner going to restore the glories of the Baskervilles if he has not money enough to keep up the property? House, land, and dollars must go together." "Quite so. Well, Sir Henry, I am of one mind with you as to the advisability of your going down to Devonshire without delay. There is only one provision which I must make. You certainly must not go alone." "Dr. Mortimer returns with me." "But Dr. Mortimer has his practice to attend to, and his house is miles away from yours. With all the good will in the world he may be unable to help you. No, Sir Henry, you must take with you someone, a trusty man, who will be always by your side." "Is it possible that you could come yourself, Mr. Holmes?" "If matters came to a crisis I should endeavour to be present in person; but you can understand that, with my extensive con- sulting practice and with the constant appeals which reach me from many quarters, it is impossible for me to be absent from London for an indefinite time. At the present instant one of the most revered names in England is being besmirched by a black- mailer, and only I can stop a disastrous scandal. You will see how impossible it is for me to go to Dartmoor." "Whom would you recommend, then?" Holmes laid his hand | 1 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 96 | piles of stones. But there's a good little harbour in a little cove, for those who know how to find it." George took the oars after a while, and rowed steadily out a little beyond the island. Then she stopped and looked back towards the shore. "How do you know when you are over the wreck?" asked Julian, puzzled. "I should never know!" "Well, do you see that church tower on the mainland?" asked George. "And do you see the tip of that hill over there? Well, when you get them exactly in line with one another, between the two towers of the castle on the island, you are pretty well over the wreck! I found that out ages ago." The children saw that the tip of the far-off hill and the church tower were practically in line, when they looked at them between the two old towers of the island castle. They looked eagerly down into the sea to see if they could spy the wreck. The water was perfectly clear and smooth. There was hardly a wrinkle. Timothy looked down into it too, his head on one side, his ears cocked, just as if he knew what he was looking for! The children laughed at him. "We're not exactly over it," said George, looking down too. "The water's so clear today that we should be able to see quite a long way down. Wait, I'll row a bit to the left." "Woof!" said Timothy, suddenly, and wagged his tail- and at the same moment the three children saw something deep down in the water! "It's the wreck!" said Julian, almost falling out of the boat in his excitement. "I can see a bit of broken mast. Look, Dick, look!" All four children and the dog, too, gazed down earnestly into the clear water. After a little while they could make out the outlines of a dark hulk, out of which the broken mast stood. "It's a bit on one side," said Julian. "Poor old ship. How it must hate lying there, gradually falling to pieces. George, I wish I could dive down and get a closer look at it." "Well, why don't you?" said George. "You've got your swimming trunks on. I've often dived down. I'll come with you, if you like, if Dick can keep the boat round about here. There's a current that is trying to take it out to sea. Dick, you'll have to keep working a bit with this oar to keep the boat in one spot." The girl stripped off her jeans and jersey and Julian did the same. They both had on bathing costumes underneath. George took a beautiful header off the end of the boat, deep down into the water. The others watched her swimming strongly downwards, holding her breath. After a bit she came up, almost bursting for breath. "Well, I went almost down to the wreck," she said. "It's just the same as it always is- seaweedy and covered with limpets and things. I wish I could get right into the | 1 |
49 | treasure island.txt | 89 | loud voices from What put to sea with seventy-five.” the cabin, but to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts that I had scarcely given ear. And I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appro- Now, however, when I had nothing else to do, I began to pay priate for a company that had met such cruel losses in the more heed. morning. But, indeed, from what I saw, all these buccaneers One I recognized for the coxswain’s, Israel Hands, that were as callous as the sea they sailed on. had been Flint’s gunner in former days. The other was, of At last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer course, my friend of the red night-cap. Both men were plainly in the dark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a the worse of drink, and they were still drinking, for even while good, tough effort, cut the last fibres through. I was listening, one of them, with a drunken cry, opened the The breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was stern window and threw out something, which I divined to almost instantly swept against the bows of the be an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain HISPANIOLA. At the same time, the schooner began to that they were furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end, across the and every now and then there came forth such an explosion current. as I thought was sure to end in blows. But each time the I wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be quarrel passed off and the voices grumbled lower for a while, swamped; and since I found I could not push the coracle until the next crisis came and in its turn passed away without directly off, I now shoved straight astern. At length I was result. clear of my dangerous neighbour, and just as I gave the last On shore, I could see the glow of the great camp-fire burn- impulsion, my hands came across a light cord that was trail- Contents ing warmly through the shore-side trees. Someone was sing- ing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I grasped ing, a dull, old, droning sailor’s song, with a droop and a qua- it. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 188 189 Why I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere instinct, but once I had it in my hands and found “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest— it fast, curiosity began to get the upper hand, and I deter- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! mined I should have one look through the cabin window. Drink and the devil had done for the rest— I pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and when I judged Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” myself near enough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height and thus commanded the roof | 1 |
30 | Tess of the d'Urbervilles.txt | 44 | as respectable as you," he said, in an ebullition of bitterness against womankind in general. "It isn't a question of respectability, but one of principle!" He spoke such things as these and more of a kindred sort to her, being still swayed by the antipathetic wave which warps direct souls with such persistence when once their vision finds itself mocked by appearances. There was, it is true, underneath, a back current of sympathy through which a woman of the world might have conquered him. But Tess did not think of this; she took everything as her deserts, and hardly opened her mouth. The firmness of her devotion to him was indeed almost pitiful; quick-tempered as she naturally was, nothing that he could say made her unseemly; she sought not her own; was not provoked; thought no evil of his treatment of her. She might just now have been Apostolic Charity herself returned to a self-seeking modern world. This evening, night, and morning were passed precisely as the preceding ones had been passed. On one, and only one, occasion did she--the formerly free and independent Tess--venture to make any advances. It was on the third occasion of his starting after a meal to go out to the flour-mill. As he was leaving the table he said "Goodbye," and she replied in the same words, at the same time inclining her mouth in the way of his. He did not avail himself of the invitation, saying, as he turned hastily aside---- "I shall be home punctually." Tess shrank into herself as if she had been struck. Often enough had he tried to reach those lips against her consent--often had he said gaily that her mouth and breath tasted of the butter and eggs and milk and honey on which she mainly lived, that he drew sustenance from them, and other follies of that sort. But he did not care for them now. He observed her sudden shrinking, and said gently-- "You know, I have to think of a course. It was imperative that we should stay together a little while, to avoid the scandal to you that would have resulted from our immediate parting. But you must see it is only for form's sake." "Yes," said Tess absently. He went out, and on his way to the mill stood still, and wished for a moment that he had responded yet more kindly, and kissed her once at least. Thus they lived through this despairing day or two; in the same house, truly; but more widely apart than before they were lovers. It was evident to her that he was, as he had said, living with paralyzed activities, in his endeavour to think of a plan of procedure. She was awe-strikin to discover such determination under such apparent flexibility. His consistency was, indeed, too cruel. She no longer expected forgiveness now. More than once she thought of going away from him during his absence at the mill; but she feared that this, instead of benefiting him, might be the means of hampering and humiliating him | 1 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 49 | last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long grey robe. When he turned his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn't turn yet, not even to react to Arthur's yelp of surprise. Eventually the last rays of the sun had vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind - a small hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it. The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed. "You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet," he said. "Who ... who are you?" stammered Arthur. The man looked away. Again a kind of sadness seemed to cross his face. "My name is not important," he said. He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn't have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward. "I ... er ... you startled me ..." he said, lamely. The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows. "Hmmmm?" he said. "I said you startled me." "Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you." Arthur frowned at him. "But you shot at us! There were missiles ..." he said. The man chuckled slightly. "An automatic system," he said and gave a small sigh. "Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional pot shot to relieve the monotony." He looked gravely at Arthur and said, "I'm a great fan of science you know." "Oh ... er, really?" said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man's curious, kindly manner disconcerting. "Oh, yes," said the old man, and simply stopped talking again. "Ah," said Arthur, "er ..." He had an odd felling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman's husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again. "You seem ill at ease," said the old man with polite concern. "Er, no ... well, yes. Actually you see, we weren't really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something ..." "Dead?" said the old man. "Good gracious no, we have but slept." "Slept?" said Arthur incredulously. "Yes, through the economic recession you see," said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he was talking about or not. "Er, economic recession?" "Well you see, five million years ago the Galactic economy collapsed, and seeing that custom-made planets are something of a luxury commodity you see ..." He paused and looked at Arthur. "You know we built planets do you?" he asked solemnly. "Well yes," said Arthur, | 1 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 49 | imagine it." "I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the desire for tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a private room. 'I am disfigured,' I said. 'Badly.' They looked at me curiously, but of course it was not their affair--and so at last I got my lunch. It was not particularly well served, but it sufficed; and when I had had it, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan my line of action. And outside a snowstorm was beginning. "The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a helpless absurdity an Invisible Man was--in a cold and dirty climate and a crowded civilised city. Before I made this mad experiment I had dreamt of a thousand advantages. That afternoon it seemed all disappointment. I went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt invisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to enjoy them when they are got. Ambition--what is the good of pride of place when you cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of woman when her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for politics, for the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport. What was I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a swathed and bandaged caricature of a man!" He paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the window. "But how did you get to Iping?" said Kemp, anxious to keep his guest busy talking. "I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have it still. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of restoring what I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I mean to do invisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to you about now." "You went straight to Iping?" "Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my cheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of chemicals to work out this idea of mine--I will show you the calculations as soon as I get my books--and then I started. Jove! I remember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the snow from damping my pasteboard nose." "At the end," said Kemp, "the day before yesterday, when they found you out, you rather--to judge by the papers--" "I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable?" "No," said Kemp. "He's expected to recover." "That's his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn't they leave me alone? And that grocer lout?" "There are no deaths expected," said Kemp. "I don't know about that tramp of mine," said the Invisible Man, with an unpleasant laugh. "By Heaven, Kemp, you don't know what rage is! To have worked for years, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling purblind idiot messing across your course! Every conceivable sort of | 1 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 56 | frightened even Lucy. “As it seems you have married a poor girl under questionable circumstances and could have killed her father because of it, you will accept knowing you have a good deal of growing up to do and amends to make. I only hope this wife of yours has a far more sensible mind than you do and will keep you from making any more foolish decisions. If your father could see you now . . . I can only imagine what Simon thinks of— But where is Simon?” All of them turned in the direction of the approaching storm, and the ache in Lucy’s chest returned. Wherever Simon was, she hoped he would return. At the very least, she hoped he was safe. Chapter Twenty-Seven “Lucy, you need to sit down a moment,” Nick said. Lucy couldn’t sit. If she sat, her mind arrived at terrible conclusions. As long as she was moving, and as long as she had a view out the window to the rain-soaked grounds, things were still uncertain. “Lucy.” This time, instead of just insisting, Nick took her by the hand and led her to the sofa, forcing her down onto the cushion. “You’re making me dizzy, pacing like that.” “We should go after him,” she said, craning her neck to look out the window again. “Nick, it’s been hours. What if he’s injured?” His hands wrapped around hers, and he waited until she looked at him before he said anything. “Simon Calloway is no fool. He would have sought out shelter before the storm hit with full force. There are plenty of tenant cottages in that direction, and he knows these lands better than anyone. He could probably ride them blindfolded and be perfectly safe.” Pressing a hand to her forehead, Lucy groaned. “You’re laying it on a bit thick,” she said, though she was grateful for the positivity. All she could think about was Simon being thrown from his horse after a clap of thunder and lying in a ditch somewhere, injured and frozen. “Oh, Nick, you should have seen his face when I told him. He was so hurt.” “He was confused.” “He hates me, just as I thought he would.” Nick huffed out a sigh, almost angry as he commanded her attention with a tug on her hands. “Lucy Hayes, you are impossible to hate.” He turned to the other side of the room, where Lady Calloway and Olivia had taken up sewing to pass the time; William had gone to bed an hour ago, too exhausted to continue the vigil with his family. “Lady C., I could use your assistance.” Lady Calloway offered a smile, though she was clearly just as worried about Simon as Lucy, because she couldn’t hold the gesture for long. “I understand why you did what you did,” she told Lucy. Lucy had explained everything to her and Olivia a few hours before, with the help of Nick. Now all of them knew about Mr. Granger, except for the threats he had made to the family. She’d | 0 |
54 | Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt | 41 | trees bent in a storm. Mrs. King spotted guests picking at the gilt-work, estimating the value. I could tell you the price, she thought. Winnie had costed them up, the buyers primed and ready. They were of near-incalculable value, and yet they looked dull and dreary beside the flower arches and the walls hung with silks. A palm tree the size of an omnibus lapped at them gently. It was beaded with sweat, teardrops running all the way down the trunk. Mrs. King wasn’t one for hanging about. She saw Miss de Vries’s eyes on the clock, too. “Shall we get down to it?” she asked. Miss de Vries nodded, curt. “Yes.” “Your father spoke to me just before he died. I imagine he spoke to you, too.” Miss de Vries quickened a half step. “He did.” There was no tension in Miss de Vries’s face. No expression at all. Dangerous, that. The women paused on the threshold of the ballroom and together they surveyed the room, their triumph. The crowd was immense, and the air smelled of musk and perfume and sweat. The walls were a fresh shade of salmon pink, glazed and gleaming under the electroliers. The waltz unfurled in loops and swirls, dancers orbiting the room in perfect formation. Miss de Vries’s eyes shimmered. Mrs. King had to hand it to her. This had to be the greatest ball of the season. Lockwood approached. Cleared his throat. “Mrs. King is willing to swear that she is not Mr. de Vries’s daughter,” he said, under his breath. “Illegitimate daughter,” said Mrs. King, with a smile. She was interested to see how Madam would react. Miss de Vries didn’t make a sound. But her face tightened, a little twist of irritation. It aged her. She caught eyes with a group of men huddled near the door, dressed like Cavaliers and Roundheads. They lifted their hats with a flourish, and she inclined her head in response. Mr. Lockwood gave a nervous laugh. “It’s good news, Miss de Vries.” “I need a drink,” Miss de Vries said. “Do you, Mrs. King?” Mrs. King pondered this. Was it cruel, having this conversation now, tonight—here? In public? Perhaps. But she perceived a sparkle of provocation in Miss de Vries’s eyes. “I really do,” Mrs. King said. Miss de Vries moved slowly, her costume rippling. The refreshments had been set out in the anteroom, an abundance of lemonade, iced sherbet, wafers, bonbons. She picked two glasses of champagne from a tray and handed one to Mrs. King. “Go on, then,” said Miss de Vries, sipping from her glass. She closed her eyes as she did it. Swallowed. “I can see you’re simply itching to say something to me. The floor is yours. Speak.” Mrs. King studied her own champagne, tiny bubbles splitting, bursting, one by one. “I had everything upside down,” she said. “And so did you. Your father pulled the wool over our eyes.” The music surged, and the dancers shifted, too. “We’ve lived our lives back to front. You must have thought me an | 0 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 58 | misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. "My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world." She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed forever--that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the | 1 |
63 | Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt | 57 | and the present muddle, awful and infinite. She limped as fast as she could into the narrow space between two storefronts, huddling into the shadows. In a moment of clarity, she pulled the cap from her head and let her hair tumble free, twisted the hem of her shirt and tucked it in her trousers so it molded to her curves. Not really a disguise, but it made her look different than she had at the moment she’d raised the horse, and it might buy her enough anonymity to get away. Someone grabbed her arm. Lore turned with a snarl in her teeth, hand already raising to strike at whoever had touched her. Michal. Clearly, he hadn’t expected what he saw when she turned around; he’d seen her running to the alley, but not made the connection between her and Horse. Now she watched every piece of the puzzle lock into place, played out across his features: blue eyes narrowing before going wide and horrified. He glanced over his shoulder at the square, mouth dropping open, a flinch shuddering through his hand before it jerked back from her, fingers splayed. “Sorry,” Lore muttered, her tongue suddenly thick. “I’m sorry.” She shoved past him, out into the square again. Turned down the first alley she came to. Started running and didn’t stop, her head down and her vision blurred, picking directions at random and thinking only of away. So when one of the Presque Mort stepped out of a trash-strewn alcove in front of her, she nearly ran right into him. He loomed over her, hands outstretched, the image of a lit candle inked into each palm. His black clothing fit close to a muscular body, one blue eye gleaming at her, the other covered by the dark leather of an eye patch. There was something almost familiar about him, a sense that she’d met him before. But that was ludicrous. Lore didn’t know any of the Presque Mort, or any other members of the clergy, for that matter. Not anymore. “Of course the Presque Mort would show up,” Lore spat as she stumbled away from the inked hands, fumbling for her dagger again. “Of fucking course.” The Presque Mort didn’t respond, just watched her as she turned to run in the opposite direction, trying to backtrack the way she’d come and pick a new route. He whistled, a low note rising higher, and it was echoed by others, ringing off the stone, clear above the grown-distant cacophony of the Ward. They had her cornered. The first monk moved slowly forward, tattooed hands held out like she was an unfamiliar dog he didn’t want to frighten away. Unusually tall, with a crop of shorn reddish-blond hair and broad shoulders, handsomeness wasted on someone with vows of celibacy. “We don’t want to hurt you.” Deep voice, clipped tones, like this refuse-lined alley was a Citadel ballroom. “You have a funny way of showing it.” Lore’s feet stuttered over uneven cobblestones as she backed away, nearly sending her stumbling. The Presque Mort made no response. | 0 |
40 | The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt | 64 | Take me away, Dorian-- take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it all means? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that." He flung himself down on the sofa, and turned away his face. "You have killed my love," he muttered. She looked at him in wonder, and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and stroked his hair with her little fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up, and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were wonderful, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don't know what you were to me, once. Why, once . . . . Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! What are you without your art? Nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face." The girl grew white, and trembled. She clinched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered, bitterly. She rose from her knees, and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try,--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. | 1 |
91 | The-One.txt | 36 | too late. After squeezing what’s left in her honey container into her tea, she goes to toss the tea-bag wrapper into the kitchen garbage. Seeing it is past overflowing, she grabs the bag and carries it to the garage. The concrete is cold against her bare feet as she glances at her dented Porsche and recalls the day Ethan told her with tears in his eyes that he had slept with his homicide partner. How he— A clang of metal clamoring against the concrete causes Sloane to whip around. The trash bag slips from her grip as Brody jumps out from behind the shelving against the wall. Chapter 36 Laughter erupts from the room at the end of the hallway as Ethan and Jonah follow the firefighter captain through Seattle Fire Station 29. Maybe I should’ve leaked the photos, Ethan thinks. Or at least given a damning statement against Carr to the media. But he couldn’t let his personal vendetta against Carr allow him to do something to jeopardize their case, or the safety of any of the girls in the photos. Jonah turns to Ethan. “My brother’s a firefighter. He only works like nine shifts a month. Sometimes I think I chose the wrong career path.” “Yeah, maybe.” Ethan nods, feeling a twist in his gut at the cascade of events that will occur once Jonah discovers Sloane is the woman on Carr’s security footage. Jonah has already set up a meeting with a judge first thing in the morning to get the warrant approved for the security cameras at Carr’s San Juan Island home. Ethan could warn Sloane. Have her ask Brody to get rid of it. But the thought of her contacting him again, asking him to destroy evidence, makes him sick. He could tell Sloane to come forward, which would look better than being found out, if Jonah gets the warrant approved. But before he does either, he needs to know the truth of her involvement in Chelsea’s death. They come to a large rec room where three leather recliners face a flatscreen TV playing Thursday night football, where the Seahawks are playing the Cowboys on the road. A member of Seattle Fire fills each one. Two more are watching the game from a couch against the wall. “Yes!” One of them raises her hands in the air as the Cowboys miss a field goal. “No!” Another emergency responder exclaims, digging his hand into the opened bag of Doritos on his lap. “He’s on my fantasy team.” Jackson, the captain who met Ethan and Jonah at the door, reaches for the remote and mutes the TV. One of the firefighters turns in her seat. “What are you doing?” “These detectives from Seattle Homicide have a few questions about our 911 call with Chelsea Carr,” Jackson says. The three firefighters turn their attention away from the game and sit upright in their recliners. Jackson motions toward the two guys sitting on the couch. “Hunter and Landon were the two medics who worked on Chelsea. But all six of us | 0 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 30 | "Hush, Heck," said Atticus, "let's go back to town." When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie's front steps. We sat waiting for Zeebo to arrive in the garbage truck. Jem sat in numb confusion, and Miss Stephanie said, "Uh, uh, uh, who'da thought of a mad dog in February? Maybe he wadn't mad, maybe he was just crazy. I'd hate to see Harry Johnson's face when he gets in from the Mobile run and finds Atticus Finch's shot his dog. Bet he was just full of fleas from somewhere-" Miss Maudie said Miss Stephanie'd be singing a different tune if Tim Johnson was still coming up the street, that they'd find out soon enough, they'd send his head to Montgomery. Jem became vaguely articulate: "'d you see him, Scout? 'd you see him just standin' there?... 'n' all of a sudden he just relaxed all over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him... an' he did it so quick, like... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit somethin'...." Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?" "Nome," I said meekly. "Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he called. When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. "Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said. "What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb | 1 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 45 | kind, it makes me feel rotten. “You are exactly right,” he says. “We need you. My English, it is not so good. Your generation has very good English. You can tell them our story. Make sure they remember us.” He nods, determined. “Yes. Make sure they remember us.” He gives my hands one last squeeze and tells me something in Chinese, but of course I don’t understand a word. For the first time since I submitted the manuscript, I feel a deep wash of shame. This isn’t my history, my heritage. This isn’t my community. I am an outsider, basking in their love under false pretenses. It should be Athena sitting here, smiling with these people, signing books and listening to the stories of her elders. “Eat, eat!” Mr. Lee nods encouragingly at my plate. “You young people work too hard. You don’t eat enough.” I want to vomit. I can’t stay a moment longer among these people. I need to break free from their smiles, their kindness. “Excuse me, Mr. Lee.” I stand up and hurry across the room. “I have to go,” I tell Susan. “I need to—uh, I forgot I have to pick up my mom at the airport.” I know it’s an awful excuse the moment I blurt it out—Susan knows I don’t have a car, that’s the reason she had to come pick me up at the train station in the first place. But she seems sympathetic. “Of course. You can’t keep your mother waiting. Just let me get my purse, and I’ll drive you to the station.” “No, please, I couldn’t impose. I’ll get an Uber—” “Absolutely not! Rosslyn is so far!” “I really don’t want to put you out of the way,” I gasp. “You haven’t finished your dinner. I had a lovely time, and it was so great meeting everyone, but I—um, I should really just let you enjoy your night.” I burst for the door before Susan can answer. She doesn’t chase after me, but if she had, I would have sprinted until I was out of sight. It’s so undignified, but all I can perceive then is the relief of cool air on my face outside. Ten AFTER THAT, I ASK EMILY TO DECLINE MOST EVENT INVITATIONS on my behalf. I’m done with schools, bookstores, and book clubs. I’m selling at the level where personal appearances aren’t going to move the needle on sales, so I don’t need to keep exposing myself as bait for further controversy. The only events I keep attending are awards ceremonies at literary conventions, because as much as I now want to hide from the public, I’d hate to give up the rush of validation from those. Awards in this industry are very silly and arbitrary, less a marker of prestige or literary quality and more an indication that you’ve won a popularity contest with a very small, skewed group of voters. Awards don’t matter—at least, I am told this constantly by the people who regularly win them. Athena made an annual point to explain all this | 0 |
67 | How to Sell a Haunted House.txt | 6 | frames, rectangular frames; her mom’s art (lots of her mom’s art); framed diplomas; framed programs from Mark’s high school plays; framed class pictures; framed graduation pictures; framed vacation pictures: the Joyner National Portrait Gallery as curated by their mom. Something felt wrong. The silence of the house stretched her nerves tight. Then she realized she didn’t see the string. They used to tuck the white string that pulled down the attic stairs behind a corner of a picture of her dad receiving an award from the National Economic Freedom Forum, otherwise it bonked you in the head when you walked by. It was gone. Louise looked up and her shoulders twitched. High in the shadows someone had done an ugly job of nailing the attic hatch closed, hammering every piece of scrap wood they could find over it and hacking off the pull-down string at its base. It reminded Louise of the one zombie movie Ian had made her watch where people boarded up their windows to keep the zombies out. Had the springs broken and this was her dad’s terrible attempt at repair? Were there raccoons in the attic and he’d done this to keep them from getting into the house? Had taking care of her dad been too hard for her mom? Had the screens gotten dirty and had raccoons gotten in the attic and this was the best she could do? Louise felt guilty for not noticing things were getting this bad. Standing under the boarded attic hatch made her nervous, so she headed for the end of the hall and her parents’ closed bedroom door, and stopped when she saw the big vent at the end of the hall. Its grille had fallen off, exposing the big square chopped into the drywall. She picked up the vent cover and leaned it against the wall. Had the raccoons in the attic gotten into the ducts? Had squirrels? It felt wrong. The boarded-up hatch, the busted vent, the hammer, the cane, the TV. Her mom’s purse on the end of the counter. Something had happened right before her mom and dad had left their house for the last time. Something bad. Her parents’ closed bedroom door and her old bedroom door faced each other and she decided to finish her walk-through and get out of there. She reached for the knob to her parents’ bedroom door and stopped. She’d open it and the room would be empty and that would feel too final. She turned and pushed open her old bedroom door instead. Her dad had converted it into his computer room long ago. The ancient family Dell stood on her old desk, awash in a sea of her dad’s paperwork and bills. Louise automatically started to sort them. She couldn’t remember how many times she’d sorted out her dad’s desk. Almost every time she came home she hadn’t been able to sleep until she’d gotten his desk in order, and every time she came back it had reverted to her dad’s cryptic system of filing by piling. Her movements | 0 |
71 | Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt | 12 | to be anything. Let’s start with breakfast, and go from there.” He kissed my forehead before I left—just about the only part of me that didn’t hurt. I tried to pace, but my bruised ribs wouldn’t let me, so I curled up in the chair in front of the laptop instead, poking my way through what little information there was on AJ Stahl again. I tried to make those old photos match the guy who’d jumped me, but it had been too long. He could have grown up into anyone. I’d left the phone tracker open on the side of the screen. Suddenly the little dot vanished, the map reloading to a new location. Just as abruptly, it pinged “signal lost.” Someone had turned on the phone and then turned it off. But I’d had it for a brief second. I had an address. I copied the address, heart hammering, and plugged it into the search. A nail salon in Redmond? Wait—it was one unit of the building. I checked the other businesses. A dog grooming place—probably not sinister—a pho joint, a board-game shop, and something called Jessup Consulting. “Vague. Not at all suspicious,” I muttered. I pulled up their website. The web design was definitely criminal, with retina-searing colors and a stock photo of a comically serious-looking dude with a wired earpiece and a sharp suit. The header told me they provided security and investigation services. The guy in my hotel room was a PI? A personal grudge was one thing. Hiring people to come after me—that was something else. Twenty minutes later, Ethan arrived with takeout to find me lost in a flurry of open tabs and scribbled notes. I’d tracked down the name of the owner of the company, Terry Jessup, and from there found a half dozen current and former employees. None of them were my guy. Jessup Consulting came up as a minor note in a few articles, but nothing relevant—work for corporations and small companies, mostly. Nothing that stank of “violent personal vendetta.” “Why would this guy attack you?” Ethan asked. “It doesn’t exactly sound like normal PI work.” I frowned. Ethan was right. At a glance, Jessup Consulting didn’t seem like thugs for hire. And why attack me? He hadn’t killed me, and he could have. So rough me up? Why? Except that he hadn’t attacked me, had he? Not exactly. He’d lunged for me. Or he’d lunged for the door. I’d surprised him in my room, and he’d tried to get out. And I’d gone completely psycho, trying to brain him with an iPhone. I rubbed my forehead with the tips of my fingers. “I went after him. He was just trying to stop me,” I realized, and almost laughed. He hadn’t been trying to kill me at all. “He still broke into your room,” Ethan pointed out. “If he wasn’t after you, what was he after?” “All he got was my phone, as far as I know. And there’s nothing incriminating on that,” I said. You couldn’t be friends with Liv and not | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 92 | the Hermitage bar, he had found her desirable and he knew that if things had been different in the night-club, if Vesper had responded in any way and if there had been no kidnapping he would have tried to sleep with her that night. Even later, in the car and outside the villa when God knows he had had other things to think about, his eroticism had been hotly aroused by the sight of her indecent nakedness. And now when he could see her again, he was afraid. Afraid that his senses and his body would not respond to her sensual beauty. Afraid that he would feel no stir of desire and that his blood would stay cool. In his mind he had made this first meeting into a test and he was shirking the answer. That was the real reason, he admitted, why he had waited to give his body a chance to respond, why he had put off their first meeting for over a week. He would like to have put off the meeting still further, but he explained to himself that his report must be written, that any day an emissary from London would come over and want to hear the full story, that today was as good as tomorrow, that anyway he might as well know the worst. So on the eighth day he asked for her, for the early morning when he was feeling refreshed and strong after the night's rest. For no reason at all, he had expected that she would show some sign of her experiences, that she would look pale and even ill. He was not prepared for the tall bronzed girl in a cream tussore frock with a black belt who came happily through the door and stood smiling at him. 'Good heavens, Vesper,' he said with a wry gesture of welcome, 'you look absolutely splendid. You must thrive on disaster. How have you managed to get such a wonderful sunburn?' 'I feel very guilty,' she said sitting down beside him. 'But I've been bathing every day while you've been lying here. The doctor said I was to and Head of S said I was to, so, well, I just thought it wouldn't help you for me to be moping away all day long in my room. I've found a wonderful stretch of sand down the coast and I take my lunch and go there every day with a book and I don't come back till the evening. There's a bus that takes me there and back with only a short walk over the dunes, and I've managed to get over the fact that it's on the way down that road to the villa.' Her voice faltered. The mention of the villa had made Bond's eyes flicker. She continued bravely, refusing to be defeated by Bond's lack of response. 'The doctor says it won't be long before you're allowed up. I thought perhaps . . . I thought perhaps I could take you down to this beach later on. The doctor says that | 1 |
3 | Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt | 57 | help you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen. "Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?" "Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen." "He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just ex- actly wrong." "Well,,he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight." "Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want it." So she put me up a snack, and says: "Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer up prompt now -- don't stop to study over it. Which end gets up first?" "The hind end, mum." "Well, then, a horse?" "The for'rard end, mum." "Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "North side." "If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "The whole fifteen, mum." "Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the country. I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name, now?" "George Peters, mum." "Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when | 1 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 84 | that she knew the name of nearly everything there. `That's the judge,' she said to herself, `because of his great wig.' The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming. `And that's the jury-box,' thought Alice, `and those twelve creatures,' (she was obliged to say `creatures,' you see, because some of them were animals, and some were birds,) `I suppose they are the jurors.' She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, `jury-men' would have done just as well. The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. `What are they doing?' Alice whispered to the Gryphon. `They can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun.' `They're putting down their names,' the Gryphon whispered in reply, `for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.' `Stupid things!' Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, `Silence in the court!' and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking. Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down `stupid things!' on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell `stupid,' and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. `A nice muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!' thought Alice. One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate. `Herald, read the accusation!' said the King. On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:-- `The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, All on a summer day: The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts, And took them quite away!' `Consider your verdict,' the King said to the jury. `Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. `There's a great deal to come before that!' `Call the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, `First witness!' The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a | 1 |
47 | Ulysses.txt | 74 | giving credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else. Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't mock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now. THE MYSTERY MAN ON THE BEACH, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh. Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you. Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the small guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in the shade after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A star I see. Venus? Can't tell yet. Two. When three it's night. Were those nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land, goodnight. Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his way up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, sore on the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position. Like to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the library today: those girl graduates. Happy chairs under them. But it's the evening influence. They feel all that. Open like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock | 1 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 83 | l o o k u p . A d o g o l d C a r l o , M r . R i v e r s ' p o i n t e r , a s I s a w i n a m o m e n t w a s p u s h i n g t h e g a t e w i t h h i s n o s e , a n d S t . J o h n h i m s e l f l e a n e d u p o n i t w i t h f o l d e d a r m s , h i s b r o w k n i t , h i s g a z e , g r a v e a l m o s t t o d i s p l e a s u r e , f i x e d o n m e . I a s k e d h i m t o c o m e i n . " N o , I c a n n o t s t a y ; I h a v e o n l y b r o u g h t y o u a l i t t l e p a r c e l m y s i s t e r s l e f t f o r y o u . I t h i n k i t c o n t a i n s a c o l o r - b o x , p e n c i l s a n d p a p e r . " I a p p r o a c h e d , t o t a k e i t : a w e l c o m e g i f t i t w a s . H e e x a m i n e d m y f a c e , I t h o u g h t , w i t h a u s t e r i t y , a s I c a m e n e a r ; t h e t r a c e s o f t e a r s w e r e d o u b t l e s s v e r y v i s i b l e u p o n i t . " H a v e y o u f o u n d y o u r f i r s t d a y ' s w o r k h a r d e r t h a n y o u e x p e c t e d ? " h e a s k e d . " O h , n o ! O n t h e c o n t r a r y , I t h i n k i n t i m e I s h a l l g e t o n w i t h m y s c h o l a r s v e r y w e l l . " " B u t p e r h a p s y o u r a c c o m m o d a t i o n s y o u r c o t t a g e y o u r f u r n i t u r e h a v e d i s a p p o i n t e d y o u r e x p e c t a t i o n s ? T h e y a r e , i n t r u t h , s c a n t y e n o u g h ; b u t " I i n t e r r u p t e d : " M y c o t t a g e i s c l e a n a n d w e a t h e r - p r o o f ; m y f u r n i t u r e s u f f i c i e n t a n d c o m m o d i o u s . A l l I s e e h a s m a d e m e t h a n k f u l , n o t d e s p o n d e n t . I a m n o t a b s o l u t e l y s u c h a f o o l a n d s e n s u a l i s t a s t o r e g r e t t h e a b s e n c e o f a c a r p e t , a s o f a a n d s i l v e r p l a t e ; b e s i d e s , f i v e w e e k s a g o I h a d n o t h i n g I w a s a n o u t c a s t , a b e g g e r , a v a g r a n t ; n o w I h a v e a c q u a i n t a n c e , a h o m e , a b u s i n e s s . I w o n d e r a t t h e g o o d n e s s o f G o d ; t h e g e n e r o s i t y o f m y f r i e n d s ; t h e b o u n t y o f m y l o t . I d o n o t r e p i n e . " " B u t y o u f e e l s o l i t u d e a n o p p r e s s i o n ? T h e l i t t l e h o u s e t h e r e b e h i n d y o u i s d a r k a n d e m p t y . " " I h a v e h a r d l y h a d t i m e y e t t o e n j o y a s e n s e o f t r a n q u i l l i t y , m u c h l e s s t o g r o w i m p a t i e n t u n d e r o n e o f l o n e l i n e s s . " " V e r y w e l l : I h o p e y o u f e e l t h e c o n t e n t y o u e x p r e s s ; a t a n y r a t e , y o u r g o o d s e n s e w i l l t e l l y o u t h a t i t i s t o o s o o n y e t t o y i e l d t o t h e v a c i l l a t i n g f e a r s o f L o t ' s w i f e . W h a t y o u h a d l e f t b e f o r e I s a w y o u , o f c o u r s e , I d o n o t k n o w ; b u t I c o u n s e l y o u t o r e s i s t , f i r m l y , e v e r y t e m p t a t i o n w h i c h w o u l d i n c l i n e y o u t o l o o k b a c k : p u r s u e y o u r p r e s e n t c a r e e r s t e a d i l y , f o r s o m e m o n t h s a t l e a s t . " " I t i s w h a t I m e a n t o d o , " I a n s w e r e d . S t . J o h n c o n t i n u e d : " I t i s h a r d w o r k t o c o n t r o l t h e w o r k i n g s o f i n c l i n a t i o n , a n d t u r n t h e b e n t o f n a t u r e ; b u t t h a t i t m a y b e d o n e I k n o w f r o m e x p e r i e n c e . G o d h a s g i v e n u s , i n a m e a s u r e , t h e p o w e r t o m a k e o u r o w n f a t e ; a n d w h e n o u r e n e r g i e s s e e m t o d e m a n d a s u s t e n a n c e t h e y c a n n o t g e t w h e n o u r w i l l s t r a i n s a f t e r a p a t h w e m a y n o t f o l l o w w e n e e d n e i t h e r s t a r v e f r o m i n a n i t i o n n o r s t a n d s t i l l i n d e s p a i r : w e h a v e b u t t o s e e k a n o t h e r n o u r i s h m e n t f o r t h e m i n d , a s s t r o n g a s t h e f o r b i d d e n f r u i t i t l o n g e d t o t a s t e a n d p e r h a p s p u r e r ; a n d | 1 |
57 | Cold People.txt | 25 | more people trying to board. The sense of urgency increasing, mothers and fathers pleaded with the lucky people on the boat, offering their small children to those on deck. One woman threw her little boy, tossed him, and he was caught by the crowd of passengers. Weeping hysterically, he cried out for his mother, but when they tried to return him, the mother retreated, refusing to take him, begging them to keep him safe as the boat pushed off from the docks. Atto’s father brandished his antique rifle used for hunting rabbits, firing warning shots in the air, pleading with people on the dock that his ship was already full beyond capacity and if they took more people they’d capsize. As with the truck, Liza and her family were the only American citizens on board; all the others were Lisbon natives, and there was open hostility towards this foreign family, taking up precious space which could have been used for friends or relatives. ‘Why are they on board?’ Atto had silenced these doubters, making it clear he wouldn’t countenance the idea of leaving Liza or her family behind. As the boat pushed clear, it left a wall of people on the edge of the docks. Some jumped, clinging onto the side, while others missed, falling into the water. Liza looked down at one man hanging onto the rail and offered her hand. He took it, but he was so heavy she was almost pulled overboard, her father grabbing her waist just in time. The man lost his grip, and she was forced to watch him fall into the frothy water around the side of the boat. Away from the coast, they joined a flotilla of fishing boats setting sail, an armada of refugees following alien instructions, without government assistance or guidance of any kind. Nearby, one of the fishing boats began to list, overloaded with people. There were cries for help as it keeled over, emptying the deck-load of passengers into the water, the screams for help tearing at the heart of everyone who could hear. No one asked if they could help them. They all knew the answer was no. The voices calling for help grew faint, as the armada of fishing boats turned south. ATLANTIC OCEAN WEST AFRICAN COASTLINE MAURITANIA TWO WEEKS LATER AS SOME OF THE STRONGEST and healthiest of the passengers, Liza and her family were near the bow, lashed to the side to prevent them being swept overboard. Having endured days of Atlantic storms, with twenty-foot waves breaking across the deck, washing three people overboard, they were now travelling through calmer waters off the coast of Mauritania, sheltering from the sweltering sun under improvised canopies tied together from spare clothes, a mosaic of shirts and hoodies. No one had packed any sunscreen and there were countless examples of essential items that were suddenly no longer available. With less than sixteen days left to reach Antarctica, they were running low on fuel and fresh water. There’d been almost no time to prepare for the journey, leaving the port | 0 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 82 | imagine using those qualities as insults. “Besides, now you’re a hot commodity, Connor.” He takes another bite and chews. I’m still daydreaming about Fizzy’s loud mouth and what she did with it, so this takes a second to penetrate. “You mean the confessionals? Ah, that’s just a small bit.” “That small bit is likely a huge part of the reason Blaine’s trying to put some fear in you.” I still, looking up at him. “What are you talking about?” Ash appears to do a mental obstacle course before he carefully puts his fork and knife down. He lifts his napkin to his lips, tapping gingerly. “Are you unaware of what’s happening online?” “You mean our ratings?” I nod as I say it because Brenna sends them to me every morning. “They’re great.” “No, I mean your fan base.” “I’ve had a few people stop me, but that’s just because they recognize someone from TV.” “A few?” he says pointedly, and I follow his gaze to a group of women in a booth across the restaurant. As soon as they see me, their eyes snap back down to the table. “I’m talking about Connor Prince stans.” I shake my head. “It’s not like that.” With a condescending chuckle, he pulls out his phone, mumbling to himself, “I tell him his phone is good for more than texting and reading the news, but does he listen? No.” Ash taps his screen a few times with a flourish and then turns it to face me. “First of all, your Instagram. You have almost three hundred thousand followers.” I blink. I haven’t posted anything in years. “What?” He gives an exasperated sigh and swipes through his phone again before setting it on the table in front of me. “There.” I scan around, trying to orient myself. “What am I looking at?” “It’s Twitter.” A finger comes down, pointing at a cluster of letters. “What does that hashtag say?” “It says…” It takes me a minute to read because the words are all smushed together, no spaces. “ ‘Daddy Prince The True Love Experiment’?” I look up at him. “Who’s Daddy Prince?” “You are. That’s what the True Love fandom calls you.” “The—fandom—?” I break off, confusion deepening. “Daddy Prince?” “Twitter blows up when confessionals start.” “I’m not even on-screen that much. There are more successful, better-looking, and frankly more agreeable men for them to get excited about.” “Can’t argue with that,” he says with a grin. “But they’re writing you in anyway. Apparently, Daddy Prince, they love your deep voice and your sexy accent, and the way you and Fizzy banter.” He glances up at the sound of my stifled mortification. “Oh, come on, stop looking so horrified. ‘Daddy Prince’ is pretty tame compared to some of the other stuff here.” As he continues to scroll, his grin turns into a frown and he muses, “I didn’t realize ‘choke me’ was such a common phrase.” I ignore this. “What does that mean, ‘write in’? Can’t they only vote for the contestants?” “You wouldn’t know this because | 0 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 7 | old-fashioned dressing-gown of faded damask, and wearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quite overshadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared vaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, it was easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such an one as that which, slowly and with as indefinite an aim as a child's first journey across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there were no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for a free and determined gait. It was the spirit of the man that could not walk. The expression of his countenance--while, notwithstanding it had the light of reason in it --seemed to waver, and glimmer, and nearly to die away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame which we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at it more intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly upward,--more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought either to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at once extinguished. For an instant after entering the room, the guest stood still, retaining Hepzibah's hand instinctively, as a child does that of the grown person who guides it. He saw Phoebe, however, and caught an illumination from her youthful and pleasant aspect, which, indeed, threw a cheerfulness about the parlor, like the circle of reflected brilliancy around the glass vase of flowers that was standing in the sunshine. He made a salutation, or, to speak nearer the truth, an ill-defined, abortive attempt at curtsy. Imperfect as it was, however, it conveyed an idea, or, at least, gave a hint, of indescribable grace, such as no practised art of external manners could have attained. It was too slight to seize upon at the instant; yet, as recollected afterwards, seemed to transfigure the whole man. "Dear Clifford," said Hepzibah, in the tone with which one soothes a wayward infant, "this is our cousin Phoebe,--little Phoebe Pyncheon,--Arthur's only child, you know. She has come from the country to stay with us awhile; for our old house has grown to be very lonely now." "Phoebe--Phoebe Pyncheon?--Phoebe?" repeated the guest, with a strange, sluggish, ill-defined utterance. "Arthur's child! Ah, I forget! No matter. She is very welcome!" "Come, dear Clifford, take this chair," said Hepzibah, leading him to his place. "Pray, Phoebe, lower the curtain a very little more. Now let us begin breakfast." The guest seated himself in the place assigned him, and looked strangely around. He was evidently trying to grapple with the present scene, and bring it home to his mind with a more satisfactory distinctness. He desired to be certain, at least, that he was here, in the low-studded, cross-beamed, oaken-panelled parlor, and not in some other spot, which had stereotyped itself into his senses. But the effort was too great to be sustained with more than a fragmentary success. Continually, as we may express it, he faded away out of his place; or, in | 1 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 44 | was rumored to have a relationship with the Devil (much as Silas is supposed to). The men argue over whether the Warrens' stables are haunted. Not everyone in the pub believes in ghosts--the farrier, Mr. Dowlas, is as you'd expect a skeptic. But this lively debate suggests that plenty of people in Raveloe do believe in ghosts. Belligerently, the farrier dares any ghost to come stand inside. At this moment, Silas walks in. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 7 At first you see Silas as the men at the Rainbow see him--a weird figure who doesn't fit in the convivial surroundings. Eliot gently mocks their reaction to Silas, using insect imagery again, in their curious quivering antennae. Their minds still running on ghosts, the men look at him as if he were one. Then Mr. Snell, as the host, addresses Silas. Silas replies in broken, agitated phrases, calling for the authorities. He injects a note of tragedy into this comic evening. The men don't react to the news of his robbery at first. When Silas accuses Jem Rodney, Jem seems more annoyed than afraid. Jem's one of the poorer customers, sitting far from the fire, yet he is more accepted here than Silas is. Once they've absorbed what's going on, the men at the pub treat Silas kindly. Eliot moves inside his mind to describe the effect of this. A vague sensation of blurry faces, voices, and the fire's warmth unlocks Silas' heart, and a new kind of feeling starts to grow inside him (note the plant imagery). The news transforms Silas' reputation: The superstitious villagers imagine that the Devil robbed Silas, so he must not be one of the Devil's helpers. Everyone chimes in with his own opinion. Mr. Snell, the peacemaker, tries to convince Silas of Jem's innocence. And Mr. Macey, who believes in authority, starts talking about the proper legal proceedings. NOTE: MEMORY Mr. Macey's remark about accusing the innocent arouses Silas' memory of his own false accusation years ago. The force of memory is important for George Eliot. Remembering his mother's death helped Silas rediscover his herbal medicines to cure Sally Oates in Chapter 2. He tried to forget his past in Lantern-Yard, but remembering it is good for him now, giving him compassion for Jem. Silas is jolted by Mr. Macey's words into withdrawing his accusation of Jem. This takes a great effort, however--it's excruciating to give up his hope of recovering his money. The men around him don't seem to understand his inarticulate pain. Mr. Macey makes a dry joke about Silas' money being in Hell. Dowlas the farrier suggests that Silas missed the thief's footprints because of his poor eyesight ("eyes... like an insect's," he says). Officiously, Dowlas lays out the procedure for inspecting the premises and offers to serve as a deputy. But at least he's willing to get involved. Everyone in the room, in fact, agrees that it's their duty as respectable men to take action. How would the men of your neighborhood act if a local eccentric came running to them wildly for | 1 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 61 | said. "You haven't forgot much, Mr. Finch. They say it never leaves you." Atticus was silent. "Atticus?" said Jem. "Yes?" "Nothin'." "I saw that, One-Shot Finch!" Atticus wheeled around and faced Miss Maudie. They looked at one another without saying anything, and Atticus got into the sheriff's car. "Come here," he said to Jem. "Don't you go near that dog, you understand? Don't go near him, he's just as dangerous dead as alive." "Yes sir," said Jem. "Atticus-" "What, son?" "Nothing." "What's the matter with you, boy, can't you talk?" said Mr. Tate, grinning at Jem. "Didn't you know your daddy's-" "Hush, Heck," said Atticus, "let's go back to town." When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie's front steps. We sat waiting for Zeebo to arrive in the garbage truck. Jem sat in numb confusion, and Miss Stephanie said, "Uh, uh, uh, who'da thought of a mad dog in February? Maybe he wadn't mad, maybe he was just crazy. I'd hate to see Harry Johnson's face when he gets in from the Mobile run and finds Atticus Finch's shot his dog. Bet he was just full of fleas from somewhere-" Miss Maudie said Miss Stephanie'd be singing a different tune if Tim Johnson was still coming up the street, that they'd find out soon enough, they'd send his head to Montgomery. Jem became vaguely articulate: "'d you see him, Scout? 'd you see him just standin' there?... 'n' all of a sudden he just relaxed all over, an' it looked like that gun was a part of him... an' he did it so quick, like... I hafta aim for ten minutes 'fore I can hit somethin'...." Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?" "Nome," I said meekly. "Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride | 1 |
94 | Titanium-Noir.txt | 94 | appeared. He saved her, Elaine said. Yes. He did. Lillian’s injuries predate her arrival in Chersenesos. The hospitals, the doctors…none of them is within a thousand miles of the city until long after the pattern is established. Stefan saved her, all right. He saved her, with T7, from the violence of her husband. Roddy Tebbit was hunting the man who killed his wife. He never realised she was still alive, and he never realised that the man he was looking for was Peter Antonin. * * * — When you have dates and names, and when you know someone was given T7, you can fill in the blanks, even if Stefan Tonfamecasca doesn’t want you to. I go back to the city recorder’s office. Maryam the clerk gives me a little smile and makes mint tea in a tall pot, and serves it in glasses while we work. “Family history?” she asks me, and I say yes, but not my family. Unless I end up marrying in. Then I inherit all this, and all the players, all still alive. Except Roddy, I suppose. There are no deaths recorded in the Antonin matter. Lillian survived, and obviously so did Peter. She disappears off the radar, which must have been weirdly simple, because the T7 process would have given her a new face—or rather, her old one back. The body’s self-image would have been reset, shifting bone and rejecting plastic, kicking against the intrusions of Peter’s design. Figure it hurt like hell. I call Athena—Maryam gets little dimples when she hears the change in my voice—and ask her to send me all the T7 emergency deployments for that year. It’s so long ago, neither of us was even born. The software grinds its way through the archive files, and for a while I wonder if it’s going to be like dealing with the city, but the Tonfamecasca company can afford to move data from old formats to new ones as the technology changes, and after a few minutes the system spits back answers. Not good ones, of course. I guessed that already. I tell Athena not to look until I tell her. I tell her there’s a story she needs to hear in sequence. She says okay. I wonder if she’ll say that when I tell her about Maurice, and Doublewide’s farm. That’s part of the sequence too. Maryam shows me to a little nook between marriages and land registry, where there’s a comfortable chair and the light falls just so from one of the high windows. I sit and I read and I wish I’d never learned how. When Lillian Antonin was lying on the floor and paramedics broke in and put her on a stretcher, and she was taken direct to the T7 unit of Demeter Mercy under the eaves of the cathedral, Stefan Tonfamecasca personally handled the infusion, and paid for it, and held her hand through the painful months that followed, as her renewing body spat out implants and screws and laid down new bone over the old cracks. He | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 33 | false hope of an “Axis of Adults.” Five. I didn’t have a five. So I skipped to six. That was the number of relationship anniversaries Anabel and I shared before our untimely end. Okay, now I was stuck. The mental accounting of self-pity wasn’t necessarily about a Trump second term—either way, my life would never be the same—but I survived and thrived on having control. I was starting to feel powerless when my thoughts drifted to a darker place. Fourteen. The number of floors above street level. I pondered the distance to the ground, which was more than enough. Twenty. The exact number of rounds of ammunition. I found the pistol lying in the pile, and my thumb was raw from loading and unloading the clip. The cartridges popped out with a satisfying metallic snap. Sixty-plus. I hadn’t refilled my prescriptions lately, so I was guessing. But it seemed like a good estimate for the number of pills on the nightstand. Like brand-name cereals in a grocery aisle, I weighed my options. I drank the martini and the remnants of a warm beer. A banging noise outside the bedroom interrupted. I brought the gun as I got up to see who was at the door. No one was visible through the blurry peephole. I unlatched the deadbolt and slid back the chain lock, cautiously peering out and keeping the gun in the apartment. The hallway was empty. I locked everything and returned to the bedroom. In reality, there wasn’t any need to fret about an intruder. The most dangerous person—the someone who would try to put a gun to my head that night—was me. There wasn’t anything a bodyguard could do about it. I fiddled with the cold cartridges again on the floor, wondering about the collateral damage. What if the anticipation of the recoil—or blowback—caused me to flinch and miss, and only cripple myself? That’s when I realized something. The bullets were not hollow-point. I had used up all of my home defense rounds at the range and had only the round-nose ones my friend gave me. Whether or not I misfired, the projectile might not be fatal and it would probably travel through the wall into another apartment, which also wasn’t good. Fuck. I couldn’t help but let out a laugh. I didn’t even have the right ammo to kill myself. Sometime after three in the morning, I moved my watery martini to the nightstand and lay on the bed with my phone, a distraction from the morbid musings. A lot of people online were talking about mail-in ballots and the crucial state of Arizona, which hadn’t yet been called. The election wasn’t over. Hundreds of unread messages beckoned in my social media apps. The majority of them were days and weeks old, from a time when I was trying hard to tune out unsolicited messages and too worn down for hate mail. For some reason I decided to open my inboxes. The notes weren’t what I had expected. “I know you will probably never get a moment to read | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 33 | something's always told me we'd never get holt of that swag." "Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. You know his tavern was all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don't you remember you was to watch there that night?" "Oh yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year ago. It --------------------------------------------------------- -305- was that very night that I follered Injun Joe to the widder's." "You followed him?" "Yes -- but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's left friends behind him, and I don't want 'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in Texas now, all right." Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only heard of the Welshman's part of it before. "Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in No. 2, nipped the money, too, I reckon -- anyways it's a goner for us, Tom." "Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!" "What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "Tom, have you got on the track of that money again?" "Huck, it's in the cave!" Huck's eyes blazed. "Say it again, Tom." "The money's in the cave!" "Tom -- honest injun, now -- is it fun, or earnest?" "Earnest, Huck -- just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you go in there with me and help get it out?" "I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not get lost." --------------------------------------------------------- -306- "Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the world." "Good as wheat! What makes you think the money's -- " "Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don't find it I'll agree to give you my drum and every thing I've got in the world. I will, by jings." "All right -- it's a whiz. When do you say?" "Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?" "Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four days, now, but I can't walk more'n a mile, Tom -- least I don't think I could." "It's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me know about. Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float the skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by myself. You needn't ever turn your hand over." "Less start right off, Tom." "All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many's the time I wished I had some when I was in there before." A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got under way at once. | 1 |
21 | Little Women.txt | 30 | hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." "Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo to how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. | 1 |
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