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31 | The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt | 11 | had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighborhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. "In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. "It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed way from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father." The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. "This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the sundial.'" "What have you done?" asked Holmes. "Nothing." "Nothing?" "To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against." "Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair." "I have seen the police." "Ah!" "But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings." Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!" he cried. "They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me." "Has he | 1 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 22 | "Isn't she queer- not waiting to welcome us- and not coming in to supper- and not even in yet! After all, she's sleeping in my room- goodness knows what time she'll be in!" All the three children were fast asleep before Georgina came up to bed! They didn't hear her open Anne's door. They didn't hear her get undressed and clean her teeth. They didn't hear the creak of her bed as she got into it. They were so tired that they heard nothing at all until the sun awoke them in the morning. When Anne awoke she couldn't at first think where she was. She lay in her little bed and looked up at the slanting ceiling, and at the red roses that nodded at the open window- and suddenly remembered all in a rush where she was! "I'm at Kirrin Bay- and it's the holidays." she said to herself, and screwed up her legs with joy. Then she looked across at the other bed. In it lay the figure of another child, curled up under the bed-clothes. Anne could just see the top of a curly head, and that was all. When the figure stirred a little, Anne spoke. "I say! Are you Georgina?" The child in the opposite bed sat up and looked across at Anne. She had very short curly hair, almost as short as a boy's. Her face was burnt a dark-brown with the sun, and her very blue eyes looked as bright as forget-me-nots in her face. But her mouth was rather sulky, and she had a frown like her father's. "No," she said. "I'm not Georgina." "Oh!" said Anne, in surprise. "Then who are you?" "I'm George," said the girl. "I shall only answer if you call me George. I hate being a girl. I won't be. I don't like doing the things that girls do. I like doing the things that boys do. I can climb better than any boy, and swim faster too. I can sail a boat as well as any fisher-boy on this coast. You're to call me George. Then I'll speak to you. But I shan't if you don't." "Oh!" said Anne, thinking that her new cousin was most extraordinary. "All right! I don't care what I call you. George is a nice name, I think. I don't much like Georgina. Anyway, you look like a boy." "Do I really?" said George, the frown leaving her face for a moment. "Mother was awfully cross with me when I cut my hair short. I had hair all round my neck; it was awful." The two girls stared at one another for a moment. "Don't you simply hate being a girl?" asked George. "No, of course not," said Anne. "You see- I do like pretty frocks- and I love my dolls- and you can't do that if you're a boy." "Pooh! Fancy bothering about pretty frocks," said George, in a scornful voice. "And dolls! Well, you are a baby, that's all I can say." Anne felt offended. "You're not very polite," she | 1 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 52 | sane here, if anything can. Everything blends together now, but I vividly remember writing that last entry, how angry I was, as if it were only a day or two gone—perhaps it was. I must have tossed and turned for an hour at least. How on earth was I supposed to concentrate on research now, with a marriage proposal from one of the Folk dangling over my head? I could almost imagine myself a maiden in one of the stories, but stories didn’t leave dirty teacups scattered throughout the cottage, or underline passages in my books—in ink—no matter how many times I ordered them not to. Of course I wanted to marry Wendell. That was the most infuriating thing about the whole business—my feelings conspired against my reason. I will not lie and say my desire was purely romantic, for I couldn’t stop myself from imagining the picture we would make back at Cambridge—despite his controversies, Wendell Bambleby was still a celebrated scholar, and yes, we would be a fearsome team indeed. I doubted I would have to worry ever again about securing funding for future fieldwork, nor being overlooked when it came to conference invitations. It was the thought of invitations—yes, that thought—that made me rise from my bed. I yanked open my door, intending to stomp down the hall and —well, throw myself at him. I wanted to see what he would do, but more important, I needed to know if it was something I would enjoy. I was not going to marry someone without making sure of that. But before I could take a step in his direction, a calm settled over me like a dream. Instead of going to Wendell’s door, I returned to my own room and dressed in warm clothes. Shadow remained asleep at the foot of my bed, though it was a strange sleep—he twitched and whined, his huge paws batting at invisible foes. I left my room and pulled on my cloak. As I did, I happened to glance down at my hand. The ring was there, but it was no longer a ring of shadow. It was a ring of ice, polished smooth and patterned with tiny blue crystals. I knew exactly what was happening, of course. I have had enough faerie magic thrown at me over the years that I believe I have become somewhat inured to it—at the very least, I have trained myself to recognize when enchantment is affecting me; the absence of such recognition is what dooms most mortals. The truth is that it is not impossible to throw off faerie spells if you have a focused mind. But most people don’t try, because they fail to recognize that it is enchantment pushing them to dance until their feet bleed, or murder their families, or any other number of horrors inflicted upon hapless mortals by the Folk. Unfortunately, in this case, the knowledge of my own enchantment was of little use, for it was uncommonly strong magic, and held me like an iron vise. I did what I could | 0 |
65 | Hedge.txt | 37 | Ella. They communicated via that secret email account. Gabriel was living in Mexico, waiting for the day when he could pick up Ella and drive her over the border. Maud told Peter that she’d bring up the search with Ella’s therapist, Rita, the next day at Lone Pines. When she sat down in Rita’s office at the end of the session, Ella was playing with a fidget, a stress-relieving toy shaped like a snake, the rainbowed segments clicking as she ran them through her fingers. “Anything you’d like to discuss?” Rita said to Maud. “Ella did an internet search yesterday,” Maud said. She couldn’t say his name. “Yes.” Rita folded her hands over her knees. “She told me.” She turned to Ella. “Maybe your mother needs to hear what we discussed.” “I don’t care what she needs to hear,” Ella said, as the snake clicked. “I thought you said what we talked about stayed between us.” “It does, but if your mom doesn’t hear, she can’t understand. It’s your choice, though.” This is when and where it happens, Maud thought, grinding her teeth. This is where I learn the truth. Ella blinked at Rita, then glanced at Maud. “I wanted to see a picture of him. See what he looked like again.” “And can you tell your mom why?” “Why should I have to?” Her hands moved faster, the clicking louder. “You don’t have to, but I think she’ll worry if you don’t.” Rita tilted her head at Maud. “Is that right?” “Yes,” Maud said. She felt a gratitude for Rita that was close to adoration. “Because I don’t understand why I liked him so much,” Ella said bluntly. “At Montgomery Place, he didn’t seem so old. Or disgusting.” “Why disgusting?” Maud said. Ella shrugged. “He just is.” “Could I have a quick word with your mom?” Rita asked. After Ella had left for the waiting room, Maud said, “Disgusting sounds alarming.” “She knows she had a little crush on him,” Rita said. “She’s said that to you?” “Not in so many words. He listened to her when she was vulnerable. That gave him power. And she understands that his keeping their meetings a secret was inappropriate.” “I keep wondering if more happened with him,” Maud said. “I feel she’s not saying something. It’s this worry that won’t go away.” “Maud,” Rita said, “if I had any suspicion that more had happened, I wouldn’t only tell you and Peter, I’d tell the authorities. Ella is trying to let what happened last summer go. I’m not surprised that she looked him up.” “I can’t let it go,” Maud said. She had pieces of evidence that no one else did. Gabriel had said that he loved her and slept with her, while meeting her daughter in secret over and over. But if she told Rita all this, she would eventually have to tell Peter. And he’d be enraged by her lies. Their marriage wouldn’t survive the blow. “It’s going to be hard to trust Ella again.” Rita leaned forward in her chair, her face | 0 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 99 | eighth day. She did not return to Okonkwo's compound until three days before the naming ceremony. The child was called Onwumbiko. Onwumbiko was not given proper burial when he died. Okonkwo had called in another medicine man who was famous in the clan for his great knowledge about ogbanje children. His name was Okagbue Uyanwa. Okagbue was a very striking figure, tall, with a full beard and a bald head. He was light in complexion and his eyes were red and fiery. He always gnashed his teeth as he listened to those who came to consult him. He asked Okonkwo a few questions about the dead child. All the neighbours and relations who had come to mourn gathered round them. "On what market-day was it born?" he asked. "Oye," replied Okonkwo. "And it died this morning?" Okonkwo said yes, and only then realised for the first time that the child had died on the same market-day as it had been born. The neighbours and relations also saw the coincidence and said among themselves that it was very significant. "Where do you sleep with your wife, in your obi or in her own hut?" asked the medicine man. "In her hut." "In future call her into your obi." The medicine man then ordered that there should be no mourning for the dead child. He brought out a sharp razor from the goatskin bag slung from his left shoulder and began to mutilate the child. Then he took it away to bury in the Evil Forest, holding it by the ankle and dragging it on the ground behind him. After such treatment it would think twice before coming again, unless it was one of the stubborn ones who returned, carrying the stamp of their mutilation--a missing finger or perhaps a dark line where the medicine man's razor had cut them. By the time Onwumbiko died Ekwefi had become a very bitter woman. Her husband's first wife had already had three sons, all strong and healthy. When she had borne her third son in succession, Okonkwo had slaughtered a goat for her, as was the custom. Ekwefi had nothing but good wishes for her. But she had grown so bitter about her own chi that she could not rejoice with others over their good fortune. And so, on the day that Nwoye's mother celebrated the birth of her three sons with feasting and music, Ekwefi was the only person in the happy company who went about with a cloud on her brow. Her husband's wife took this for malevolence, as husbands' wives were wont to. How could she know that Ekwefi's bitterness did not flow outwards to others but inwards into her own soul,- that she did not blame others for their good fortune but her own evil chi who denied her any? At last Ezinma was born, and although ailing she seemed determined to live. At first Ekwefi accepted her, as she had accepted others--with listless resignation. But when she lived on to her fourth, fifth and sixth years, love returned once more to | 1 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 67 | and overwhelm her with joy -- and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still. He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something" soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the --------------------------------------------------------- -157- next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village -- and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered. Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart. Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through. He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a --------------------------------------------------------- -158- little in her sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle. But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him. He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself | 1 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 13 | instances of great ferocity, cunning, and malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by accident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps, for the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred, more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large, than to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly regarded. And as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance caught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one of them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any other whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue in these assaults --not restricted to sprained wrists and ancles, broken limbs, or devouring amputations --but fatal to the last degree of fatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and piling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake the fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White Whale had eventually come. Nor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more horrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising terrible events, --as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in maritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to. And as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery surpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and fearfulness of the .. <p 177 > rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only are whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is appallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its greatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such remotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a thousand shores, you would not come to any chiselled hearthstone, or aught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many a mighty birth. No wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over the widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in the end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and half-formed foetal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which eventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything that visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally strike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White Whale, few of those hunters were | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 21 | Janes followed Winnie downstairs. They observed the pleasing majesty of it all. Footmen running. Noses turning upward. Disbelief. The orchestra falling silent, waltz frozen midspin. “Fire, fire!” yelled a voice. And then it was real, the fear. It unfurled itself like a ribbon. The guests were like starlings in flight, a drunken, frightened rush of powdered hair and crooked crowns and ermine trains. Jane-two tested her voice. “Fire!” she bellowed. “Everybody out!” “Oh, give over,” muttered Jane-one, pressing a hand to her ear. Together they worked the crowd: pushing, shoving, scaring, very nearly ramming people down the stairs. Mrs. Bone’s men, the ones dressed as guests, helped. “Out, out, out,” they chanted, and it was remarkable to see the world obey them, growing increasingly frightened. “I’m choking!” cried one. “Smoke! It’s in my lungs!” By the time they reached the front porch, they could hear Lord Ashley. Clearly, he was the worst sort of person in a crisis, bellowing orders for horses, buckets, hoses, causing even more confusion than before. Jane-one observed the chaos on the pavement, countesses calling for their husbands, ministers calling for each other, and a hundred motors jammed at every junction. “They need to call for the fire brigade!” exclaimed Lord Ashley. “Now!” “They have,” replied Mr. Lockwood. “I’m sure of it.” “That bloody pyramid,” said Ashley. “It’s blocking the bloody road.” Jane-one spotted the lamp-boy lurking by the railings. He had a weaselly, toothy look about him. “You, boy,” said Lockwood, reaching for him. “Run to the fire station.” “Sir, there’s people inside. Upstairs. I can see ’em moving around...” Lockwood shook him. “Aren’t you listening? Get them to send the engines.” A window opened, and one of Mrs. Bone’s men looked out, waving his arms, scaring back the crowd. “Who’s that?” said Ashley. “Who’s inside?” “Get back, get away from the house!” the man was shouting. A cry went up, and people began backing away, into the street, making for the park. “We’ll get the drapes down!” Lord Ashley shouted up at them. “Quick, men, that’s it! Get those curtains off their rails!” Jane-one heard Mr. Lockwood say slowly, “Where is Miss de Vries?” * * * Winnie came into the hall. “Ready?” murmured one of the men, peering upward. A pulley above them was wheeling madly, taking the long chain with it. The pulleys had been looped onto the iron braces underneath the glass dome. They held a platform, operating like a gigantic version of the electric lift, wide enough to shift half a dozen big crates between the ground floor and the upper floors of the house. Their faces showed the strain of holding all the ropes. The dome shimmered over the front hall. Please, God, let it hold, she thought. She could almost feel the glass quaking. “Someone give the word,” said the first man. Winnie’s mind scrambled. Plans, papers, schematics, diagrams, calculations, machinery, pulleys, inventories and ledgers. Hired hands and fences. Prices marked up in the ledger. Tricks, tales, lies, glorious acts of make-believe. Puzzle pieces, carved up and scattered by Mrs. | 0 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 85 | locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat,and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself,and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more an air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is the nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill. Later: The morning of 16 May.--God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening | 1 |
68 | I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt | 33 | principal tenor with the English National Opera. I told Vanessa what I’d seen at Bethesda Fountain. Even so, the purple and the blue could both have been Robbie—could have been, for instance, intercourse and blow jobs. Vanessa was the one who proved otherwise. I went through ’94–’95 and she went through ’93–’94. We were quiet until she hit her pen on the table. “Here,” she said. Thalia had written Ski Team—away at Hebron across the whole weekend of March 4 to 6, 1994. A time when the ski team was definitively gone to Maine. But there was a purple X that Saturday. “She wouldn’t have gone with the ski team, would she?” I shook my head. “They didn’t let friends travel with the team. She maybe could have signed out to someone’s house and—but no, look, she had tech rehearsal that weekend.” Little Shop wet tech was written in much smaller letters than Robbie’s ski team commitment, but it was there. And if Thalia had failed to show for tech rehearsal, the one vital day when I was fully in charge, it would have been seared in my memory. “So,” she said. I nodded. “So.” Vanessa pulled the senior planner to the middle of the table. “The week she died,” she said. “The blue X here on Wednesday, in brackets. What are the brackets?” “Maybe she still had her period,” I said, “and they—maybe it was something other than sex.” “Maybe he pulled out,” she said, and I reminded myself that yes, Vanessa was an adult, not someone I needed to protect from any of this. I said, “She was with both of them on Thursday.” “It’s so much sex,” Vanessa said, and laughed drily. “Can you imagine being that young?” I shook my head. I said, “My impression—and maybe you know more than I do—my impression is that Denny Bloch was never really investigated. For Thalia’s death.” I didn’t know how this would go over, didn’t know how upset she might be at the suggestion that the case wasn’t settled, hermetically sealed. Vanessa was focused on something other than my face, something over my shoulder. “He was how old, again?” “Thirty-three,” I said. “Married, two kids. He’s still teaching.” Her fingers went to the bridge of her nose. “Christ.” I said, “I worry—I mean, the kids all talked together before anyone got interviewed. You know how the rumor mill can be. And I’m sure they were all concerned with protecting Robbie, since he’d obviously be the first person they looked at. I never thought I knew more than her friends. I assumed if they were pointing at Omar they had information I didn’t. But what’s occurred to me lately is that maybe I knew more. Or at least I knew this one thing, this one important thing, and no one ever asked me.” There was a crash behind the coffee counter and then a shrieking giggle. Vanessa turned, and in the light her face looked even older—resigned, hardened. Suddenly, she was every sister of every murdered girl they ever put on | 0 |
90 | The-Lost-Bookshop.txt | 81 | in that awful place, she must have wanted revenge on her brother. I know I would have. I thought of Shane and his accident. Madame Bowden had hardly flinched. Something was tugging at my mind and I wondered why she hadn’t come down for breakfast yet. Every morning she was the one to wake me with her shrill voice and endless demands. What if there was something wrong with her? With every step I climbed I told myself I was being stupid and that she was just having a nice long lie in, but I didn’t really believe it. I knocked on the door to her bedroom and, after a moment, let myself in. My eyes adjusted to the scene. Her bed had not been slept in and she herself was nowhere to be seen. ‘Madame Bowden?’ I called out. ‘Are you there?’ The door to the ensuite was slightly ajar, but on further inspection, it was empty. ‘Hello?’ I called out on to the landing, but the house had such an air of stillness that I knew I was alone. I checked downstairs for a note but there was nothing. Of course she did not have a mobile phone, so I couldn’t call her. She refused to have her daily movements monitored by technology companies. I wasn’t sure what to do and spent the morning wandering from room to room, looking out of the windows at the street outside every few minutes. ‘Do you have any of her friends’ numbers that you could call?’ my mother asked, when the worry became too much and I had to call someone. ‘I can’t remember any of their names and there’s no address book or anything.’ It was only now I realised that I knew so little about the woman. ‘Should I call the police? What if she’s wandered off somewhere and forgotten where she is?’ ‘Has she ever seemed forgetful?’ my mother asked. ‘Well, no, but you saw her when you were here, she is pretty old.’ ‘I didn’t see her.’ Her answer seemed out of place – like trying to force a cube into a round hole. ‘What are you saying? Of course you saw her. I introduced you both when you were here the other day.’ After a pause my mother spoke again. ‘She wasn’t there when I stopped by, remember?’ My flesh broke out in goosebumps. What the hell was going on? I almost jumped when I heard the doorbell ring. ‘Maybe that’s her now,’ I said, rushing to open the door, but it was Henry. ‘You may as well come in,’ I said, then told my mother I would call her back. He looked a bit fidgety, like something was bothering him. We both spoke at the same time. ‘I found something out—’ ‘Madame Bowden is missing!’ His eyes flashed wide. ‘Missing?’ ‘I went to wake her for breakfast and her bed hadn’t been slept in.’ ‘Oh.’ His tone was annoyingly dismissive. ‘What was it you wanted anyway?’ I hadn’t meant it to come out as sharp as it | 0 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 41 | aloud. "If we wait for my brother to grace us with his royal presence, it could be a long sit." "Our good King Robert has many cares," Varys said. "He entrusts some small matters to us, to lighten his load." "What Lord Varys means is that all this business of coin and crops and justice bores my royal brother to tears," Lord Renly said, "so it falls to us to govern the realm. He does send us a command from time to time." He drew a tightly rolled paper from his sleeve and laid it on the table. "This morning he commanded me to ride ahead with all haste and ask Grand Maester Pycelle to convene this council at once. He has an urgent task for us." Littlefinger smiled and handed the paper to Ned. It bore the royal seal. Ned broke the wax with his thumb and flattened the letter to consider the king's urgent command, reading the words with mounting disbelief. Was there no end to Robert's folly? And to do this in his name, that was salt in the wound. "Gods be good," he swore. "What Lord Eddard means to say," Lord Renly announced, "is that His Grace instructs us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as the Hand of the King." "How much?" asked Littlefinger, mildly. Ned read the answer off the letter. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the champion. Twenty thousand to the man who comes second, another twenty to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition." "Ninety thousand gold pieces," Littlefinger sighed. "And we must not neglect the other costs. Robert will want a prodigious feast. That means cooks, carpenters, serving girls, singers, jugglers, fools "Fools we have in plenty," Lord Renly said. Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Littlefinger and asked, "Will the treasury bear the expense?" "What treasury is that?" Littlefinger replied with a twist of his mouth. "Spare me the foolishness, Maester. You know as well as I that the treasury has been empty for years. I shall have to borrow the money. No doubt the Lannisters will be accommodating. We owe Lord Tywin some three million dragons at present, what matter another hundred thousand?" Ned was stunned. "Are you claiming that the Crown is three million gold pieces in debt?" A GAME OF THRONES 173 "The Crown is more than six million gold pieces in debt, Lord Stark. The Lannisters are the biggest part of it, but we have also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, and several Tyroshi trading cartels. Of late I've had to turn to the Faith. The High Septon haggles worse than a Dornish fishmonger." Ned was aghast. "Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?" Littlefinger gave a shrug. "The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it." "I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm," Ned said hotly. Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, | 1 |
2 | A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt | 74 | boys with gentle words and telling them the mistakes they had made. His voice was very gentle and soft. Then he returned to his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen: --You may return to your places, you two. Fleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seats, sat down. Stephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly with one weak hand and bent down upon it, his face close to the page. It was unfair and cruel because the doctor had told him not to read without glasses and he had written home to his father that morning to send him a new pair. And Father Arnall had said that he need not study till the new glasses came. Then to be called a schemer before the class and to be pandied when he always got the card for first or second and was the leader of the Yorkists! How could the prefect of studies know that it was a trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they had steadied his hand and at first he had thought he was going to shake hands with him because the fingers were soft and firm: but then in an instant he had heard the swish of the soutane sleeve and the crash. It was cruel and unfair to make him kneel in the middle of the class then: and Father Arnall had told them both that they might return to their places without making any difference between them. He listened to Father Arnall's low and gentle voice as he corrected the themes. Perhaps he was sorry now and wanted to be decent. But it was unfair and cruel. The prefect of studies was a priest but that was cruel and unfair. And his white-grey face and the no-coloured eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were cruel looking because he had steadied the hand first with his firm soft fingers and that was to hit it better and louder. --It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in the corridor as the classes were passing out in file to the refectory, to pandy a fellow for what is not his fault. --You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you? Nasty Roche asked. Stephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not answer. --Of course he did! said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up and tell the rector on him. --Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the pandy-bat over his shoulder and he's not allowed to do that. --Did they hurt you much? Nasty Roche asked. --Very much, Stephen said. --I wouldn't stand it, Fleming repeated, from Baldyhead or any other Baldyhead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what it is. I'd go straight up to the rector and tell him about it after dinner. --Yes, do. Yes, do, said Cecil Thunder. --Yes, do. Yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Dedalus, said Nasty Roche, because he said that he'd come in tomorrow again and pandy you. --Yes, | 1 |
12 | Fahrenheit 451.txt | 98 | empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? "What a shame! You're not in love with anyone !" And why not? Well, wasn't there a wall between him and Mildred, when you came down to it? Literally not just one, wall but, so far, three! And expensive, too! And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree-apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud. He had taken to calling them relatives from the very first. "How's Uncle Louis today?" "Who?" "And Aunt Maude?" The most significant memory he had of Mildred, really, was of a little girl in a forest without trees (how odd!) or rather a little girl lost on a plateau where there used to be trees (you could feel the memory of their shapes all about) sitting in the centre of the "living-room." The living-room; what a good job of labelling that was now. No matter when he came in, the walls were always talking to Mildred. "Something must be done!I" "Yes, something must be done!" "Well, let's not stand and talk!" "Let's do it! " "I'm so mad I could SPIT!" What was it all about? Mildred couldn't say. Who was mad at whom? Mildred didn't quite know. What were they going to do? Well, said Mildred, wait around and see. He had waited around to see. A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion. When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never-quite-touched-bottom-never-never-quite-no not quite-touched-bottom ... and you fell so fast you didn't touch the sides either ... never ... quite . . . touched . anything. The thunder faded. The music died. "There," said Mildred, And it was indeed remarkable. Something had happened. Even though the people in the walls of the room had barely moved, and nothing had really been settled, you had the impression that someone had turned on a washing-machine or sucked you up in a gigantic vacuum. You drowned in music and pure cacophony. He came out of the room sweating and on the point of collapse. Behind him, Mildred sat in her chair and the voices went on again: "Well, everything will be all right now," said an "aunt." "Oh, don't be too sure," said a "cousin." "Now, don't get angry!" "Who's angry?" "YOU are ! " "You're mad!" "Why should I be mad!" "Because!" "That's all very well," cried Montag, "but what are they mad about? Who are these people? Who's that man and who's that woman? Are they husband and wife, are they | 1 |
64 | Happy Place.txt | 60 | me too. I go back and forth every thirty seconds thinking I’m hurting you just by being here, and then thinking you couldn’t possibly still love me after all this time, and even if it’s not real, a part of me wants to pretend I have you, but another part thinks I’ll die if you don’t tell me you love me, even if it doesn’t change anything. Even if it’s just getting to hear it one more time. “Everything’s different and nothing’s changed, Harriet,” he says. “I tried so fucking hard to let you go, to let you be happy, and when I see you, I still feel like—like you’re mine. Like I’m yours. I got rid of every single piece of you, like that would make a difference, like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.” I stare at him, heart cracking open under the weight of what I’m feeling. “Please say something,” he whispers. My eyes fill. My throat fills. I drop my face into my hands again. “I thought you didn’t want me,” I choke out, “so I tried. I tried to love somebody else. I tried to even like somebody else. I kissed someone else. I slept with someone else, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was yours.” My eyes tighten against another wave of tears. “Like you’re mine.” “Harriet.” He tilts my face up. “Look at me.” He waits. “Please, Harriet.” It takes a few seconds to force my eyes open. Water droplets still cling to his brows. Rivulets race down his jaw and throat. His thumb grazes my cheekbone. “I am,” he says. “I am still yours.” The nail that has been driving closer and closer to my heart all week sinks home. The pads of his fingers slide across my bottom lip. His eyes are so soft, every ginger touch pushing back another layer from my heart. But does it even matter that we belong to each other when we can’t be with each other? Our lives are immovably separate. Everything may look different than it did ten minutes ago, but nothing’s changed. He’s mine, but I can’t have him. My hands tangle in his wet hair, as if that can keep him here with me. His do the same to mine. “What is this?” he whispers. I want it to be an I’m sorry and an I forgive you and a Promise you won’t ever let me go and a million other words I can’t say. Wyn’s finally happy. He has the life that was meant for him. He has a career he’s proud of, one predicated on his being in Montana, and even if he didn’t, there’s Gloria, who needs him. The time with her that he needs, time he missed with Hank. And I’m in California for at least a few more years, too deep in to back out but not so far into the tunnel as to see the light at its end. Maybe, in another life, things could be | 0 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 99 | they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic. "A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves. "This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood. "I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days. "I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden. "By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness,in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied | 1 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 81 | a fit of school spirit (where I didn’t last long but took Geoff Richler’s friendship as a souvenir). They saw me try to befriend people like them, before I found my way to Fran. From the perspective of girls like Rachel and Beth, having lost track of me around November of freshman year, my transformation over the next summer must have seemed abrupt. I cut my hair chin-length, chopped my bangs Bettie Page–style. I left my hand-me-downs in Indiana and, when I got back to campus a week early to stay with the Hoffnungs, went thrifting with Fran in Hanover, spending my Baskin-Robbins wages on dark, oversized clothes, fishnets I carefully ripped, a fake army jacket. We went through her sisters’ closets for things they hadn’t been back to claim. I cultivated a look I’d now call goth grunge, designed to hide my weight: all black, a flannel shirt either tied around my waist or flung on open like a coat. At Clover Music in Kern, I bought chokers made of hemp and Fimo, black-light nail polish. Fran gave me her old Doc Martens, duct-taped at the toes and a size too big. I plucked my eyebrows into sharp little checkmarks. Everyone was doing this, but mine were extreme. I learned to apply thick black eyeliner. I’d spent the summer shedding what I’d seen as pathetic artifice, ready to return as my true self. Sophomore year was when Carlotta French showed up, a refugee from an all-girls’ school in Virginia, and all but announced that Fran and I were her new best friends, positions we happily accepted because Carlotta was cooler than either of us. Carlotta wore ankle bracelets and no bra. When she played guitar on a blanket under trees, boys who theoretically were interested only in preppy girls out of shampoo commercials would move their Frisbee games closer, end up lying on their stomachs to talk to her. She found them ridiculous. She sang “Rhiannon” for Follies, an ethereal version that made me want to be her. Her hair was wild, the color of sand. She was reed-thin, but I didn’t hate her for it. She seemed to have sprung from the earth that way, rather than crafting herself from the pages of a magazine. That winter, Fran pulled out the previous year’s Dragon Tales and showed Carlotta, in the freshman section, how I used to dress, and Carlotta let out her most frog-like laugh. “Were you kidnapped into a cult? It’s like—if JCPenney was a cult!” And I was able to laugh with her, grateful she saw the girl in the picture as the fake me, the one who’d gotten something terribly wrong. But most people that fall greeted my transformation with concern. Karen King saw me on move-in day and said, “Oh God, does this mean you’re quitting crew?” Poor Ms. Shields tried to suss out if I was okay. Before practice one morning, as we waited outside the gym for the Dragon Wagon, she started asking about my summer but within two minutes was listing resources: people | 0 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 20 | as if the veins ran close together. She wore no jewelry, no ornaments of any kind. She looked like meat that had been well wrapped in muslin, to keep her fresh and away from flies. The water poured out scalding hot, steam rising in a vicious cloud. Hephzibah thought, with sudden conviction, I don’t want to stay in this room a moment longer than I need to. “Miss de Vries,” she said, summoning her courage. “I come to you today as an emissary of the royal household. I received your letter of invitation. The private secretary passed it to me. I’m sorry it’s taken us such a terribly long time to respond.” “Not a terribly long time at all,” said Miss de Vries, passing a cup and saucer. “We’ve been quite run off our feet. We’ve any number of engagements. You know how it is.” The boy took the tea tray and began backing out of the room. “I do,” Miss de Vries said. Her eyes were lizard like, unreadable. Then she added, with a tiny twist in her voice, “Was it considered—an impertinence?” “An impertinence?” “My invitation, my letter to the palace. Did it cause offence?” Something was moving in Miss de Vries’s eyes. Something uneasy. She was doubting herself. “Good heavens,” said Hephzibah. “All approaches to the palace must be considered an offence. To request the attention of Their Royal Highnesses is an impertinence by its very nature. It cannot be helped. Now, tell me, I hear this is a costumed ball, correct?” “Indeed.” “But that is too enchanting. As what shall you go? A Van Dyck? A masked temptress?” Miss de Vries’s smile grew colder. “I shall have to keep it a secret, Your Grace.” “But you must confide in me. I’m dying to know. Will you be a sorceress? A sea serpent? A succubus?” Miss de Vries stared at her. “Oh, don’t let me torture you. I’m being such a gorgon. But tell me you’ll make the papers. Did you go to the Devonshires’ ball?” “I did not.” “No? A pity. It’s helpful to measure the competition, I find. People bore so easily. Have you hired Whitman for the entertainments?” Mrs. King had told her exactly how to put the question. Gently, gently, almost like it was nothing at all... Miss de Vries frowned. “I’ve not heard of Whitman.” Whitman was one of Hephzibah’s greatest gifts to Mrs. King: a costumier and impresario who came from the Rookery in Spitalfields, and who kept a splendid side business in pickpocketing. Between Whitman, Hephzibah and the Janes, there wasn’t a music-hall troupe or traveling fair they couldn’t hire for this job. “Of course you haven’t. He doesn’t advertise.” Hephzibah fiddled in her reticule, drew out a card. “I doubt you’d get him now. Not worth asking. Perhaps next year.” She tossed the card on the table, then sipped her tea. “He does the most stupendous entertainments. And by the by, in case you’re wondering, I did mention your ball to the Princess Victoria.” “You did?” “But of course! She was | 0 |
62 | Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt | 78 | for the rest of your life? Don’t you want more?” “I happen to like my job. And what more should I expect? I’m not pretty like you, it’s not like anyone’s knocking on my door to get married.” Marion drew back, surprised. “You want to get married?” “Of course. I want a family, kids. But it’s probably not in the cards.” “Our lives aren’t set in stone. You can do anything you want.” “No. You can do anything you want. For the rest of us, the choices are rather limited.” “That’s not true.” Yet Marion knew she was treated differently from her sister because of her looks. By friends, by strangers. And it wasn’t fair. Judy glided to the middle of the rink and came to a stop, facing Marion. The other skaters flew around them in a blur of brightly colored coats and hats. “Do you remember my friend Stan? We were in the math club together.” “Sure, I remember him.” He was the boy who’d left suddenly one day, and Judy wouldn’t tell Marion what was wrong. “I was worried he’d hurt you in some way, attacked you.” “Oh, no, there was no threat of that.” “Then what?” “He’d made a big deal of wanting to come over and do our algebra homework together, but he was top of the class in algebra, it didn’t make any sense. Then I remembered prom was coming up soon, and I started wondering if maybe he was going to ask me to it, and this way he could do so in private. As we were studying at the dining room table, I had this whole movie playing in my head: going to you for advice, shopping for a dress together, Stan and I walking arm in arm into the school gym, everyone saying what a nice couple we made. Maybe a kiss at the end of the night.” She paused. “At one point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he didn’t come back after a while, I went upstairs and found him staring into your room through your cracked door. Watching you as you changed clothes.” Marion involuntarily crossed her arms over her chest, as if the boy were there now. “That’s awful.” “He ran out of the house when I caught him, and then I resigned from the math club for good. I don’t know why I even bothered.” “It’s not your fault, what happened.” Marion wished she could throttle Stan. At the same time, she was amazed and gratified that Judy would have asked for her advice on a prom gown. “He’s the one who should have resigned, not you.” “For a long time, I thought it was your fault.” “He was a creep. There are plenty of them out there.” She was thinking of Dale. “But they’re not all like that. Dad’s not like that.” Judy looked up at the city skyline to the south, which rose high above the tree branches. “There’s something going on with him.” “With Dad? What do you mean?” “I know what | 0 |
32 | The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt | 44 | Tom's dreams that night. Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away -- somewhat as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very strong argument in favor of this idea -- namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the world. He never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in any one's possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had been --------------------------------------------------------- -250- analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars. But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream. "Hello, Huck!" "Hello, yourself." Silence, for a minute. "Tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money. Oh, ain't it awful!" "'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was. Dog'd if I don't, Huck." "What ain't a dream?" "Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was." "Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was! I've had dreams enough all night -- with that patch-eyed Spanish devil going for me all through 'em -- rot him!" --------------------------------------------------------- -251- "No, not rot him. Find him! Track the money!" "Tom, we'll never find him. A feller don't have only one chance for such a pile -- and that one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see him, anyway." "Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway -- and track him out -- to his Number Two." "Number Two -- yes, that's it. I been thinking 'bout that. But I can't make nothing | 1 |
43 | The Turn of the Screw.txt | 50 | "You, miss." "By writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew and niece mad?" "But if they ARE, miss?" "And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming news to be sent him by a governess whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry." Mrs. Grose considered, following the children again. "Yes, he do hate worry. That was the great reason--" "Why those fiends took him in so long? No doubt, though his indifference must have been awful. As I'm not a fiend, at any rate, I shouldn't take him in." My companion, after an instant and for all answer, sat down again and grasped my arm. "Make him at any rate come to you." I stared. "To ME?" I had a sudden fear of what she might do. "'Him'?" "He ought to BE here--he ought to help." I quickly rose, and I think I must have shown her a queerer face than ever yet. "You see me asking him for a visit?" No, with her eyes on my face she evidently couldn't. Instead of it even-- as a woman reads another--she could see what I myself saw: his derision, his amusement, his contempt for the breakdown of my resignation at being left alone and for the fine machinery I had set in motion to attract his attention to my slighted charms. She didn't know--no one knew--how proud I had been to serve him and to stick to our terms; yet she nonetheless took the measure, I think, of the warning I now gave her. "If you should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me--" She was really frightened. "Yes, miss?" "I would leave, on the spot, both him and you." XIII It was all very well to join them, but speaking to them proved quite as much as ever an effort beyond my strength--offered, in close quarters, difficulties as insurmountable as before. This situation continued a month, and with new aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and sharper, of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my pupils. It was not, I am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere infernal imagination: it was absolutely traceable that they were aware of my predicament and that this strange relation made, in a manner, for a long time, the air in which we moved. I don't mean that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything vulgar, for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the other hand, that the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other--for, like all bangs, it was something | 1 |
36 | The House of the Seven Gables.txt | 51 | know it, to my cost! My wife kept a cent-shop three months, and lost five dollars on her outlay." "Poor business!" responded Dixey, in a tone as if he were shaking his head,--"poor business." For some reason or other, not very easy to analyze, there had hardly been so bitter a pang in all her previous misery about the matter as what thrilled Hepzibah's heart on overhearing the above conversation. The testimony in regard to her scowl was frightfully important; it seemed to hold up her image wholly relieved from the false light of her self-partialities, and so hideous that she dared not look at it. She was absurdly hurt, moreover, by the slight and idle effect that her setting up shop--an event of such breathless interest to herself--appeared to have upon the public, of which these two men were the nearest representatives. A glance; a passing word or two; a coarse laugh; and she was doubtless forgotten before they turned the corner. They cared nothing for her dignity, and just as little for her degradation. Then, also, the augury of ill-success, uttered from the sure wisdom of experience, fell upon her half-dead hope like a clod into a grave. The man's wife had already tried the same experiment, and failed! How could the born, lady the recluse of half a lifetime, utterly unpractised in the world, at sixty years of age,--how could she ever dream of succeeding, when the hard, vulgar, keen, busy, hackneyed New England woman had lost five dollars on her little outlay! Success presented itself as an impossibility, and the hope of it as a wild hallucination. Some malevolent spirit, doing his utmost to drive Hepzibah mad, unrolled before her imagination a kind of panorama, representing the great thoroughfare of a city all astir with customers. So many and so magnificent shops as there were! Groceries, toy-shops, drygoods stores, with their immense panes of plate-glass, their gorgeous fixtures, their vast and complete assortments of merchandise, in which fortunes had been invested; and those noble mirrors at the farther end of each establishment, doubling all this wealth by a brightly burnished vista of unrealities! On one side of the street this splendid bazaar, with a multitude of perfumed and glossy salesmen, smirking, smiling, bowing, and measuring out the goods. On the other, the dusky old House of the Seven Gables, with the antiquated shop-window under its projecting story, and Hepzibah herself, in a gown of rusty black silk, behind the counter, scowling at the world as it went by! This mighty contrast thrust itself forward as a fair expression of the odds against which she was to begin her struggle for a subsistence. Success? Preposterous! She would never think of it again! The house might just as well be buried in an eternal fog while all other houses had the sunshine on them; for not a foot would ever cross the threshold, nor a hand so much as try the door! But, at this instant, the shop-bell, right over her head, tinkled as if it were bewitched. The old | 1 |
93 | The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt | 5 | rabbits and held them up for the cheering crowd. Brandon moved from the beer table to stand next to Natalie, a frown on his face and a beer glass in his hand. He stretched out to touch her as she edged closer to Finn Toomey. Natalie launched herself at Finn, kissing him as hard as she could. Then she turned to Brandon, her face furious. ‘Just go away, Brandon.’ Brandon tried again. ‘Natalie?’ ‘I told you. We’re done.’ She pulled the ring from her finger and pushed it into his hand. ‘There. Now go away.’ ‘Wait…’ She ignored him, stood on tiptoes and snogged Finn once more. Brandon glanced around to see who was looking. Those who had noticed shifted away and went back to their business. Brandon slunk off through the crowd. Finn extracted himself from the kiss, confused. All attention was on Josie now: she held out another present and the applause rang out as Florence unwrapped a musical mobile in a rainbow design. Neil whispered into Lin’s ear. ‘I thought George’s granddaughter was going to marry that bloke. Did they just split up?’ ‘I’m sure he deserved what he got.’ Lin wrinkled her nose. She inhaled aftershave, not his usual brand, a new one. Neil smelled of something delicious that a man would wear when he wanted to impress a woman, a warm spicy scent that made Lin want to kiss him. She met his eyes and her own were small with contempt. ‘I expect Brandon’s been cheating,’ she said simply. ‘All men who cheat are pigs.’ Then she turned on her heel and, without another word, she tottered away, heading towards the village green, hurrying home as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. She didn’t want to talk to Neil now. She wasn’t sure what to say. She had no idea how she’d ever be able to talk to him about the affair with Carole Frost. Perhaps it was better just to say nothing at all right now. She’d go home, lie down, sober up and her head would clear. Then she’d know what to do. Lin was determined to find out the facts. She needed to be calm, lucid and assertive, to be sure about what was going on. She’d ask straight questions, demand honest answers. And once she knew the truth, she’d tell her cheating husband of fifty years exactly what she thought of him. 29 September was the warmest month of the year, the sun beating down so hard in Middleton Ferris that only Tina Gilchrist stayed outside during the fierce noonday heat. She was working in her allotment, watering vegetables in the sweltering sunlight with a hose pipe while everyone else did their best to stay cool. The Toomeys lazed on their barge, Devlin and Finn swimming in the river, Fergal cooking Joe Grey on the stove or dozing below deck. Gerald Harris abandoned the weeds in his garden to watch cricket on TV. Dangerous Dave retreated to the cool interior of his garage; he was busier than ever, and the money | 0 |
45 | Things Fall Apart.txt | 74 | in her father's exile and became one of the most beautiful girls in Mbanta. She was called Crystal of Beauty, as her mother had been called in her youth. The young ailing girl who had caused her mother so much heartache had been transformed, almost overnight, into a healthy, buoyant maiden. She had, it was true, her moments of depression when she would snap at everybody like an angry dog. These moods descended on her suddenly and for no apparent reason. But they were very rare and short-lived. As long as they lasted, she could bear no other person but her father. Many young men and prosperous middle-aged men of Mbanta came to marry her. But she refused them all, because her father had called her one evening and said to her: "There are many good and prosperous people here, but I shall be happy if you marry in Umuofia when we return home." That was all he had said. But Ezinma had seen clearly all the thought and hidden meaning behind the few words. And she had agreed. "Your half-sister, Obiageli, will not understand me," Okonkwo said. "But you can explain to her." Although they were almost the same age, Ezinma wielded a strong influence over her half-sister. She explained to her why they should not marry yet, and she agreed also. And so the two of them refused every offer of marriage in Mbanta. "I wish she were a boy," Okonkwo thought within himself. She understood things so perfectly. Who else among his children could have read his thoughts so well? With two beautiful grown-up daughters his return to Umuofia would attract considerable attention. His future sons-in-law would be men of authority in the clan. The poor and unknown would not dare to come forth. Umuofia had indeed changed during the seven years Okonkwo had been in exile. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. The white missionary was very proud of him and he was one of the first men in Umuofia to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion, or Holy Feast as it was called in Ibo. Ogbuefi Ugonna had thought of the Feast in terms of eating and drinking, only more holy than the village variety. He had therefore put his drinking-horn into his goatskin bag for the occasion. But apart from the church, the white men had also brought a government. They had built a court where the District Commissioner judged cases in ignorance. He had court messengers who brought men to him for trial. Many of these messengers came from Umuru on the bank of the Great River, where the white men first came many years before and where they had built the centre of their religion and trade and government. These court messengers were greatly hated in | 1 |
73 | Kika-Hatzopoulou-Threads-That-Bi.txt | 52 | more to the point than a sharpshooter. It was an admirable quality, one that Io lacked herself, but it made for uneasy conversations. Io didn’t miss the embarrassed stare of the campaign managers or the concerned frown that descended on Saint-Yves’s brow. Aris, for his part, shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Io couldn’t see his full reaction because she didn’t dare look into his face. But she heard alarm in his voice, or perhaps trepidation. “Luc tasked me with watching the House of Nine,” the phobos-born replied. “The Muses refused to meet with both the Commissioner and the Mayor, even after strict orders from the Agora to assist on the Silts murders—but they let a cutter and a gang member into their House, their first guests in months? I had to find out who they were and what the Nine told them, so I followed them. They realized and cornered me.” “Did you use your powers on them?” asked Thais, her tone dripping with danger. “The thug would have roughed me up, if not worse! Am I not allowed to defend myself now?” Thais leveled a finger at him. “You were stalking them—I’d say you deserved a good roughing-up. We are conduits of the divine, not gods ourselves. Other-born powers are ours to use, to control, and to limit. We will be harshly judged, and we, more than anyone else, do not want to be found lacking.” “Justice is the virtue of great souls,” Hanne said gravely as if quoting someone. The campaign manager looked like ice cream coated in cherry syrup: her skin pale white, her long hair an artificial crimson color, cascading in waves over her naked shoulders. Calmly, Saint-Yves added, “You could have explained the situation. Have you considered that Io might have shared her information if you had not terrified the shit out of her?” “Apologize,” Thais ordered the phobos-born. “And mean it.” Io felt as if the conversation didn’t involve her at all. As if this was a performance and she a spectator, observing but never truly participating. And like in the theater, there was subtext beneath the layers of drama, delivered almost too fast to keep track of: The Nine had been refusing visitors, even after a mandate from the Agora. Lefteriou thought of Edei as a thug, which confirmed he must be a rare upper-class other-born. And finally, the Initiative was a damned cult. Conduits of the divine, control and limit, justice and great souls: this was some top-quality bullshit. Io had heard roughly the same drivel from Other-Born Separatists like Edei’s father, or bougie assholes like Thomas Mutton and his For the Other scheme. Io was peripherally aware of Lefteriou turning to her. She heard him say, “I am sorry. I overstepped, on both accounts.” There was a long pause, during which Io supposed she was expected to accept the apology, but she was too electrified by fear to respond. Lefteriou grumbled, “See? She won’t even look me in the eye. Doesn’t matter how I behave. I’ll always be a villain to them.” Next | 0 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 31 | clarified, explaining that we needed to intercept drones electronically. Some could fly in excess of 100 mph, too fast to shoot down with a gun. Trump talked over me, uninterested in the details. “No, no, no, just shoot ’em down.” We gave up. Even the distraction proved counterproductive. No more than two weeks passed before the president was at it again, looking for ways to mix politics with disaster response. The secretary flew to California in mid-August in response to the Carr Fire, the sixth most destructive wildfire in state history, and briefed the president on the damage and the urgent need for a federal response. Trump didn’t see tragedy. He saw revenge. California’s governor Jerry Brown was a vocal critic of the president, and Trump wanted him to feel the pain. He told the secretary not to release FEMA aid to the state’s wildfire victims. She was taken aback and pretended the conversation hadn’t happened. The president wouldn’t relent. When FEMA updated him again, he went on a harangue about how much he hated California Democrats like Jerry Brown and said not to release assistance grants. Afterward, I called the FEMA administrator and told him not to take the president’s venting as a direct order. If the White House sent a written directive, then we’d have a problem, but until then, it was just the ravings of an angry man. When Trump later refused to approve a disaster declaration for California—a decision only a president can make—we enlisted the help of House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy to change Trump’s mind. “Why the fuck did it take me to do this?” McCarthy complained to Kirstjen and me on a phone call. “What’s his problem?” I’d given up on answering the question because Trump wasn’t fixable. That much was clear. Knowing that our efforts to manage the man were faltering, the real dilemma was what to do next. Before the series of disaster response trips in August, I’d had drinks on a rainy night with a group of close friends, many of whom I hadn’t seen in months because of the 24/7 nature of my job. The gathering at a downtown D.C. bar was supposed to be relaxing. It wasn’t. A woman in our group whom I’d known for ten years lashed out, asking why I voted for Donald Trump. “I didn’t,” I told her. “I actually opposed his election.” “So why did you go in to serve him?” “I didn’t go in to serve him. I went in to serve you,” I told her irritably, listing off the ways DHS protected the country. “Oh, like ripping kids at the border away from their moms?” The comment set me off. I told her I wasn’t in charge of immigration at DHS, opposed the policy so directly that hard-liners accused me of tipping off the media, and cowrote the executive order to end it for good. “If you’re blaming someone for the Trump presidency,” I pointed out, “there are sixty-three million fucking people ahead of me. They voted for him. I didn’t. At least | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 51 | of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car. The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more. "Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'm takin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure 'm." Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front. "All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over for a thousand, cold cash." His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle. "How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded. "A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help me." "That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead." The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--" "It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon- keeper. "Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added. Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate. There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not | 1 |
69 | In the Lives of Puppets.txt | 75 | the android blinked slowly. Nurse Ratched said, “It appears his eyes are working. Success.” The android turned his head to look at them, mouth open, no sound coming out. He sat up, a great mechanical groan coming from deep within him. He turned on the table, his feet settling down on the floor. He raised his hand in front of him, turning it back and forth, staring at the wood encasing the bones of metal and the wiring underneath. “Wh-wh-wh … what. Wh-what. Have you. D-done. To me?” It was the same voice from the Scrap Yards, deep and guttural. Pointed and sharp. Angry, borderline furious, or so Vic thought. Vic’s own mind was short-circuiting. Here was what he’d worked for. Here was what he’d hoped for. Here, at last. A face, alive. Just like his father’s. Just like his own. And he couldn’t bring himself to look at it for long, glancing at the machine, then away, back, and then away again. Nurse Ratched rolled forward. “We healed you,” she said, words appearing on her screen that read YOU’RE ALIVE! CONGRATULATIONS! “You were found in a pile of rubble. We put you back together again.” The android dropped his hands. His face twisted into a dark scowl. “T-ttogether.” “Yes,” Nurse Ratched said. “You will find that certain parts needed to be replaced. I am going to run a diagnostic check. Please follow along with my instructions. Raise your right hand.” The android said, “My … m-my chest. What have you d-done t-to my chest? It b-b-burns.” His hand shook as he rubbed the skin above the heart. “We had to replace your power source,” Nurse Ratched said. “Your old one was dead. Can you tell us your make and model? Your designation? You still have not raised your right hand as I instructed. How disappointing. You need to listen to your mother. That is me. I am your mother.” The android grimaced, baring his square teeth. “I … wh-who are you. Who are y-you? Who are you?” He tried to stand. His metal right leg held his weight, but the wooden left buckled. He stumbled forward. “Ahh!” Rambo cried. “He’s attacking! I’m brave. I’m so brave!” He rolled forward, banging the broom against the android’s knees. “Die, murderous revenge machine, die!” “S-s-stop that,” the android growled. He tried to swat at the broom, but his center of gravity was off, and he missed, almost falling on top of Rambo. He managed to catch himself at the last moment, Rambo moving deftly between his feet, the broom knocking against the android’s thighs. “Do not touch Rambo,” Nurse Ratched said, one of her tentacles whipping dangerously in the air. “If you do, you will find it to be rather shocking. Because I will shock you. That was another pun. They do not get old no matter how many times I say them.” “Wh-where am I?” the android snapped. “What is this p-place?” “You are in the laboratory of the great inventor Victor Lawson,” Nurse Ratched said, the tip of her tentacle crackling. “And | 0 |
91 | The-One.txt | 38 | against her. He’s never going to let her be free of this. Which leaves her no choice but to free herself. Chapter 44 Sloane looks up from the couch when Ethan walks into the living room. “Thanks for coming home.” He sinks into one of the costly designer armchairs Sloane ordered at the same time as their barstools. “You’re welcome.” The security company who serviced Carr’s San Juan Island home told Jonah they’d send the requested footage over first thing tomorrow morning. Jonah had already gone home when Ethan got Sloane’s text saying they needed to talk. The gas fireplace flickers in the dimly lit room. Sloane is still wearing her scrubs and refills her wine glass from the opened bottle on the coffee table. “Wine?” “No, thanks.” Ethan watches her lift her glass to her lips, preparing himself for his wife to confess her role in murdering Chelsea. She returns her glass to the coffee table before meeting his eyes. “Brody snuck into our garage yesterday and attacked me. Before your mother came.” “What?” He stands from the uncomfortable chair, scanning Sloane’s face and arms for a sign of injury from Carr’s attack. He balls his hands into fists, imagining that sadistic prick inside his garage, coming at his wife. “He threatened to make it look like I conspired with him to kill Chelsea if I didn’t help him.” She scoots toward him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Because your mother showed up, then you came at me guns blazing at dinner. “I thought I had it handled.” Ethan paces in front of the fireplace. Thinking about that murdering bastard breaking into his house makes his skin crawl. “Brody’s crazy, Ethan. Delusional. Dangerous. He’s never going to let me be free of this. I thought about what you said earlier, and I want to come forward about our affair.” Ethan stops. “We’ll say you didn’t know,” Sloane continues. “That I just told you tonight, and you advised me to make a statement in the morning.” Ethan runs his hand down the back of his head. “I can’t see any other way out.” Sloane glances at her purse lying atop the coffee table beside the wine. “And believe me, I’ve thought of everything. This is the only way to keep Brody from having a hold on me. I know it’ll make me a suspect, at least for a while, but there’s no way they can prove I helped Brody kill his wife. Because I didn’t.” He starts pacing again, not sure of what to say. If Jonah finds out Ethan knew about Sloane’s affair, he could lose his job. His entire career. What had been his purpose in life. “Will you go with me? Help me?” He stares at the floor, remembering what Evelyn told him when they met for coffee. And the firefighter’s account of Sloane shouting at the nurse not to give Narcan. “Ethan!” Sloane stands from the couch. “Will you? And can you please stand still?” He spins toward her. “No! No, I can’t. I talked to Evelyn. I | 0 |
86 | Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt | 73 | six-figure deposit on Tribeca Rooftop. He would look so out of place among the wedding guests. He’d probably show up in jeans, a ballcap, and that faded gray navy T-shirt. He would crush her ex in an arm-wrestling match, too. Why did that make her feel better enough to continue? “In short, yes, I do have some money. If I was simply going back to New York, I could afford to find an apartment and live comfortably for a few months. But that is not what I want to do.” The kick of adrenaline in her bloodstream felt good. It had been a long time. Or maybe while getting lit to mourn the loss of everything she’d worked for, she’d accidentally numbed her ambition, too. Right now, in this moment, she had it back. She was the woman who used to look down at rows of analysts from her glass office and demand they eat their competition’s balls for breakfast. “I want to return better than ever. I want my former colleagues to realize they made a mistake . . .” “You want to rub it in their faces,” Corinne supplied. “Maybe a little,” Natalie admitted. “I might have made one huge mistake, but I know if Morrison Talbot the Third had made that bad call instead of me, excuses would have been made. He probably would have been given a promotion for being a risk-taker. They met in secret and voted to oust me. My partners. My fiancé.” She closed her eyes briefly to beat back the memory of her shock. Betrayal. “If you were me, Mother, you would want a shot to go back and prove yourself.” Corinne stared at her for several beats. “Perhaps I would.” Natalie released a breath. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the money to loan you,” Corinne continued, her face deepening ever so slightly with color. “As you are aware, the vineyard has been declining in profitability. With your brother’s unexpected help, we’re turning it around, but it could be years before we’re back in the black. All I have is this house, Natalie.” “My trust fund,” Natalie said firmly, forcing it out into the open. “I’m asking for my trust fund to be released.” “My, times have changed,” Corinne said with a laugh. “When you graduated from Cornell, what was it that you said at your postceremony dinner? You would never take a dime from us as long as you lived?” “I’m thirty years old now. Please don’t throw something in my face that I said when I was twenty-two.” Corinne sighed and refolded her hands in her lap. “You are well aware of the terms of your trust fund, Natalie. Your father might be racing cars in Italy and parading around with women half his age like a fool, but he set forth the language of the trust and as far as the bank is concerned, he’s still in control.” Natalie lunged to her feet. “The language in that contract is archaic. How can it even be legal in this day and age? There | 0 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 88 | her footsteps had disappeared. CHAPTER 22 - THE HASTENING SALOON From that day Bond's recovery was rapid. He sat up in bed and wrote his report to M. He made light of what he still considered amateurish behaviour on the part of Vesper. By juggling with the emphasis, he made the kidnapping sound much more Machiavellian than it had been. He praised Vesper's coolness and composure throughout the whole episode without saying that he had found some of her actions unaccountable. Every day Vesper came to see him and he looked forward to these visits with excitement. She talked happily of her adventures of the day before, her explorations down the coast and the restaurants where she had eaten. She had made friends with the chief of police and with one of the directors of the Casino and it was they who took her out in the evening and occasionally lent her a car during the day. She kept an eye on the repairs to the Bentley which had been towed down to coachbuilders at Rouen, and she even arranged for some new clothes to be sent out from Bond's London flat. Nothing survived from his original wardrobe. Every stitch had been cut to ribbons in the search for the forty million francs. The Le Chiffre affair was never mentioned between them. She occasionally told Bond amusing stories of Head of S's office. She had apparently transferred there from the WRNS. And he told her of some of his adventures in the Service. He found he could speak to her easily and he was surprised. With most women his manner was a mixture of taciturnity and passion. The lengthy approaches to a seduction bored him almost as much as the subsequent mess of disentanglement. He found something grisly in the inevitability of the pattern of each affair. The conventional parabola - sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness - was to him shameful and hypocritical. Even more he shunned the mise en scne for each of these acts in the play - the meeting at a party, the restaurant, the taxi, his flat, her flat, then the week-end by the sea, then the flats again, then the furtive alibis and the final angry farewell on some doorstep in the rain. But with Vesper there could be none of this. In the dull room and the boredom of his treatment her presence was each day an oasis of pleasure, something to look forward to. In their talk there was nothing but companionship with a distant undertone of passion. In the background there was the unspoken zest of the promise which, in due course and in their own time, would be met. Over all there brooded the shadow of his injuries and the tantalus of their slow healing. Whether Bond liked it or not, the branch had already escaped his knife and was ready to | 1 |
55 | Blowback.txt | 12 | been successful: Republican localities are getting redder and Democratic localities are getting bluer. Think of polarization as the fuel. A CBS News poll found that a majority of both Democrats and Republicans no longer described each other as “political opponents” but as “enemies.” It’s so bad that these Americans see each other as “the biggest threat” to their way of life—more than foreign countries, military threats, natural disasters, environmental factors, viruses, or economic forces. With moderates and independents fleeing the two major parties, the problem has gotten worse. What is causing higher polarization? The obvious culprit is social media. Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt has cataloged it better than anyone. “The dart guns of social media give more power and voice to the political extremes while reducing the power and voice of the moderate majority,” Haidt wrote in The Atlantic. He pointed to research which found that people on the far-left and far-right fringes—who make up only slivers of the population (8 percent and 6 percent, respectively)—are the most prolific “sharers” on social media. The two extremes represent the “whitest and richest” parts of the country, “which suggests that America is being torn apart by a battle between two subsets of the elite who are not representative of the broader society,” Haidt explained. But I believe there is something more troubling. Americans aren’t just silencing each other. They are choosing to silence themselves. U.S. voters are afraid to share their beliefs because of reprisal attacks or getting socially canceled—or even fired from their jobs. A groundbreaking study by nonpartisan think tank Populace Insights found that respondents often presented to others very different views than they actually held about hot-button topics. “The pressure to misrepresent our private views—to offer answers on politically and socially sensitive questions that are out of sync with our true beliefs—is pervasive in society today,” the report concluded. “Across all demographics every subgroup had multiple issues with at least a double-digit gap between public and private opinion.” Political independents were “the least comfortable sharing their private views in public.” So what does self-censorship mean for truth? Taken together, these findings are bad news for democracy. Independents represent the largest voting bloc in the United States. If they are increasingly afraid to share their views, or speak up at all, it has ominous implications for a free and open society. If we accept John Stuart Mill’s way of thinking, it means the broader marketplace of ideas will become less competitive. The result is there will be fewer opportunities for “truth” and “error” to collide, and we will be more liable to stumble into civic danger and national decline. We need to make it easier to dissent by making democracy competitive again. When I speak to student groups around the country, I use an example from economics to describe the situation. The conversation goes the same way almost every time. “How many of you have taken Econ 101?” I ask. Most of the hands go up. “And how many of you remember supply and demand curves?” The hands stay up. “What do | 0 |
41 | The Secret Garden.txt | 12 | flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright. "What did he do that for?" asked Mary. "He's made up his mind to make friends with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee." "To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up. "Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?" And she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle. "Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th' moor." "Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry. "Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him." Mary would have liked to ask some more questions. She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden. But just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and had other things to do. "He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him. "He has flown into the orchard--he has flown across the other wall--into the garden where there is no door!" "He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there. If he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there." "Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?" Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig. "There was ten year' ago," he mumbled. "I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where is the green door? There must be a door somewhere." Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him. "There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said. "No door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as any one can find, an' none as is any one's business. Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose where it's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work. Get you gone an' play you. I've no more time." And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by. CHAPTER V THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others. Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room | 1 |
18 | Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt | 40 | sped on. Because of this topological awkwardness Damogran has always remained a deserted planet. This is why the Imperial Galactic Government chose Damogran for the Heart of Gold project, because it was so deserted and the Heart of Gold was so secret. The boat zipped and skipped across the sea, the sea that lay between the main islands of the only archipelago of any useful size on the whole planet. Zaphod Beeblebrox was on his way from the tiny spaceport on Easter Island (the name was an entirely meaningless coincidence - in Galacticspeke, easter means small flat and light brown) to the Heart of Gold island, which by another meaningless coincidence was called France. One of the side effects of work on the Heart of Gold was a whole string of pretty meaningless coincidences. But it was not in any way a coincidence that today, the day of culmination of the project, the great day of unveiling, the day that the Heart of Gold was finally to be introduced to a marvelling Galaxy, was also a great day of culmination for Zaphod Beeblebrox. It was for the sake of this day that he had first decided to run for the Presidency, a decision which had sent waves of astonishment throughout the Imperial Galaxy - Zaphod Beeblebrox? President? Not the Zaphod Beeblebrox? Not the President? Many had seen it as a clinching proof that the whole of known creation had finally gone bananas. Zaphod grinned and gave the boat an extra kick of speed. Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippy, good timer, (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch. President? No one had gone bananas, not in that way at least. Only six people in the entire Galaxy understood the principle on which the Galaxy was governed, and they knew that once Zaphod Beeblebrox had announced his intention to run as President it was more or less a fait accompli: he was the ideal Presidency fodder*. What they completely failed to understand was why Zaphod was doing it. He banked sharply, shooting a wild wall of water at the sun. Today was the day; today was the day when they would realize what Zaphod had been up to. Today was what Zaphod Beeblebrox's Presidency was all about. Today was also his two hundredth birthday, but that was just another meaningless coincidence. As he skipped his boat across the seas of Damogran he smiled quietly to himself about what a wonderful exciting day it was going to be. He relaxed and spread his two arms lazily across the seat back. He steered with an extra arm he'd recently fitted just beneath his right one to help improve his ski-boxing. "Hey," he cooed to himself, "you're a real cool boy you." But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle. The island of France was about twenty miles long, five miles across the middle, sandy and crescent shaped. In fact it seemed to exist not so much as an island in its own right | 1 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 36 | up and get her the hell out of there—but in all the hubbub of, ya know, the brain surgery, I’d forgotten. He wasn’t still holding her captive in there, was he? I thought about asking. But that’s when he turned to me, all friendly and breathless, and said, “Made it!” The way a nice person might talk to another nice person. I kept my eyes down and edged away. Really, pal? You think you can just wildly bad-mouth your one-night stands and also get to be a normal member of society? Not on my watch, buddy. I wasn’t going to be complicit in this nice-guy gaslighting. Also: What the hell? What adult just sprints through a building lobby willy-nilly like that? What if he’d slammed into me? What if I’d hit my head and the plug in my skull had popped like a champagne cork—and then it was right back to the hospital? I wasn’t used to feeling fragile. And I definitely didn’t like it. So I glared at him, like, Thanks a lot for reminding me. I could deduce that he was smiling, even despite his puzzle-piece face. Those big teeth were pretty unmistakable. How dare he? It was frustrating beyond measure to look straight at a person and have no idea what he looked like. Especially since I really might have to pick him out of a lineup someday. One of the tips Dr. Nicole had given me for coping with the sudden lack of faces in the world was to notice other things about people. Most of us used faces by default, she’d explained, but there were plenty of other details to notice. Height. Body shape. Hair. Gait. “Gait?” I’d said, like that was a stretch. “Everybody’s walk is a little different, once you start noticing,” Dr. Nicole said, doubling down. So I tried it on the Weasel. What did he have besides a face? But I guess I wasn’t very good at this yet. All that really stood out was the bowling jacket—which had the name Joe embroidered vintage style across the chest. The rest? Shaggy hair falling aggressively over his forehead. General tallness. Thick-framed gray hipster glasses. And I don’t know what else. Arms and legs, I guess. Shoulders? Feet? This was hard. Normally, in elevator situations with strangers, even if you accidentally talk at the start, you settle back into standard elevator behavior pretty fast: eyes averted, quiet, as much space as possible between bodies. But I could feel the Weasel breaking the rules. Standing too close. Trying to make eye contact. Oh god. Had he thought I was checking him out just now? I felt a sting of humiliation. That was scientific research, damn it! I dropped my eyes straight to the floor and edged even farther away. Unmistakable we-don’t-know-each-other body language. But maybe he didn’t speak that language? I could feel him studying me as we rose to the next floor. “Great sweatpants,” he said then, his voice still at maximum friendliness. “Thank you,” I replied. Nice and curt. “Are they comfortable?” What? Who | 0 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 61 | common. They are devils of the Pit! I shall not remain alone with them. I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place. And then away for home! Away to the quickest and nearest train! Away from the cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet! At least God's mercy is better than that of those monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep, as a man. Goodbye, all. Mina! CHAPTER 5 LETTER FROM MISS MINA MURRAY TO MISS LUCY WESTENRA 9 May. My dearest Lucy, Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have been practicing shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practicing very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people, but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do, interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we, I mean Jonathan and I, shall ever see them together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Goodbye. Your loving Mina Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man.??? LETTER, LUCY WESTENRA TO MINA MURRAY 17, Chatham Street Wednesday My dearest Mina, | 1 |
33 | The Age of Innocence.txt | 55 | visit: he only wished it had come sooner, and spared him a certain waste of emotion. As he went out into the wintry night, New York again became vast and imminent, and May Welland the loveliest woman in it. He turned into his florist's to send her the daily box of lilies-of-the-valley which, to his confusion, he found he had forgotten that morning. As he wrote a word on his card and waited for an envelope he glanced about the embowered shop, and his eye lit on a cluster of yellow roses. He had never seen any as sun-golden before, and his first impulse was to send them to May instead of the lilies. But they did not look like her--there was something too rich, too strong, in their fiery beauty. In a sudden revulsion of mood, and almost without knowing what he did, he signed to the florist to lay the roses in another long box, and slipped his card into a second envelope, on which he wrote the name of the Countess Olenska; then, just as he was turning away, he drew the card out again, and left the empty envelope on the box. "They'll go at once?" he enquired, pointing to the roses. The florist assured him that they would. X. The next day he persuaded May to escape for a walk in the Park after luncheon. As was the custom in old-fashioned Episcopalian New York, she usually accompanied her parents to church on Sunday afternoons; but Mrs. Welland condoned her truancy, having that very morning won her over to the necessity of a long engagement, with time to prepare a hand-embroidered trousseau containing the proper number of dozens. The day was delectable. The bare vaulting of trees along the Mall was ceiled with lapis lazuli, and arched above snow that shone like splintered crystals. It was the weather to call out May's radiance, and she burned like a young maple in the frost. Archer was proud of the glances turned on her, and the simple joy of possessorship cleared away his underlying perplexities. "It's so delicious--waking every morning to smell lilies-of-the-valley in one's room!" she said. "Yesterday they came late. I hadn't time in the morning--" "But your remembering each day to send them makes me love them so much more than if you'd given a standing order, and they came every morning on the minute, like one's music-teacher--as I know Gertrude Lefferts's did, for instance, when she and Lawrence were engaged." "Ah--they would!" laughed Archer, amused at her keenness. He looked sideways at her fruit-like cheek and felt rich and secure enough to add: "When I sent your lilies yesterday afternoon I saw some rather gorgeous yellow roses and packed them off to Madame Olenska. Was that right?" "How dear of you! Anything of that kind delights her. It's odd she didn't mention it: she lunched with us today, and spoke of Mr. Beaufort's having sent her wonderful orchids, and cousin Henry van der Luyden a whole hamper of carnations from Skuytercliff. She seems so surprised to | 1 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 65 | “You don’t understand. You can’t understand what it was like in this place. It wasn’t there, not on the surface of things. It was...” She tried to find the words. “It was underneath everything.” “And what about our fine lady mistress? Did she notice girls coming and going? Or was she as dense as you?” Mrs. King’s face closed up. “Winnie?” she said. Winnie ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know—I’ve never known. It’s... She was...” “What?” “She was always friends with them. With the girls in the house.” “Friends?” “Yes, friends.” Winnie reached for Mrs. King. “You remember what it was like up there, in the schoolroom, before Madam came out. Just the tutors, and the governesses, and the dance mistress. Mr. de Vries let her make friends below stairs.” She closed her eyes again. “I thought it was such a kindness,” she whispered. “Friends?” said Mrs. Bone. Winnie nodded, voice strained. “It seemed...natural. That a girl would want to make friends with other girls. To learn about their lives. Understand where they came from. Share a little schooling.” “Earn them an afternoon off,” said Mrs. King quietly. “And those girls took liberties. Grew cheeky. Felt they were favored. I always chalked it up to a lapse in discipline. The master allowing indulgences, just to favor Miss de Vries.” Mrs. Bone dragged her gaze back from the house. “Clever, really. A neat way to put the girls at ease. I daresay he needed them to be comfortable upstairs.” Mrs. Bone felt a shudder pass through her. “Does Miss de Vries know?” Winnie simply shook her head. “It’s like I said. You can’t...you can’t tell. It’s not spoken of.” “Who was the man, then? The man in the gray coat.” “I never found out.” “Never asked, you mean.” “He would have been a gentleman of means,” said Mrs. King. “He would have paid well for the visit.” “Danny didn’t need more money.” “Money isn’t everything,” said Mrs. King. “It isn’t influence.” Mrs. Bone knew that. She understood patronage. A corkscrew chain of favors. Tastes, pleasures, likes, fancies. Powders, perfumes, poppies. And in the night, behind rich drapes, with oil lamps: girls. Dancing girls, chorus girls, waifs and strays. You had to know where to find them, how to train them, how to get rid of them. Mrs. Bone didn’t just avoid that business. She took in plenty of those girls, over the years. All those Janes. She suddenly addressed Mrs. King. “No one ever came for you, did they?” Winnie straightened, her eyes fierce. “Never. I shared a room with her the whole time. I wouldn’t have let them. I looked after you.” There was something heated, something desperate, in the way she said it. Mrs. King said, voice grave. “And you, Winnie? You were all right?” Winnie’s eyes flickered back and forth. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Yes, I was fine.” “What about our fine lady duchess?” said Mrs. Bone, quietly. “Hephzibah?” said Mrs. King. Her eyes widened at that, shocked. It was rare to ever see that look upon | 0 |
20 | Jane Eyre.txt | 50 | i n v o l u n t a r i l y w a n d e r e d t o t h e g r a y c h u r c h - t o w e r n e a r t h e g a t e s , , a n d I a s k e d , " I s h e w i t h D a m e r d e R o c h e s t e r , s h a r i n g t h e s h e l t e r o f h i s n a r r o w m a r b l e h o u s e ? " S o m e a n s w e r m u s t b e h a d t o t h e s e q u e s t i o n s . I c o u l d f i n d i t n o w h e r e b u t a t t h e i n n , a n d t h i t h e r e r e l o n g I r e t u r n e d . T h e h o s t h i m s e l f b r o u g h t m y b r e a k f a s t i n t o t h e p a r l o r . I r e q u e s t e d h i m t o s h u t t h e d o o r a n d s i t d o w n : I h a d s o m e q u e s t i o n s t o a s k h i m . B u t w h e n h e c o m p l i e d , I s c a r c e l y k n e w h o w t o b e g i n , s u c h h o r r o r h a d I o f t h e p o s s i b l e a n s w e r s . A n d y e t t h e s p e c t a c l e o f d e s o l a t i o n I h a d j u s t l e f t p r e p a r e d m e i n a m e a s u r e f o r a t a l e o f m i s e r y . T h e h o s t w a s a r e s p e c t a b l e - l o o k i n g m i d d l e - a g e d m a n . " Y o u k n o w T h o r n f i e l d H a l l , o f c o u r s e ? " I m a n a g e d t o s a y a t l a s t . " Y e s , m a ' a m ; I l i v e d t h e r e o n c e . " " D i d y o u ? " N o t i n m y t i m e , I t h o u g h t ; y o u a r e a s t r a n g e r t o m e . " I w a s t h e l a t e M r . R o c h e s t e r ' s b u t l e r , " h e a d d e d . T h e l a t e ! I s e e m e d t o h a v e r e c e i v e d w i t h f u l l f o r c e t h e b l o w I h a d b e e n t r y i n g t o e v a d e . " T h e l a t e ! " I g a s p e d . " I s h e d e a d ? " " I m e a n t h e p r e s e n t g e n t l e m a n ' s ( M r . E d w a r d ) f a t h e r , " h e e x p l a i n e d . I b r e a t h e d a g a i n m y b l o o d r e s u m e d i t s f l o w . F u l l y a s s u r e d b y t h e s e w o r d s t h a t M r . E d w a r d m y M r . R o c h e s t e r ( G o d b l e s s h i m , w h e r e v e r h e w a s ! ) w a s a t l e a s t a l i v e w a s , i n s h o r t , " t h e p r e s e n t g e n t l e m a n . " G l a d d e n i n g w o r d s ! I t s e e m e d I c o u l d h e a r a l l t h a t w a s t o c o m e w h a t e v e r t h e d i s c l o s u r e s m i g h t b e w i t h c o m p a r a t i v e t r a n q u i l l i t y . S i n c e h e w a s n o t i n t h e g r a v e , I c o u l d b e a r , I t h o u g h t , t o l e a r n t h a t h e w a s a t t h e A n t i p o d e s . " I s M r . R o c h e s t e r l i v i n g a t T h o r n f i e l d H a l l n o w ? " I a s k e d , k n o w i n g , o f c o u r s e , w h a t t h e a n s w e r w o u l d b e , b u t y e t d e s i r o u s o f d e f e r r i n g t h e d i r e c t q u e s t i o n a s t o w h e r e h e r e a l l y w a s . " N o , m a ' a m o h , n o ! N o o n e i s l i v i n g t h e r e . I s u p p o s e y o u a r e a s t r a n g e r i n t h e s e p a r t s , o r y o u w o u l d h a v e h e a r d w h a t h a p p e n e d l a s t a u t u m n . T h o r n f i e l d H a l l i s q u i t e a r u i n ; i t w a s b u r n e d d o w n j u s t a b o u t h a r v e s t - t i m e . A d r e a d f u l c a l a m i t y ! s u c h a n i m m e n s e q u a n t i t y o f v a l u a b l e p r o p e r t y d e s t r o y e d ; h a r d l y a n y o f t h e f u r n i t u r e c o u l d b e s a v e d . T h e f i r e b r o k e o u t a t d e a d o f n i g h t , a n d b e f o r e t h e e n g i n e s a r r i v e d f r o m M i l l c o t e t h e b u i l d i n g w a s o n e m a s s o f f l a m e s . I t w a s a t e r r i b l e s p e c t a c l e ; I w i t n e s s e d i t m y s e l f . " " A t d e a d o f n i g h t ! " I m u t t e r e d . Y e s , t h a t w a s e v e r t h e h o u r o f f a t a l i t y a t T h o r n f i e l d . " W a s i t k n o w n h o w i t o r i g i n a t e d ? " I d e m a n d e d . " T h e y g u e s s e d , m a ' a m t h e y g u e s s e d . I n d e e d , I s h o u l d s a y i t w a s a s c e r t a i n e d b e y o n d a d o u b t . Y o u a r e n o t p e r h a p s a w a r e , " h e c o n t i n u e d , e d g i n g h i s c h a i r a l i t t l e n e a r e r t h e t a b l e , a n d s p e a k i n g l o w , " t h e r e w a s a l a d y a a l u n a t i c , k e p t i n t h e h o u s e ? " | 1 |
61 | Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt | 16 | the axe—oh, only to check that the blade hadn’t dulled, of course. Better lift it a little higher to catch the moonlight. I carried on this way until the last moment, at which point I threw my will against the enchantment with all my might. For the briefest of seconds, I was free. I thought the enchantment was surprised, but probably that was only my fancy. I knew I would not have more than that single second—certainly it would not allow me a second chance—and drove the axe towards my finger. I did it the way Lilja had taught me—fixing my eyes on the target, letting the weight of the axe do the work. My other fingers I folded against the side of the stump, to keep them out of the way. I was half convinced I would miss and drive the axe into my hand—it was not at all the same as aiming for a crack in a log, no matter what I tried to tell myself—but I heard Lilja’s voice in my head, her offhanded good cheer, as if there was nothing in the world more ordinary than what I was doing, and I didn’t hesitate. My aim was true, and suddenly I was gazing at my finger, and it was not at the end of my hand. It was the most curious sensation. At first, I was conscious only of the enchantment leaving me—it felt like falling, that dream sensation in which there is no ground to hit, only wakefulness. I awoke, and then immediately after that, the pain rolled over me in a red wave. I staggered about, fading in and out of consciousness. I threw up at one point, I think. But somehow, when I fully returned to my senses, I found that I had wrenched off my glove and pressed my scarf against the hollow where my third finger had been. I sobbed there in the snow for a moment or two, from relief as much as from the pain. When I’d got that out of my system, I returned to the cottage and bandaged my hand. Then I set off again for the white tree. 3rd December (?) I just read over that again. It sounds irrational, if not insane—but I assure you, my mind was quite clear. Of course I considered waking Wendell. But that would have given me away—the king in the tree would have known I wasn’t enchanted if I arrived with Wendell in tow. As a general rule, the Folk do not take kindly to mortals who find ways to break their enchantments—they see it as an affront to their craftsmanship—and so to travel there in an unenchanted state would have been a risky prospect indeed. I suppose most would ask why I wished to go to the king at all. I cannot answer that adequately, other than by posing more questions. If you give an astronomer a telescope through which he can view an undiscovered galaxy, but allow him only a glimpse of a single star, will he be content? | 0 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 86 | it and offered some explanation for His unnatural state of bachelorhood." Teabing located a huge book and pulled it toward him across the table. The leatherbound edition was poster-sized, like a huge atlas. The cover read: The Gnostic Gospels. Teabing heaved it open, and Langdon and Sophie joined him. Sophie could see it contained photographs of what appeared to be magnified passages of ancient documents-tattered papyrus with handwritten text. She did not recognize the ancient language, but the facing pages bore typed translations. "These are photocopies of the Nag Hammadi and Dead Sea scrolls, which I mentioned earlier," Teabing said. "The earliest Christian records. Troublingly, they do not match up with the gospels in the Bible." Flipping toward the middle of the book, Teabing pointed to a passage. "The Gospel of Philip is always a good place to start." Sophie read the passage: And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on her mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The words surprised Sophie, and yet they hardly seemed conclusive. "It says nothing of marriage." "Au contraire." Teabing smiled, pointing to the first line. "As any Aramaic scholar will tell you, the word companion, in those days, literally meant spouse." Langdon concurred with a nod. Sophie read the first line again. And the companion of the Saviour is Mary Magdalene. Teabing flipped through the book and pointed out several other passages that, to Sophie's surprise, clearly suggested Magdalene and Jesus had a romantic relationship. As she read the passages, Sophie recalled an angry priest who had banged on her grandfather's door when she was a schoolgirl. "Is this the home of Jacques Saunire?" the priest had demanded, glaring down at young Sophie when she pulled open the door. "I want to talk to him about this editorial he wrote." The priest held up a newspaper. Sophie summoned her grandfather, and the two men disappeared into his study and closed the door. My grandfather wrote something in the paper? Sophie immediately ran to the kitchen and flipped through that morning's paper. She found her grandfather's name 166 on an article on the second page. She read it. Sophie didn't understand all of what was said, but it sounded like the French government, under pressure from priests, had agreed to ban an American movie called The Last Temptation of Christ, which was about Jesus having sex with a lady called Mary Magdalene. Her grandfather's article said the Church was arrogant and wrong to ban it. No wonder the priest is mad, Sophie thought. "It's pornography! Sacrilege!" the priest yelled, emerging from the study and storming to the front door. "How can you possibly endorse that! This American Martin Scorsese is a blasphemer, and the Church will permit him no pulpit in France!" The priest slammed the door on his way out. When her grandfather came into the kitchen, he | 1 |
66 | Hell Bent.txt | 16 | the covers piled on top of her. Her defiance and anger were gone, drained away by nightmares of Darlington crushed beneath Black Elm, Hellie fading before her eyes, Babbit Rabbit’s bloodied little body. After Anselm had banished them, Alex had invited Dawes to stay with her and Mercy at the dorm. It was closer to the Hutch than her apartment. But Dawes had wanted to be alone. “I just need some time to myself. I—” Her voice broke. Alex had hesitated, then said, “Someone needs to go to Black Elm.” “The cameras are all clear,” said Dawes. “But I’ll check in on him tomorrow.” Whatever I am will be unleashed upon the world. Alex had seen the circle of protection flicker herself. “You shouldn’t go alone.” “I’ll ask Turner.” Alex knew she should volunteer, but she wasn’t sure she could face Darlington—in any form. Did he know how close they’d come? He’d been there. He’d saved her yet again, and sacrificed his chance at freedom. She wasn’t ready to look him in the eye. “You went to see him,” said Dawes. “The night before the ritual.” Alex must have been spotted on the camera. “I had to get the vessel.” “He won’t talk to me. Just sits there meditating or whatever.” “He’s trying to keep us safe, Dawes. The way he always did.” Except this time he was the threat. Dawes nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. “Be careful,” Alex said. “Anselm—” “Black Elm isn’t Lethe property. And someone has to take care of Cosmo. Of both of them.” Alex watched Dawes disappear into the rain. She wasn’t made to take care of anyone or anything. Hellie was proof of that. Babbit Rabbit. Darlington. She had trudged home in the wet, changed into dry pajamas, eaten four Pop-Tarts, and fallen into bed. Now she rolled over, shaking with chills and famished. Mercy was sitting up in bed, a copy of Orlando open in her lap, a cup of tea steaming atop the upended vintage suitcase she used as a bedside table. “Why can’t we just try again?” Mercy asked. “What’s stopping us?” “Good morning to you too. How long have you been up?” “A couple of hours.” “Shit.” Alex sat up too fast, the head rush immediate. “What time is it?” “Almost noon. On Monday.” “Monday?” Alex squeaked. She’d lost all of Sunday. She’d slept nearly thirty-six hours. “Yup. You missed Spanish.” What did it matter? Without her Lethe scholarship there would be no way for her to stay at Yale. She’d lost her chance to get away from Eitan. She’d lost her chance at a new life for her mother. Would they let her finish out the year? The semester? But all of that was too miserable to contemplate. “I’m starving,” she said. “And why is it so cold in here?” Mercy dug in her bag. “I brought you two bacon sandwiches from breakfast. And it’s not that cold. It’s because you brushed up against hellfire.” “You’re a beautiful angel,” Alex said, snatching the sandwiches from Mercy and unwrapping one. “Now | 0 |
35 | The Da Vinci Code.txt | 32 | Sophie said, as the car lurched down the road. "What are you doing?" "I tried to warn you," he shouted over the sound of gnashing gears. "I drive an automatic!" 113 CHAPTER 39 Although the spartan room in the brownstone on Rue La Bruyre had witnessed a lot of suffering, Silas doubted anything could match the anguish now gripping his pale body. I was deceived. Everything is lost. Silas had been tricked. The brothers had lied, choosing death instead of revealing their true secret. Silas did not have the strength to call the Teacher. Not only had Silas killed the only four people who knew where the keystone was hidden, he had killed a nun inside Saint-Sulpice. She was working against God! She scorned the work of Opus Dei! A crime of impulse, the woman's death complicated matters greatly. Bishop Aringarosa had placed the phone call that got Silas into Saint-Sulpice; what would the abb think when he discovered the nun was dead? Although Silas had placed her back in her bed, the wound on her head was obvious. Silas had attempted to replace the broken tiles in the floor, but that damage too was obvious. They would know someone had been there. Silas had planned to hide within Opus Dei when his task here was complete. Bishop Aringarosa will protect me. Silas could imagine no more blissful existence than a life of meditation and prayer deep within the walls of Opus Dei's headquarters in New York City. He would never again set foot outside. Everything he needed was within that sanctuary. Nobody will miss me. Unfortunately, Silas knew, a prominent man like Bishop Aringarosa could not disappear so easily. I have endangered the bishop. Silas gazed blankly at the floor and pondered taking his own life. After all, it had been Aringarosa who gave Silas life in the first place... in that small rectory in Spain, educating him, giving him purpose. "My friend," Aringarosa had told him, "you were born an albino. Do not let others shame you for this. Do you not understand how special this makes you? Were you not aware that Noah himself was an albino?" "Noah of the Ark?" Silas had never heard this. Aringarosa was smiling. "Indeed, Noah of the Ark. An albino. Like you, he had skin white like an angel. Consider this. Noah saved all of life on the planet. You are destined for great things, Silas. The Lord has freed you for a reason. You have your calling. The Lord needs your help to do His work." Over time, Silas learned to see himself in a new light. I am pure. White. Beautiful. Like an angel. At the moment, though, in his room at the residence hall, it was his father's disappointed voice that whispered to him from the past. Tu es un dsastre. Un spectre. Kneeling on the wooden floor, Silas prayed for forgiveness. Then, stripping off his robe, he reached again for the Discipline. 114 CHAPTER 40 Struggling with the gear shift, Langdon managed to maneuver the hijacked taxi to the | 1 |
76 | Love Theoretically.txt | 63 | 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 in his arms. One minute, I mouth. He nods. Mom’s going on about how Lance is misunderstood, Lucas is sensitive, Dad is busy with work, and the mean ladies at church are sure to be rejoicing in the downfall of the once-esteemed Hannaway household. Meanwhile, Jack studies me through my open coat. My dress hits only about midthigh when I’m sitting. His eyes follow the line of the hem, stop on my knees. Linger for a longer-than-polite moment. Then his Adam’s apple bobs, and he turns away. His shoulders rise, then fall, and then he’s driving out of the parking lot, looking anywhere but at me. Oh. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call them both tomorrow and talk them out of . . . illegal stuff, at the very least—” “You can’t solve this at a distance.” I sigh. “I’ll do my best. Honestly, I’m not sure I can solve this at all. I’m not sure anyone can.” Mom gasps, outraged. “How can you be so selfish, Elsie?” I exhale slowly. “I don’t think I’m being selfish. I’ll help as soon as I’m able, but they’re both beyond listening to anything I—” “Unbelievable,” she says, and then . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Jack?” I say. “Yes?” “If I’m talking with someone and out of the blue I hear the busy signal . . . what does it mean?” He gives me a look. “Sounds like you already know.” “Oh my God.” I’m dumbstruck. “My mom just hung up on me.” He nods. “Should I be shocked? Is that something that doesn’t happen in functional families?” “I . . . don’t know. Does your father hang up on you?” “Does my father have my number?” I laugh, and we exchange a half-clueless, half-amused glance. Peas in | 0 |
67 | How to Sell a Haunted House.txt | 39 | . it’s actually Dad . . .” She shook her head. “It’s time to go,” she repeated. He swallowed. Then nodded. Then the four of them—Mark, Louise, Poppy, and Red Rabbit—walked out of the house and closed the door behind them. And after a while, the smell of stollen faded away. — For Louise, it came and went. Sometimes it wouldn’t bother her for years, and sometimes it hit hard. The worst was when she dreamed they were still alive and it had all been a terrible mistake. In those dreams, she was still thirty-nine and when she got Mark’s call she called home and this time her dad answered the phone and she talked to him and then to her mom and she would wake up glowing. She’d open her eyes and sit up in bed full of energy and actually reach for her phone, and that’s when she’d remember they were dead and it would hit her all over again, as hard as it did the very first time. When that happened, she felt a deep ache inside her chest, like her rib cage was being split open with an axe. When that happened, she needed to call the only other person who knew how this felt. When that happened, she called her brother. In loving memory CELEBRATE THE LIVES AND ART OF Eric Joyner & Nancy Cooke Joyner ORDER OF SERVICE Call to Worship—Reverend Michael Bullin “This Little Light of Mine” performed by The Doll Wiggler Quartet (featuring Joshua Bilmes, Adam Goldworm, Harold Brown, Daniel Passman) TESTIMONIALS Miss Mouse in the House & Her Human, Eddie Schneider Monsieur Brady McReynolds with His Friends Jacques & Andre Valentina “Mrs. Snowball” Sainato “The Five Penguins” performed by Susan Velazquez Jessica “Make a Joyful Noise” Wade Kitty-Cat Camacho MUSICAL INTERLUDE A Tribute to Nancy Joyner in Body Music, performed by Doogie Horner and His Body “Candle in the Wind” performed by The Treblemakers Alexis Nixon Danielle Keir Fareeda Bullert Daniela Reidlová Jin Yu Craig Burke Gabbie Pachon Lauren Burnstein TESTIMONIALS “My Ducky Has Big Eyes” recited by Claire Zion A Silent Meditation led by Jeanne-Marie Hudson and Oliver the Ostrich Emily Osborne and Scarlett Flufflebear Laura Corless the Dancing Meerkat Anthony Ramondo and Snocchio Hosannas and Praise by The Australian Trio MUSICAL INTERLUDE Eine kleine Nachtmusik by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, performed by Megha Jain (spoons) “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger, performed by William Barr (harmonica) TESTIMONIALS “I Mime the Body Electric,” an original poem by Lydia Gittens A Guided Visualization by Frances “The Magnificent” Horton and Puppy Kevin Kolsch and His Dancing Cat, Church The Original Lounge Lizard (and His Two Frogs), Davi Lancett Dr. Ralph Moore and the Three Pigs O’Plenty Interpretive Ballet by Mr. Giraffe and Friends (Y. S. T.) A FINAL SONG “Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the Frog RECESSIONAL “When the Saints Go Marching In” Everybody (kazoo) We would like to thank the Hendrix Family for the beautiful flowers donated to the sanctuary (Julia, Kat, Ann, David). The Fellowship of Christian Puppeteers wish to extend | 0 |
64 | Happy Place.txt | 38 | cruise around in it this summer. But it’s not Sabrina standing against the hood, face illuminated by the glow of a cell phone. He looks up. A square jaw, narrow waist, messy golden hair pushed up off his forehead except for one lock that falls across his brow the second our eyes meet. “Harriet?” His voice is velvety. It sends a zing of surprise down my spine, like a zipper undone. I’ve seen him in pictures of my friends over the last semester, and before that, on campus, but always from a distance, always on the move. This close, something about him seems different. Less handsome, maybe, but more striking. His eyes look paler in the cell phone’s glow. There are premature crow’s-feet forming at their corners. He looks like he’s mostly made out of granite, except for his mouth, which is pure quicksand. Soft, full, one side of his Cupid’s bow noticeably higher. “A whole semester apart,” I say, “and you look exactly the same, Sabrina.” Symmetrical dimples appear on either side of his mouth. “Really? Because I cut my hair, got colored contacts, and grew four inches.” I narrow my eyes. “Hm. I’m not seeing it.” “Sabrina and Cleo had one too many boxes of wine,” he says. “Apiece.” “Oh.” I shiver as a breeze slips down the collar of my shirt. “Sorry you got stuck with pickup duty. I could’ve scheduled a cab.” He shrugs. “I didn’t mind. Been dying to see if the famous Harriet Kilpatrick lives up to the hype.” Being the object of his full focus makes me feel like a deer in headlights. Or maybe like I’m a deer being stalked by a coyote. If he were an animal, that’s what he’d be, with those strange flashing eyes and that physical ease. The kind of confidence reserved for those who skipped their awkward phases entirely. Whereas any confidence I have is the hard-won spoils from spending the bulk of my childhood with braces and the haircut of an unfortunate poodle. “Sabrina,” I say, “tends to embellish.” Weirdly, though, her descriptions of him didn’t come close to capturing the man. Or maybe it was that because I knew she had a crush on him, I’d expected something different. Someone more polished, suave. Someone more like Parth, his best friend. The corners of his mouth twitch as he ambles forward. My heart whirs as he reaches out, as if planning to catch my chin and turn it side to side for his inspection to prove that I’ve been oversold. But he’s only taking my bag from my shoulder. “They said you were a brunette.” My own snort-laugh surprises me. “I’m glad they spoke so highly of me.” “They did,” he says, “but the only thing I can corroborate so far is whether you’re a brunette. Which you’re not.” “I am definitely a brunette.” He tosses my bag into the back seat, then faces me again, his hips sinking against the door. His head tilts thoughtfully. “Your hair’s almost black. In the moonlight it looks blue.” “Blue?” I | 0 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 65 | the sea; by its quick, fanning motion, temporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen. Next instant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily into the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea at the distance of about fifty yards. Not a chip of the boat was harmed, nor a hair of any oarsman's head; but the mate for ever sank. It is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the Sperm-Whale Fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any. Sometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated; oftener the boat's bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the headsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body. But strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one, when the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is discernible; the man being stark dead. The whole calamity, with the falling form of Macey, was plainly descried from the ship. Raising a piercing shriek -- The vial! the vial! Gabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of the whale. This terrible event clothed the archangel with added influence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had specifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general prophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one of many marks in the wide margin allowed. He became a nameless terror to the ship. Mayhew having concluded his narration, Ahab put such questions to him, that the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he intended to hunt the White Whale, if opportunity should offer. To which Ahab answered -- Aye. Straightway, then, Gabriel once more started to his feet, glaring .. <p 316 > upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with downward pointed finger -- Think, think of the blasphemer --dead, and down there! --beware of the blasphemer's end! Ahab stolidly turned aside; then said to Mayhew, Captain, I have just bethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy officers, if I mistake not. Starbuck, look over the bag. Every whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various ships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed, depends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans. Thus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received after attaining an age of two or three years or more. Soon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand. It was sorely tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in consequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin. Of such a letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy. Can'st not read it? cried ahab. give it me, man. aye, aye it's but a dim scrawl; --what's this? As he was studying it out, Starbuck took a long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the | 1 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 28 | read on the situation.” He winces and I try to soften it. “If it makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat. He’s got me doing a dating show.” “At least those are successful. Who even watches extreme sports challenges?” “Literally everyone, Trent.” This poor, bookish wanker. “I’m going to be on the road for six weeks,” he complains. “Six weeks on a bus with sweaty, testosterone-fueled weekend warriors who want to kill each other, and then I have to come back and edit the footage to make it look like a good time.” “Sorry, mate.” I gently slap his shoulder. I do get his angst. These shows certainly get attention, but I don’t know if it’s the kind of attention we’re prepared to take on. If my dating show sucks, I’m fucked. And if it doesn’t suck, I’m not sure how smoothly I can pivot back to the kind of programming I care about. I guess there’s some consolation that I’m not the only person stuck bottom feeding. “I’m sure it will be fine. One thing at a time, eh? Right now I’ve got to find someone”—I hold up air quotes—“ ‘female shaped and willing’ and just get through this.” six FIZZY There’s always a risk of misinterpreting something when hearing the tail end of a conversation, but in this case, there’s no room for a mistake. … find someone female shaped and willing, and just get through this. I’d returned for a parking validation, but I immediately forget again as three simultaneous explosions take place inside my skull. The first is over the wording, which is so terrible that Hot Brit immediately stops being a hero in any form and is now only a villain over whom I must triumph. The second realization is that he’s going to make this show no matter what I do. He will use River’s app to spread this garbage, and he will happily paint the central woman as desperate to find her soulmate like she isn’t completely fine all on her own, because reality television executives have not updated their view of women in forty years. The third explosion is the most powerful. For as much as I now dislike this man, I cannot ignore that he’s offered to hand me the mic. How many times have I idly wondered why, if men want to know what women want, they don’t just—oh, I don’t know—ask women directly? Hot Brit has given me the chance to ensure this show isn’t a disaster for every woman who hits Play on episode one. I can choose the vocabulary and the format and the discussion around what it means to date and fall in love. I walk right up to the producer’s door, push it the rest of the way open, and witness his expression morph from irritation to horror as he registers that I’ve just heard him. “How badly do you want me for this?” I ask bluntly. He swallows, glancing to the other man in the room, who seems to want to be absorbed into | 0 |
63 | Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt | 53 | a whispered conversation. Gabe slumped a few feet away from her and Bastian, facing the fight, but with his one blue eye scanning back and forth through his mask. The boxer with the bruised lip feinted to the side. The blond one stumbled, a punch overthrown. “There,” Bastian said. He didn’t point, but angled his chin toward the shadows on the far edge of the ring, a place between streetlights where the dark was deepest. Three figures huddled, angled away from the match. The one whose face Lore could see looked like he was listening intently to whatever was being said. The figure speaking had their back turned. Bastian and Gabe exchanged a look. Gabe nodded, then started moving toward the group, pushing through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish. “Come on.” Bastian took Lore’s arm and tugged her after him. “I don’t think our pet monk will need any backup, but we should stick close, just in case.” A roar went up from the ring. When Lore looked back, the blond boxer was on the ground. The group in the shadows broke apart before Gabe could reach them, the figure who’d been speaking fading into the crowd without Lore getting a good look at them. Gabe approached one of the men who’d been listening, struck up a casual conversation. Bastian and Lore stopped a few feet away; from what she could hear, it sounded like Gabe was talking about sailing weather. “Bleeding God,” she muttered, and Bastian snorted. A few more inane words about northwesterly winds, and Gabe nodded in the direction of the now-disappeared speaker. “You all wouldn’t know about any job opportunities opening up around here, would you? I’m looking to make some extra coin.” A pause. “Something that could be done in one night would be ideal.” “Laying it on a bit thick,” Bastian whispered. Lore dug her elbow into his ribs. The man Gabe spoke to—very small and slight, if it weren’t for the thick stubble on his jaw, Lore would think his voice still hadn’t cracked—glanced at his companion, then rubbed at his neck. A constellation of bruises bloomed there, deep purple and new. “I might,” he said slowly. “But the details aren’t mine to share.” Gabe’s jaw tightened, and the slight man stepped back, eyes widening in brief alarm. Lore didn’t blame him. Gabe didn’t look like the kind of person you’d want to anger. “How could one find someone willing to impart details?” Gabe asked. The man’s companion—larger than he, but still young looking—let out a harsh laugh. “Lose,” he said, cutting a hand toward the ring. Lore looked back. The blond fighter was up again, but blood trickled steadily from a cut across her forehead, dripping into her eyes. “Lose?” Gabe’s confusion drew his brows together, wrinkled the black domino mask. “Lose a fight,” the slight man mumbled, rubbing at his fresh bruises again. “They only approach people who lose a fight.” “Why?” “Gods damn me if I know,” he replied snappishly. “I guess because you have to buy | 0 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 34 | from Queen Glorian, then?’ ‘Yes, a few days ago. She asked me to thank you,’ Einlek said. ‘For the gift of your loyalty.’ Wulf stood very still, realisation unfurling its feathers. ‘She plans to be crowned soon, now the heathen Eller is gone.’ Einlek smiled coldly into his goblet. ‘My cousin is a Hraustr. If that Yscali greybeard thinks he’s going to gain any power over her, he will taste both our blades.’ ‘Aye, sire.’ Wulf cleared his throat. ‘When should I set out?’ ‘Dawn will do. I want those fighters back as soon as possible. The whaler struck a lucky blow today, but if there had been more than one wyvern, we may not have saved Eldyng. Our foe was also not as large as Fýredel, or its heinous siblings.’ ‘Siblings?’ Einlek drank from his cup of mead. ‘Heryon Vattenvarg wrote to me,’ he said. ‘There are at least two other great wyrms – one like ironstone, one grey. The Southerners call the former Dedalugun; the other, the Ments call Orsul. There is also at least one that crosses between the North and the East, which we Hróthi have named – Valeysa. I suspect they fly here as we speak.’ His knuckles blanched. ‘Meet me in the stables. For now, Wulf, drink your fill, and laugh. This day will be a song.’ Wulf nodded. As he turned away, he concealed a smile. He had never expected to be a father, least of all to a daughter he could never claim, but the thought still made him warm. Glorian must be relieved, but nervous. The thought made his smile fade. Happy though he was that none of it had been in vain, he already feared for her, being with child in a time like this. When the healers arrived, the drunk housecarls bedded down for the night, weary to the bone. An unconscious woman was borne in, her insides peeping out of her belly. One man had an unhinged jaw, and another had been so deeply clawed that he screamed as the healer dabbed honey on the ruin of his skin. Thella coughed into a rag. Thrit was in the corner with one arm under his head, clean bandages around his middle, two fingers splinted. ‘How’s your shoulder?’ Wulf asked, sitting beside him. ‘Fine.’ Thrit was looking past the ceiling. ‘Calling this a war is like a lamb calling the shambles its battlefield. It’s dead before it even smells the blood. Queen Glorian is right – we should be finding places to hide.’ ‘You know that’s not the Hróthi way.’ ‘If this goes on, there won’t be a Hróthi way.’ Wulf agreed, but in silence. He could no more convince Einlek to hide than he could tuck the midnight sun beneath the sea. They slept under the sky. Wulf woke to almost the same light, finding Thrit still asleep. The cocks never crowed in the summer, but he had trained his body to know when it was morning. Outside, the welkin was a queer yellow, the sun washed pale. In the silence, | 0 |
49 | treasure island.txt | 68 | thoughtless across the watercourse. but that I slacked my pace and went a trifle warily. It would This brought me near to where I had encountered Ben have been a poor end of my adventures to get shot down by Gunn, the maroon; and I walked more circumspectly, keep- my own party in mistake. ing an eye on every side. The dusk had come nigh hand The moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began completely, and as I opened out the cleft between the two to fall here and there in masses through the more open dis- peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, tricts of the wood, and right in front of me a glow of a differ- Contents where, as I judged, the man of the island was cooking his ent colour appeared among the trees. It was red and hot, and supper before a roaring fire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, now and again it was a little darkened—as it were, the embers Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 224 225 of a bonfire smouldering. In the meantime, there was no doubt of one thing; they For the life of me I could not think what it might be. kept an infamous bad watch. If it had been Silver and his At last I came right down upon the borders of the clear- lads that were now creeping in on them, not a soul would ing. The western end was already steeped in moon- shine; have seen daybreak. That was what it was, thought I, to have the rest, and the block house itself, still lay in a black shadow the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself sharply for chequered with long silvery streaks of light. On the other leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard. side of the house an immense fire had burned itself into clear By this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was embers and shed a steady, red reverberation, contrasted strongly dark within, so that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not a soul As for sounds, there was the steady drone of the snorers and a stirring nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze. small occasional noise, a flickering or pecking that I could in I stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a no way account for. little terror also. It had not been our way to build great fires; With my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should we were, indeed, by the captain’s orders, somewhat niggardly lie down in my own place (I thought with a silent chuckle) of firewood, and I began to fear that something had gone and enjoy their faces when they found me in the morning. wrong while I was absent. My foot struck something yielding—it was a sleeper’s leg; I stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and he | 1 |
50 | A Day of Fallen Night.txt | 14 | Seeing Dumai, she stared at her damp furs and dishevelled hair, the bruising on her face. ‘Suzu,’ Dumai said, just as stunned. ‘Princess Dumai,’ came a familiar voice, before her sister could utter a word. ‘Can it be you?’ Dumai stiffened. She had failed to notice him beside the throne, a shadow by her sister. ‘It is. And you, Nikeya,’ the River Lord said, his face a picture of relief. ‘I never thought to see you again.’ He wore a small crown of seashells. ‘Thank the great Kwiriki.’ ‘We are both very well, Father.’ Nikeya came to stand beside Dumai, sliding on her court self like a sleeve. ‘But this is a disturbing sight indeed. Where is Emperor Jorodu?’ The question covered the hall, silencing every whisper. ‘Tragedy has struck our court. A band of murderous provincials infiltrated the palace,’ the River Lord said, his voice breaking the utter quiet. ‘They were demanding retribution for an outbreak of sickness on the coast – a sickness that turns the hands red and boils the blood. They believe it arrived with a Lacustrine ship, which brought a crossbow for you, Princess Dumai.’ ‘Consort Jekhen offered it to me in exchange for my assistance,’ Dumai said. ‘To help us fight the wyrms.’ ‘Unfortunately, provincials are of a crude and rustic mindset, thinking of little beyond their fields. They saw an arrival from the mainland and blamed it for their suffering. It was dismantled in a riot, and the Lacustrine soldiers who brought it were killed.’ ‘What?’ Dumai whispered. Out of sight, Nikeya gripped her wrist, hard enough to hurt. ‘By the time the guards cut them down, the intruders had breached the Inner Palace, infecting His Majesty. He fought very hard . . . but he was the Son of the Rainbow,’ the River Lord said heavily. ‘His body could not withstand such pain, such fever.’ Dumai looked between the River Lord and her sister, her stomach warning her of a trap. ‘I’m sure this must be a great shock, Princess,’ the River Lord sighed. ‘I offer my sincere condolences.’ ‘What was done with his body?’ ‘We had no choice but to burn it,’ said one of his many cousins. ‘We do not yet know how this sickness spreads. It was all we could do.’ No Seiikinese ruler had ever been burned. He should have been laid in a river barge, on a bed of pearls, sung to the sea without end. ‘Since you could not be found anywhere, we feared you had been captured and killed,’ the River Lord said, wringing his hands in a show of distress. ‘The Council of State made the difficult choice to enthrone your sister – the heir apparent – as Empress Suzumai.’ He could make anything sound reasonable, even usurpation. The gift of his silver tongue. ‘I am a dragonrider – a woman, firstborn,’ Dumai managed to say. Nikeya tightened her grip. ‘Suzumai is a child of nine.’ ‘Your father was the same age, and he was a splendid ruler, as were many children of the rainbow before | 0 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 19 | on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself `Then I'll go round and get in at the window.' `THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--`Pat! Pat! Where are you?' And then a voice she had never heard before, `Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!' `Digging for apples, indeed!' said the Rabbit angrily. `Here! Come and help me out of THIS!' (Sounds of more broken glass.) `Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?' `Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!' (He pronounced it `arrum.') `An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!' `Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that.' `Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!' There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, `Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!' `Do as I tell you, you coward!' and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. `What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!' thought Alice. `I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I'm sure I don't want to stay in here any longer!' She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voice all talking together: she made out the words: `Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular- -Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!' (a loud crash)--`Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, I shan't! YOU do it!--That I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!' `Oh! | 1 |
87 | The Foxglove King.txt | 54 | to Spiritum.” His gesturing hand went to Bastian. “We needed the two of you to be close together, so your powers would sharpen each other. The Law of Opposites in action.” “I don’t have any fucking Spiritum,” Bastian hissed. “None of us do; it’s a fairy tale.” “Apollius gives the gift to his chosen,” Anton said softly. “And that’s you, Bastian.” His fingers rose, touched the scarred side of his face. There were scars on his hand, too, Lore noticed. They looked new, still red and angry. “I was told so by the god himself,” Anton continued. “Told that you were the Arceneaux to whom he’d bestow his power. Told that Gabriel Remaut and a child from the catacombs must stay close by you after your Consecration, and that it would pave the way for Apollius’s return.” “What?” Gabe’s voice, thin and quiet. His blue eye was wide, his mouth opening, then closing again. “This has all been in motion for years,” Anton murmured. “Echoing through time. Apollius reaching down to commune with us. An Arceneaux prince, a child of treason, and the child of a Night Sister, born able to channel Mortem.” He spread his hands, smiled gently with the side of his mouth that could do such a thing. “The clearest anyone has ever heard His voice since Gerard Arceneaux himself.” Shock made Gabe’s face taut and pale. He shook his head, slightly, like he could make Anton’s words connect in a different way, one that made sense. Of course the thing he latched onto was her. This proof that she was something unholy. “The daughter of a Night Sister…” Gabe turned to Lore, shock transmuting to horror. “What is he talking about?” She didn’t know what to say. All the reasons she hadn’t told him came into sharp focus: the sickened expression, the way he took a short, instinctual step back from her, though they were yards apart already. Anton had just said they’d all been used this entire time, made to play out a vision he hadn’t shared with them wholly. But the part that hit Gabe hardest was Lore the Night Sister, Lore holding death in her hands since birth. Bastian noticed. His eyes narrowed, a cruel curve bending his mouth. “See why she didn’t tell you, Remaut?” Gabe swallowed. “You told Bastian?” She still couldn’t make herself speak. The Sun Prince did it for her. “Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair, its legs creaking and his chains clanging. “She told Bastian.” Malcolm, Bellegarde, and Anton said nothing, letting the silence drop around them like a shroud around a body. Anton’s expression was blank. He’d just dealt a blow to Gabe, and he didn’t give a single shit. He’d just completely torn apart everything they thought they knew about each other, about themselves, and not one emotion crossed his face. Visions and prophecies and coups and wars, but all of those things paled for Lore in the face of the death they’d wrought. The justice she’d apparently never been working toward, that she hadn’t known | 0 |
51 | A Spell of Good Things.txt | 48 | spend all her time in their living room when she came over, as though she was still the little girl who followed her mother to Mothers’ Union meetings when Professor Cordelia Coker hosted them. Whenever the older woman ran into her in their compound, she often gave Wúràọlá a tight-lipped smile that made her wonder if the animal sounds Kúnlé made when he came had somehow carried over the stretch of interlocking tiles between the boys’ quarters and the duplex where his parents lived. It was just easier to spend less time there when his parents were home. She got out of the car and went towards the buka. Outside, men and women pounded yam in wide mortars, the noise muffled, then sharp as pestles hit the white mound before punching through to the mortar’s bottom. Po-ki-po. Kúnlé was already inside the buka. She sat next to him on a bench and reached for the drink he had ordered. He laughed. “You’re so stubborn.” “You’re the one who hasn’t apologised for shouting, but I’m stubborn?” She took a long drag of his stout. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her close. “Aren’t your parents attending that funeral in the cathedral?” Wúràọlá asked. Kúnlé glanced at his watch. “Yeah, they should leave in about an hour. We could take the food home if you want to say hello to them.” “Keep making jokes and I’ll go spend the day being the girlfriend of their dreams, let’s see where that leaves you.” “I’ve missed you,” he said into her hair. The waitress came then, and they ordered the same thing they always ate here. Pounded yam with ẹ̀fọ́ rírò. Goat meat for her, bush meat for him. * * * Before that morning, they had not seen each other for two, no, three weeks, and God, she had missed this. Him curving his body around hers after they made love, his breath fanning her temple, the weight of that arm he always flung across her stomach, the comforting heat of his body. Pleasure was the easy part for her. It could be known and understood. Rise euphoric on the wings of adrenaline and dopamine. And now oxytocin for the descent. Love, well, that was too nebulous. As unstable and unknowable to her as Kúnlé’s shifting moods. He’d asked her about the phone calls again after they finished eating and lapsed into silence all the way back to his place. But then he was reaching for her breasts right after they got in, and he clung to her now as though all was forgotten if not forgiven. When he began to snore through his mouth, she extricated herself from his grip and went to take a shower. He did not have any lotion, just a large jar of Vaseline that would probably last him another year. She made do with her hand cream and pulled on one of his shirts before going into the living room. She lay on the sofa, hoping the shower would induce sleep. The sofa was something Kúnlé’s | 0 |
77 | Maame.txt | 82 | It’s all about equality between the sexes.” “Then why aren’t tampons free yet?” Cam turns to me. “No, wait for him to ask you.” Chapter Eleven I was offered the job at OTP the next day, and started the following Monday. My first few days are nothing but admin. Now I know why they needed someone so soon. My predecessor left months ago and the work’s been piling up since. Meetings need organizing rather than the grab-and-go system they’ve been temporarily operating under. Minutes need taking, Penny’s emails need sorting, titles set up, and royalties need inputting (if you thought you could escape maths by pursuing a career in books, think a-fucking-gain). I did wonder when I’d be able to attend meetings, discuss submissions, and work on photographic interiors, but I can’t expect too much so soon. Maybe it’s something I’ve got to earn. I’m only Penny’s PA, but my line manager and mentor is Kristina Dorval (shoulder-length hair, flipped at the ends nineties style, reminiscent of Avi; midthirties with dark green eyes). It’s her food and drinks list I’m assisting on and her method of mentoring is very admin-focused, but I like her. She insists I call her Kris and our first catch-up lasted much longer than the allotted thirty minutes because it doesn’t take much for her to turn away from her computer and talk to me about life. She has a partner called Bruce and a cat called Alfred. No children, and I get the impression that it’s a choice. She attends salsa classes every Thursday evening and goes to the theater at least twice a month. She loves to eat but hates to cook. “On Thursdays we have Creative,” Kris says, “and you’ll need to prioritize that in Penny’s diary because that’s where we discuss submissions we want to share with the wider team and our upcoming titles.” “Do I go to that?” I ask hopefully. “No, that’s just for assistant and commissioning editors,” she says, “but every Tuesday, the entire department meets for NFPM—Nonfiction Publishing Meeting—where we discuss proposals/new projects, perspective authors and illustrators/photographers, our back and front list, the like. You’ll take the minutes.” A catch-up with Penny follows straight after. I was naive enough to assume the PA aspect of this job would be minimal, given that at the theater it was a full-time job in and of itself, and it paid me a grand more than this one. “I need to add three new meetings to my calendar this week,” Penny says. “One with Thom, Gabby, and Sabrina and then a follow-up meeting later on in the week—though not Friday afternoon—with just Thom and Gabby, and then I need a separate meeting with Marie, Levi, and Chrissy from the US office—watch out for the time difference.” Penny doesn’t pause for breath or look up from her computer screen as I scrawl notes at her office table. “The follow-up meeting can be half an hour, but the other two are a full hour. If no conference rooms are available, we can have the UK meetings | 0 |
39 | The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt | 13 | horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops. The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am very weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose.' As he said this, | 1 |
98 | Yellowface.txt | 31 | of options deals go nowhere. All that an option means is that the production company has exclusive rights to package the story into something a studio might want to buy. The vast majority of projects linger in development hell, and very few ever get green-lit by studio executives. I learn this over the next few hours as I scour the internet for articles about this process, catching myself up on industry terminology and trying to gauge how excited I should be. I’m probably not getting my Warner Bros. film. I probably won’t be a millionaire. The hype could still help me, though—I could still make some tens of thousands of dollars from Greenhouse’s option offer. I could sell a few thousand more copies based on the publicity from that deal alone. And there’s always that elusive, tempting “maybe.” Maybe this will get picked up by Netflix, or HBO or Hulu. Maybe the film will be a massive hit, and they’ll do another print run of my book with the movie poster on the cover, and I’ll get to attend the premiere in a dress tailor-made for me, arm in arm with the handsome Asian actor they cast to play A Geng. Elle Fanning will star as Annie Waters, and we’ll take a cute selfie together at the premiere like the one Athena once took with Anne Hathaway. Why not dream big? I’ve found, as I keep hitting my publishing goalposts, that my ambitions get larger and larger. I got my embarrassingly large advance. I got my bestseller status, my major magazine profiles, my prizes and honors. Now, with the sickly sweet taste of the Miss Saigon lingering on my tongue, all that feels paltry in comparison to what true literary stardom looks like. I want what Stephen King has, what Neil Gaiman has. Why not a movie deal? Why not Hollywood stardom? Why not a multimedia empire? Why not the world? Eleven THE ATTACKS START ON TWITTER. The first tweet comes from an account named @Athena LiusGhost, created earlier this week; no profile picture, no words in the bio: Juniper Song, aka June Hayward, did not write The Last Front. I did. She stole my book, stole my voice, and stole my words. #SaveAthena. Then, dated a few hours later, several sickening follow-ups in the thread. June Hayward befriended me a few years ago to get closer to my process and my work. She came over often to my apartment, and I would catch her rooting through my notebooks when she thought I wasn’t looking. The proof is in black and white. Read my previous novels. Compare them to the prose in The Last Front. Read June’s debut novel, and ask yourself: is The Last Front a novel a white woman could have written? For let’s be clear: Juniper Song Hayward is a white woman. She’s using the pen name Juniper Song to pretend to be Chinese American. She’s taken new author photos to look more tan and ethnic, but she’s as white as they come. June Hayward, you are a thief | 0 |
88 | The-Housekeepers.txt | 66 | simply dissolved. Something hard and brutal entered his face. “Mrs. King,” he said, taking in her gloves, her tunic. His lip curled. Perhaps he remembered her choosing the name. She’d done it on his instructions. “Good heavens.” She didn’t move. He glanced up the stairs, judging the crush. Down here the noise was growing into a roar, hundreds of people staggering through the porch and entering the front hall. She knew what he was thinking: what can people see, what can people hear, what reason will they construct for this discussion, when will the risks show themselves? She rattled through a similar list herself, every moment. He smiled, eyes running over her mask. “Miss de Vries mentioned to me that you had made an unwelcome visit. She charged me to keep an eye out for you. I must confess I thought she was overreacting.” “Foolish of you,” said Mrs. King. “For here I am. You’ve caught me.” She was Jonah inside the whale. She was stepping right into the heart of the matter. He snapped his fingers, and two younger men hurried over. They were dressed as dominoes. Clerks, she guessed, his own little entourage. Evidently, Lockwood liked having his own people in the house, too. “Accompany us to the library,” he said to them. “And guard the door.” They gawked at Mrs. King. Then they saw Mr. Lockwood’s hand touch her elbow, and they squared up. “I think we should have a private discussion,” Lockwood said. “I agree,” she replied, lifting her mask. “May I?” he said. He offered his arm. He wasn’t her equal—he would never countenance that notion—but he could pretend to be civil. “No,” she said, and they walked upstairs, men at her back—trapped, as intended. 27 Three hours to go The ball had begun. But the lady of the house was still below stairs, just where they wanted her. Mrs. Bone was being held in the butler’s pantry, and the chauffeur barred the door. Mrs. King had been very clear about this. Let them interrogate you as long as they want. We need them down in the servants’ hall, so the men can pack up the old nurseries. Mrs. Bone pictured rocking horses creaking as they were lifted onto runners, gigantic dolls blinking as they were turned upside down. The nursery was a forlorn sort of place, preserved in aspic: too big, too bleached. The wallpaper was metal colored, a bleak and relentless pattern. The whole place had given Mrs. Bone the shivers. She was glad it was being packed away. “Alice, tell Mr. Shepherd what you told me,” Miss de Vries said, her face glinting in the lamplight. Alice kept things brief. “I saw her,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Bone, “selling silver spoons to a man in the street. She had them hidden in her apron.” So far so good. Mrs. Bone tutted loudly. “I was cleaning them.” “No, she was not,” said Alice. Mrs. Bone shook her fist, per her stage directions. “Rot!” “Madam, I had no idea,” began Mr. Shepherd. “That’s what’s troubling | 0 |
75 | Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt | 75 | I approach, the second woman says, “It is I, Miss Chen.” I’m startled by how much weight she’s lost since I last saw her. It’s as if her body has been transported back in time to when she first attracted Master Yang’s eye, which only emphasizes the few beans that dot her face. Miss Chen places her hands on the mounds nestled against her. “My son, Manzi, and his first sister.” It’s been years since the boy left the inner chambers and I’ve seen him up close, yet I’m struck by how little he looks like his father or his half brother. His cheeks are angular, while their faces are as exquisitely round as the full moon. Even under the coverlet, I can see the broadness in Manzi’s shoulders, while my father-in-law and husband both have the carriage and build of men whose work is more of the mind than of the body. Miss Chen clears her throat to get my attention. She tips her head in the direction of the other woman. “Snowpink and her son.” So my husband now has two sons. I can’t help but wonder which one is the older and what fights over the order of succession lie ahead of us. I dismiss this from my mind, for it can’t matter right now. “My daughter? Have you seen her?” Miss Chen reaches over the child on her left to touch the next mound. “Ailan is here with me.” I step around and over more of the sick until I reach Miss Chen’s side and the mound she’s pointed out. Two eyes peer up at me. “Mama…” I drop to my knees, lift strands of hair from Ailan’s face with a fingertip, and tuck them behind her ear. The beans on her face are too many to count. Later I’ll examine her body, but for now, I say, “Don’t be afraid. I am here, and I will take care of you.” The smallest of smiles lifts the corners of Ailan’s lips, while voices plead from every direction in response to my words. * * * Snowpink’s son—only ten days old—returns to nothingness on my first night in the Hermitage. My husband’s concubine dies three days later. During that same period, four children, whose mothers didn’t invite the smallpox-planting master to do variolation or for whom the process didn’t give them enough protection, lapse into delirium and drift away in the night. One is a girl; three are boys. Of the boys, two had already left their mothers’ sides in the inner chambers and were studying with tutors in the family school. I learn from Miss Chen of others who died before I came home, including her two youngest daughters, one of whom was seven and the other who had recently turned four and was getting ready to have her feet bound. Her second daughter has yet to be touched by the disease. Miss Chen keeps her body as still as a statue and her voice even when she tells me all this. “There will be time to mourn | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 26 | all you hear echoing from an adjacent room every single time anyone does anything is *dun DUN dun!* [the serious news intro theme] “Breaking news at the top of this hour [in an animated yet sober newscaster voice]. Good evening, America, I’m Brick Shetland, reporting live from the newsroom…” By March, cable news was breathlessly reporting that people in Europe and Asia were coughing to death from some new easily transmissible virus unlike any the world had ever seen and that airports were shutting down, but then with the exact same urgency an anchor would be reading a rundown of the then president’s angry tweets, and no one I knew really understood the magnitude of the crisis that was about to be upon us because none of my friends are epidemiologists and we all have access to the same CNN. In Chicago, I would go to work at a studio in Edgewater in the morning then return to my temporary home overlooking the screeching L and cheerfully lit Merchandise Mart at night, and I did all that again and again and again and again, and then suddenly the headlines screamed. WASH YOUR HANDS ORDER DELIVERY FOR EVERY MEAL BUT OPEN THE DOOR FOR THE DELIVERY PERSON AT YOUR OWN PERIL SPRAY YOUR MAIL WITH LYSOL, BLEACH YOUR GROCERIES CANCEL ALL YOUR RESTAURANT RESERVATIONS IF YOU SO MUCH AS LOOK AT AN UBER YOU WILL DIE WASH YOUR HANDS ORDER EVERYTHING YOU POSSIBLY CAN ONLINE AND BURN YOUR PARCELS UNDER THE SUN BEFORE THEY CROSS YOUR THRESHOLD IF YOU ARE NOT AT HOME, GO TO YOUR HOME AND DON’T LEAVE, UNLESS YOU NEED TO GO TO WORK AND—FINE, OKAY, SWING BY THAT BIRTHDAY PARTY IF IT LOOKS FUN GOOD LUCK FINDING SANITIZER! GLARE AT ANYONE WHO SO MUCH AS CLEARS THEIR THROAT IN YOUR GENERAL VICINITY STOCKPILE TOILET PAPER FOR NO DISCERNIBLE REASON PEOPLE ARE DYING AND WE’RE GONNA LET THEM SHOULD YOU BE WORRIED THAT YOUR CAT HAS COVID???????? PURCHASE THE DIGITAL VERSION OF CONTAGION ON AN IMPULSE AND TRY NOT TO SCREAM TO DEATH IMAGINING THAT AS OUR COLLECTIVE FUTURE MAYBE IT’S FINE FOR YOU TO GO TO THAT OUT-OF-TOWN WEDDING? WASH YOUR HANDS * * * — But no one really knew anything. At least not definitively, from what I could tell through my passive consumption of broadcast news. Everyone in the writers’ room kept going to work because our employer, Showtime, was expecting a season of television from us in exchange for all the Thai food and LaCroix they’d paid for, and also because the papers were casually like “Maybe Steam Clean the Shit You Bought at Walgreens When You Get It Home, If You Feel Like It” and not “WARNING WARNING DO NOT BREATHE COMMUNAL AIR.” Remember how reporters-cum–preschool teachers taught us to sing the words to “Happy Birthday” while washing our hands as we coughed into our friends’ mouths??? Nobody knew shit! When we switched to working remotely (OH GOD, the early days of Zoom!!!!!!), I figured it was pretty serious, this Corona-whateveryoucallit. At the same time, | 0 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 83 | with portentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few of them have any but .. <p 277 > the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm whale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the spermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what, precisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it. There seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop Pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in which the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he assigns it. By some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious creature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of cuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would seem to belong, but only as the Anak of the tribe. .. <p 277 > .. < chapter lx 26 THE LINE > With reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as for the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented, I have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line. The line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly vapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the .. <p 278 > case of ordinary ropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable to the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to the sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary quantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which it must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in general by no means adds to the rope's durability or strength, however much it may give it compactness and gloss. Of late years the Manilla rope has in the American fishery almost entirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not so durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and I will add (since there is an aesthetics in all things), is much more handsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp. Hemp is a dusky, dark fellow, a sort of Indian; but Manilla | 1 |
59 | Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt | 12 | eyes and cheekbones. The priestess also comes, her pale, chill hands touching Clytemnestra’s belly. “The gods watch us all,” she says, her voice screeching like a seagull’s cry. “They bless those who are loyal and punish those who aren’t.” She doesn’t say whether Clytemnestra will be blessed or punished, but Clytemnestra doesn’t care. The child she is carrying will be heir to the throne of Maeonia, and there is nothing the priestess can do about it. So she lets her speak her dark words until it is time for her to go back to her temple. * * * “Are you scared of leaving?” Helen asks. They are standing together in front of the tub, staring at the water as it sparkles under the torches. The light of the sunset pours in from the small window, illuminating their skin with pink and orange. From up there, Sparta looks nothing more than a group of small villages, scattered across the Eurotas, like a herd of brown goats. Tantalus has often told Clytemnestra that the valley makes a poor show compared to his own homeland. Yet she will miss the view of the mountains, their peaks wrapped in white clouds. “You will soon leave as well,” Clytemnestra says, removing her tunic and stepping into the tub. Warm water laps at her skin. Helen starts washing her, the soap perfumed and oily on her fingers. “Why do women always have to leave?” she asks. She still thinks Clytemnestra has the answer to her every question, as she did when they were children. Why do women always have to leave? Clytemnestra repeats the words in her head until they lose meaning. She doesn’t know the answer. She knows only that leaving doesn’t feel like punishment to her but rather a blessing. Life at this moment is like being at sea, open waters all around her and no coastline in sight, the world brimming with possibilities. Helen keeps silent for a while. There is a strange light in her eyes as she gazes at her sister’s body. They have seen each other naked a thousand times, but now it is different. Arms, legs, hips, neck, everything that Helen is touching has been touched by Tantalus, and they can’t ignore it. His mark is deep inside her, not visible yet, but it is there, and soon Clytemnestra’s body will transform because of it—it will become ripe, swollen. Helen’s eyes are shiny with wonder, though there is also anxiety in the way she clings to Clytemnestra’s shoulders as she scrubs them, an eagerness she puts into wringing out her sister’s hair. Clytemnestra lets her be, listening to the sound of dripping water. She understands her sister’s pain. Helen will be forced to sit and witness her biggest fear: Clytemnestra’s body slowly becoming different from hers, until there are no similarities to hold on to. When the water has cooled, Helen stands and takes a step back from the tub. Her eyes are shining, eager for her sister’s attention. “Mother told me that two brothers will soon be here,” she | 0 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 42 | `I am older than you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its age, there was no more to be said. At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out, `Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon. `Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, `are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria--"' `Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver. `I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: `Did you speak?' `Not I!' said the Lory hastily. `I thought you did,' said the Mouse. `--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"' `Found WHAT?' said the Duck. `Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.' `I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?' The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, `"--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. `As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: `it doesn't seem to dry me at all.' `In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, `I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--' `Speak English!' said the Eaglet. `I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!' And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. `What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone, `was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.' `What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. `Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter | 1 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 69 | smiled. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No doubt she'd been a virgin; the better brothels could always find a virgin, if the purse was fat enough. She had light red hair and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw that her bosom was freckled as well. "I named her Barra," she said as the child nursed. "She looks so like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair . . ." "She does." Eddard Stark had touched the baby's fine, dark hair. It A GAME OF THRONES 335 flowed through his fingers like black silk. Robert's firstborn had had the same fine hair, he seemed to recall. "Tell him that when you see him, milord, as it ... as it please you. Tell him how beautiful she is." "I will," Ned had promised her. That was his curse. Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises he'd made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price he'd paid to keep them. "And tell him I've not been with no one else. I swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping he'd come back. So you'll tell him I'm waiting, won't you? I don't want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always good to me, truly." Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. "I will tell him, child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting." She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts? "Lord Baelish, what do you know of Robert's bastards?" "Well, he has more than you, for a start." "How many?" Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the back of his cloak. "Does it matter? If you bed enough women, some will give you presents, and His Grace has never been shy on that count. I know he's acknowledged that boy at Storm's End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed. He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to the Lady Selyse, one of her bedmaids. Renly says that Robert carried the girl upstairs during the feast, and broke in the wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. Lord Stannis seemed to think that was a blot on the honor of his wife's House, so when the boy was born, he shipped him off to Renly." He gave Ned a sideways glance. "I've also heard whispers | 1 |
78 | Pineapple Street.txt | 43 | word but judge allowing?? It was everything I’d once feared—looking like a desperate interloper—but now I cared far less about that than about what this might do to Britt’s testimony, or what it might do to my own testimony tomorrow. Omar did not deserve this. 12:20: So they’ve been in bench conference forever, I can hardly even hear anything ughghghghgh I was at the checkout counter; I was walking down the icy sidewalk; I was drinking my bottled Frappuccino on the corner like a wino. 12:45: They got like 2 more qs out and now another bench conference 1:15: Can’t believe I’m missing class to stare at these lawyers’ backs The call from Amy March came a little after five. I was lying on the bed in a sandpapery hotel robe, my hair wet, unable to nap because the elevator was too loud through my wall. She said, “I know you might have heard some things today. I don’t want you to worry. Listen, though, nothing’s for sure yet, but we might—we’re reevaluating if we want you on the stand.” The smoke detector on the ceiling blinked red—a tiny, constant test-warning. She said, “It seems their whole tack is to centralize you in all this, to cast doubts on your honesty and intentions.” “So shouldn’t the judge see me so he knows that’s not true?” She hesitated. “We do want that testimony about her planner, but putting you up could backfire.” She sounded so apologetic, as if the issue were my ego rather than the case. “We genuinely have enough with the blood. That’s the core of our argument. You’re one person who should’ve been interviewed, but we have others. They’re building up to hitting you hard on cross, and if we don’t put you up, it signals we have plenty without you.” I said, “That makes sense.” It did, but I could hear the devastation in my own voice and certainly Amy could, too. I said, “We won’t have a chance to name Denny Bloch, then.” “I know, I know,” she said. “But at this point, I think it dilutes the case.” She sounded so careful, so conciliatory. Not for the first time, I worried Amy thought I was hung up on my own agenda. I said, “Can I come watch the proceedings, then?” I already knew the answer: I’d be a distraction there, too. What she said, though, was “You’re still on our list; nothing’s definite. If you can stay in town that’s great, and you’re still sequestered.” “Right.” “We’ll probably rest late Monday or early Tuesday, and then you can go.” I calculated that I could use the next few days as a writing retreat. I was deep into my research on Marion Wong and the Mandarin Film company. I could lose myself in that all day. But writing time was a sorry consolation prize. All I wanted was to be on the stand. Your name had been sitting in my throat for four years, waiting to get out. I’d been waiting four years to see Omar, to look | 0 |
97 | What-Dreams-May-Come.txt | 85 | business, but a tailor’s shop? That intrigued her. “My father was a tailor,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps yours found an interest in the profession as well, though I didn’t know barons often purchased shops and trades like this.” “They don’t. My father was unconventional in many ways—this, in particular—and if he hadn’t been so profitable, as well as attentive to his seat in Lords, he probably would have been shunned by the upper ten thousand. There are few acceptable professions for a gentleman to begin with, and most of Society would agree that a baron who spends his time among the working class is an insult to his station.” He sat forward so he was looking at the same page as her, his frown far less appealing than his smile. For a moment there, he had actually been happy. “From what I understand in this letter—which is far less than I’d like, mind you—the tailor in question is in need of supplies and has sent me a request to purchase them. I would have thought he purchased such things himself.” Lucy considered that. “Unless your father took it upon himself to be a patron,” she suggested. “Perhaps the tailor has been struggling, and the late Lord Calloway was a benevolent supporter.” Simon frowned even more. “From the income I have seen in my accounts, Mr. Pike is hardly struggling.” “Ah.” Lucy was pretty sure she knew exactly what the situation was, though she had no idea how to explain it to a man who had been born to a fortune rather than having to build it up through his own efforts. Running his father’s businesses had given him a good understanding of how to raise capital through a trade, but some things could come only through experience. But what reason would he have to listen to anything she said? “I believe,” she began slowly, “the tailor is right.” She searched the many papers strewn about and found one that listed the general income from the shop, as well as what money came into Simon’s coffers each month. The two were not dissimilar. “I could be wrong, but I think I understand what is happening.” Simon leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on her. “Then, that makes one of us. If you enlighten me, Lucy, I will be most in your debt.” It was by far the other way around, but Lucy wouldn’t say so, not unless she admitted the truth about herself. One problem at a time. “I believe all profits beyond Mr. Pike’s salary are sent to you, as the owner.” “That is the point of purchasing the shop, is it not? To generate income? The man is paid a considerable amount, from what I can tell.” “Enough to care for his family, yes, but not enough to purchase tools and fabric. Expenses that are usually taken from the excess profits . . . my lord,” she added because she didn’t want him to think she was being condescending. She bit her lip; she hardly expected a | 0 |
34 | The Call of the Wild.txt | 28 | the man who made it and the reason he made it remained mystery. Another time they chanced upon the time-graven wreckage of a hunting lodge, and amid the shreds of rotted blankets John Thornton found a long-barrelled flint-lock. He knew it for a Hudson Bay Company gun of the young days in the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its height in beaver skins packed flat, And that was all--no hint as to the man who in an early day had reared the lodge and left the gun among the blankets. Spring came on once more, and at the end of all their wandering they found, not the Lost Cabin, but a shallow placer in a broad valley where the gold showed like yellow butter across the bottom of the washing-pan. They sought no farther. Each day they worked earned them thousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was sacked in moose-hide bags, fifty pounds to the bag, and piled like so much firewood outside the spruce-bough lodge. Like giants they toiled, days flashing on the heels of days like dreams as they heaped the treasure up. There was nothing for the dogs to do, save the hauling in of meat now and again that Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours musing by the fire. The vision of the short-legged hairy man came to him more frequently, now that there was little work to be done; and often, blinking by the fire, Buck wandered with him in that other world which he remembered. The salient thing of this other world seemed fear. When he watched the hairy man sleeping by the fire, head between his knees and hands clasped above, Buck saw that he slept restlessly, with many starts and awakenings, at which times he would peer fearfully into the darkness and fling more wood upon the fire. Did they walk by the beach of a sea, where the hairy man gathered shell- fish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man's heels; and they were alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering, for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the trees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent beneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he slept. And closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It | 1 |
82 | Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt | 99 | picked up a virus somewhere. With an exhilarating sense of purpose, I sprinted back home, ensuring I returned suitably sweaty and out of breath. When Benjamin emerged fresh from the shower, I greeted him brightly. “Morning, Chief.” “Good morning.” He was in a crisp white shirt and light gray pants, his suit jacket slung over his arm. “I want eggs. You’ll have two slices of toast.” “Yes, Chief.” In the kitchen, I prepared his scrambled eggs the French way—stirring constantly with a pat of butter. Benjamin was on his laptop at the breakfast bar, but we didn’t chat. The silence had less to do with our M/s agreement, and more to do with his disinterest in me. I couldn’t blame him. My universe had dwindled over our years together and I had little, if anything, of interest to contribute. When I set the plate in front of him, he spoke. “I’m worried about you.” “Me?” My voice was tight. “Why?” “I think you have an exercise addiction.” “I don’t,” I said breezily. “I just like to stay in shape for you.” His gray eyes appraised me over a forkful of eggs. “You’ve gotten too thin again. You know I don’t like it.” “I’m going to build up my lower body,” I said. “Get more muscle on my thighs and booty.” “You can go to the gym for one hour from now on. Not two.” I couldn’t question his dictate; that was our agreement. I followed his rules or there were repercussions. But one hour was not long enough for me to sneak out the back and go to Jesse’s apartment. We would barely arrive when we’d have to turn around. Again, I worried that Benjamin knew about the affair, but passive-aggressive punishment was not his style. If he knew I was cheating on him, I would feel it. “David Vega’s wife is planning a breast cancer gala. I told him you’d help out.” “Of course,” I said, though I already had a charity case. “May I go to the drugstore today? I need some vitamins. And a few toiletries.” “You may.” He swallowed the last forkful of eggs. “You need to find a way to contribute to society, Hazel. It’s embarrassing to have a wife who does nothing but jog and lift weights.” My face felt hot with humiliation, though I should have been used to it by now. “What about your little bakery idea?” I’d told him my dream in the early stages of our relationship, when I thought he was kind and nurturing. It resurfaced on occasion—as a way to demean me and my puny goals. “You’re obviously not an entrepreneur.” He slid his empty plate toward me. “But you could design a menu, decorate the place. It would give you some profile at least. And then I’ll find someone to run it.” “Thank you, Chief.” “Do some sketches. Look into some locations. And call Vanessa Vega,” he said, standing. “She’s expecting to hear from you.” * * * Later, I drove to Walgreens, then to the deli for soup | 0 |
48 | Wuthering Heights.txt | 31 | put in prison and hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide his cowardly agitation. Still I was not rid of him. When at length they com- pelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the premises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the roadside, and checked Minny and took hold of me. " 'Miss Catherine, I'm ill grieved,' he began, 'but it's rayther too bad------' "I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He let go, thundering one of his hor- rid curses, and I galloped home more than half out of my senses. "I didn't bid you good-night that evening, and I didn't go to Wuthering Heights the next. I wished to go exceedingly, but I was strangely excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes, and some- times shuddered at the thought of encountering Hare- ton. On the third day I took courage---at least I couldn't bear longer suspense, and stole off once more. I went at five o'clock, and walked, fancying I might manage to creep into the house and up to Linton's room unob- served. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah received me, and saying 'the lad was mend- ing nicely,' showed me into a small, tidy, carpeted apart- ment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he would neither speak to me nor look at me through a whole hour, Ellen; he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he did open his mouth it was to utter the falsehood that I had oc- casioned the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a faint 'Cath- erine!' He did not reckon on being answered so. But I wouldn't turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it was prop- erly formed. It had appeared wrong to take the jour- ney once, now it seemed wrong to refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said 'Yes,' and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was forced to pass the front windows to get to the court; it was no use trying to conceal my presence. " 'Young master is in the house,' said Zillah, as she saw me making for the parlour. I went in. Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the room directly. Lin- ton sat in the great armchair half asleep. Walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be true,--- " 'As you don't like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to hurt | 1 |
58 | Confidence_-a-Novel.txt | 59 | was rapt except for Susan Lehigh, who was standing at the back of the audience, checking her watch. Each second she spent looking at the watch’s face, I became increasingly sick to my stomach, nervous for Orson, angry at Carol. Orson went through his speech, I talked about dealing heroin, the women in the living room gasped and sighed and interrupted Orson to ask questions about his noble and beautiful life. And then it came time for the Synthesis, and Carol craned her neck toward Susan Lehigh. “Susan! We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Susan Lehigh said, wrinkling her nose under her sunglasses. Carol and the other women tried to encourage her, asking her to be Orson’s guinea pig, to try something new for a change. And where a normal person would have given in, Susan held fast. “I’d really rather not,” she said severely. So Orson Synthesized another woman, an investor in a startup Carol had also invested in, and the woman cried and shivered and the room erupted in applause. And afterward Carol invited us all into the dining room, where her chef had prepared a buffet of various meats and vegetables and fruits and cheeses. I bummed Orson’s lighter and a cigarette and went out to smoke on the balcony overlooking the city. It was night and the streets were yellow-orange under the streetlights, the people on them doll-like. I leaned on the guardrail and blew curls of smoke into the air ahead of me, imagining them floating over the city like cumulus clouds. I turned around and saw Susan Lehigh closing the sliding glass door behind her, a cigarette of her own between her fingers. She leaned on the guardrail next to me. “Do you mind giving me a light?” she asked. She was still wearing her sunglasses. I lit her cigarette and she puffed on it with the assuredness of a lifelong smoker, turning to survey the city. “Pretty at night, isn’t it, Ezra?” I nodded, remembering that I was supposed to have grown up on the streets. “I’m used to seeing it from the alleys.” “Mm,” she said, and took another drag. “What a nice change of pace for you.” “It really is,” I said, feeling somehow like I was defending myself. “It’s incredible, the world Orson opened up for me.” She looked at me. “I know about you and Orson, Ezra.” “What do you know, Ms. Lehigh?” “You haven’t touched heroin. And he hasn’t lived that noble Nebraskan life. It’s obvious, don’t you think?” I swallowed. “You’re flim-flam men,” she said. “Con men.” Adrenaline pricked beneath my skin. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say. “It makes me sad we gave you that impression, because we’re really not.” I was babbling. She laughed. “Relax, I’m not going to expose you or whatever it is you’re worried about. I think you’re both very smart. I admire what you do.” She tucked a length of hair behind her ear. “You know your audience, you | 0 |
4 | Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt | 13 | her question. `Why did they live at the bottom of a well?' The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.' `There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.' `No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be ONE.' `One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--' `What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise. `Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time. `I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move one place on.' He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate. Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?' `You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?' `But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark. `Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.' This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it. `They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--' `Why with an M?' said Alice. `Why not?' said the March Hare. Alice was silent. The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness-- you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?' `Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--' `Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter. This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot. `At any rate | 1 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 65 | It possessed three distinct propulsion systems: one for standard propulsion, one for wormhole traversal, and a mysterious auxiliary system that the computer struggled to analyze. Lu-puk promptly ordered a diagnostic test, considering the possibility of an internal issue with his scanners. The crew of the third ship comprised various species, including the bipedal mammals from the first vessel, as well as a few artificial entities. Lu-puk licked his lips and glanced back at the moaning Bliddit. Being on duty when new species stumbled into the trap meant a bonus payout. He could afford to purchase more delicacies for his mate next time, perhaps even some for their brood of twenty. An alert appeared on the screen, causing his tail to lash harder and his spikes to bristle at full attention. If the information was correct, he would receive a significantly larger bonus than usual. Double-checking the data, he transmitted the stream to the admiral’s ship and sent a signal. Within moments, the image of Admiral Plu-tik—seven meters tall and adorned in deep red-purple hues—materialized within his mind. “What is it, Commander?” the admiral inquired. “Three ships have arrived simultaneously,” Lu-puk reported. “Multiple alien species, including one artificial and another that we have encountered before.” Something in his tone must have alerted Plu-tik, as the admiral’s spikes also rose. “Harvested?” he questioned. “No, sir. Last time, they destroyed their data before we could determine their location.” The admiral’s inner eyelids flickered back and forth, and a grin spread across his face, exposing his teeth. “Data?” he asked eagerly. “Sent,” Lu-puk replied. A moment of silence followed as the data streamed into Admiral Plu-tik. Lu-puk glanced at the Bliddit once more, contemplating whether he had time for another bite before the admiral finished reviewing. He suspected he did, but he didn’t want to risk it. Eating while conversing with a superior was an invitation for punishment, ranging from food confiscation to becoming the meal himself. He rubbed the scarred gouge on his side, a reminder of his past insolence during basic training. No, he would exercise patience and see what transpired. “Very well,” Admiral Plu-tik declared. “Why can’t the computer analyze the propulsion system of the smallest ship?” “Unknown, sir,” Lu-puk responded. “A diagnostic and sensor adjustment is underway. Shall we commence the harvest?” The admiral’s inner eyelids closed, and he emitted a long, contemplative hiss. “Are they trapped?” “The two larger ships, yes, Admiral. The status of the third ship is unknown, but they are not making any attempts to escape at present, only conducting scans.” “For now, leave them be,” the admiral instructed. “Monitor and report any unusual activity. And ensure your computer is functioning properly. I want to know the propulsion system of the other ships before the next cycle begins.” The image of the admiral gradually faded from Lu-puk’s mind, and he refocused his attention on the computer. He commanded a thorough scan of all the creatures aboard the ships, as well as their mechanical, electronic, and quantum systems. It would take hours to complete, affording him ample time. Slithering | 0 |
14 | Five On A Treasure Island.txt | 84 | went out into the garden. She had just taken a piece of bread and cut herself some cheese. It was all left on her plate. The other three stared at it in distress. Anne was upset. How could she have been so silly as to forget she mustn't mention Tim? "Oh, please call George back!" she said. "She didn't mean to kick me. It was an accident." But her aunt was very angry with George. "Finish your meal," she said to the others. "I expect George will go into the sulks now. Dear, dear, she is such a difficult child!" The others didn't mind about George going into the sulks. What they did mind was that George might refuse to take them to see the wreck now! They finished the meal in silence. Their aunt went to see if Uncle Quentin wanted any more pie. He was having his meal in the study by himself. As soon as she had gone out of the room, Anne picked up the bread and cheese from George's plate and went out into the garden. The boys didn't scold her. They knew that Anne's tongue very often ran away with her- but she always tried to make up for it afterwards. They thought it was very brave of her to go and find George. George was lying on her back under a big tree in the garden. Anne went up to her. "I'm sorry I nearly made a mistake, George," she said. "Here's your bread and cheese. I've brought it for you. I promise I'll never forget not to mention Tim again." George sat up. "I've a good mind not to take you to see the wreck," she said. "Stupid baby!" Anne's heart sank. This was what she had feared. "Well," she said, "you needn't take me, of course. But you might take the boys, George. After all, they didn't do anything silly. And anyway, you gave me an awful kick. Look at the bruise." George looked at it. Then she looked at Anne. "But wouldn't you be miserable if I took Julian and Dick without you?" she asked. "Of course," said Anne. "But I don't want to make them miss a treat, even if I have to." Then George did a surprising thing for her. She gave Anne a hug! Then she immediately looked most ashamed of herself, for she felt sure that no boy would have done that! And she always tried to act like a boy. "It's all right," she said, gruffly, taking the bread and cheese. "You were nearly very silly- and I gave you a kick- so it's all square. Of course you can come this afternoon." Anne sped back to tell the boys that everything was all right- and in fifteen minutes' time four children ran down to the beach. By a boat was a brown-faced fisher-boy, about fourteen years old. He had Timothy with him. "Boat's all ready, Master George," he said with a grin. "And Tim's ready, too." "Thanks," said George, and told the others to get in. | 1 |
38 | The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt | 84 | said Hall. "Warn't speakin' to us, wuz he?" "Disgraceful!" said Mr. Bunting, within. "'Disgraceful,'" said Mr. Henfrey. "I heard it--distinct. "Who's that speaking now?" asked Henfrey. "Mr. Cuss, I s'pose," said Hall. "Can you hear--anything?" Silence. The sounds within indistinct and perplexing. "Sounds like throwing the table-cloth about," said Hall. Mrs. Hall appeared behind the bar. Hall made gestures of silence and invitation. This roused Mrs. Hall's wifely opposition. "What yer listenin' there for, Hall?" she asked. "Ain't you nothin' better to do--busy day like this?" Hall tried to convey everything by grimaces and dumb show, but Mrs. Hall was obdurate. She raised her voice. So Hall and Henfrey, rather crestfallen, tip-toed back to the bar, gesticulating to explain to her. At first she refused to see anything in what they had heard at all. Then she insisted on Hall keeping silence, while Henfrey told her his story. She was inclined to think the whole business nonsense --perhaps they were just moving the furniture about. "I heerd'n say 'disgraceful'; that I did," said Hall. "I heerd that, Mis' Hall," said Henfrey. "Like as not--" began Mrs. Hall. "Hsh!" said Mr. Teddy Henfrey. "Didn't I hear the window?" "What window?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Parlour window," said Henfrey. Every one stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall's eyes, directed straight before her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door, the road white and vivid, and Huxter's shop-front blistering in the June sun. Abruptly Huxter's door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes staring with excitement, arms gesticulating. "Yap!" cried Huxter. "Stop thief!" and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates, and vanished. Simultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows being closed. Hall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the Tap rushed out at once pell-mell into the street. They saw some one whisk round the corner towards the down road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the air that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were standing astonished or running towards them. Mr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and the two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting incoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner of the church wall. They appear to have jumped to the impossible conclusion that this was the Invisible Man suddenly become visible, and set off at once along the lane in pursuit. But Hall had hardly run a dozen yards before he gave a loud shout of astonishment and went flying headlong sideways, clutching one of the labourers and bringing him to the ground. He had been charged just as one charges a man at football. The second labourer came round in a circle, stared, and conceiving that Hall had tumbled over of his own accord, turned to resume the pursuit, only to be tripped by the ankle just as Huxter had been. Then, as the first labourer struggled to his feet, he was kicked sideways by a blow that might have felled an | 1 |
72 | Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt | 60 | us on the rooftop, the features snapped right into place—fast and easy, like normal. When I saw Sue and Mrs. Kim—looking positively ethereal in their traditional hanbok dresses—I saw their lovely faces right away. I could see Witt and Mr. Kim just fine in their suits as well—their faces just sensibly resting on their heads as if they’d never been gone. If I didn’t know the person at all, though—Witt’s grandmother, for example—the faces stayed disjointed. If I knew the person a little bit—an acquaintance, say … the face might start out unreadable but then slide into place a little later, like it resisted for a minute and then finally gave in. It was unbelievably trippy. But it was also progress. I confess, I’d been hoping to put on that dress, walk out on that roof, and see every face with total ease in a blaze of triumph—just exactly like old times. But it wasn’t exactly like old times. In some ways, it was better. Because seeing familiar faces again was a joy. And not seeing unfamiliar faces? It was fine. It was manageable. The last time I’d been on this roof at a party, I was positively nauseated with fear. But tonight? I was okay. If I recognized a person, great. If I didn’t, that was okay, too. That was triumphant in its own quiet way. Before the party, I’d come up with a throwdown phrase in case I started to panic, and it went like this: “Help me out here. I have a facial recognition problem. Have we met before?” Want to know what the hardest part of that phrase was? The word help.” Which, as we know, had never been my thing. But I wasn’t asking anyone for anything hard, I told myself. I wasn’t asking for help with trigonometry, or climbing El Capitan, or storming the beaches of Normandy. All anyone had to do was answer one easy little question. This, I reminded myself, like all hard things in life, was an opportunity. A chance for me to practice asking for help. And: Have we met before? You couldn’t buy a better starter phrase for that. A person could fulfill that request with one syllable. That’s what I told myself. No big deal. I practiced it over and over while I was getting dressed, and then I’d walked across the roof—as ready as I’d ever be—while arguing with the nervousness in my chest in a way that would make Dr. Nicole very proud. This was doable. No dry heaving out behind the mechanical room necessary. I could just … breathe. And admire Mrs. Kim’s magazine-worthy tables. And feel the rays of the setting sun warming my skin. And enjoy my skirt’s ruffles swishing around my calves. And sway a little bit to the music of the band. If that’s not a triumph, I don’t know what is. * * * ON A SCIENTIFIC level, it was totally fascinating to watch the fusiform face gyrus somewhere in between functioning and not functioning—seeing it do its thing in real time. | 0 |
74 | Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt | 86 | was a pretty simple merger, but you never knew what crazy requests would come down the pike at the eleventh hour. “I can stay,” Finn says. I shake my head. “We both know I’m using this excuse to avoid thinking about the mess I’ve made of my personal life.” He pauses and then says, “You’re a good person, Daphne. It will all work out.” So why hasn’t it yet? I want to ask. But I don’t. After work, I walk down the tree-lined sidewalk slowly, savoring my favorite time of day, when the heat dissipates and the shadows play, when lights from inside happy homes shine on families filled with love. I pin on a smiling face as I walk through my front door. Henry races through the hallway in clean but ever-so-slightly too-tight pajamas that accentuate his tummy and jumps into my arms. I bury my face in his warm neck, kissing his wet hair that smells of baby shampoo. The panic of how I almost risked his future today overwhelms me. The day he was born I promised I would protect him no matter what, that I would choose him over everyone and everything else. Today I almost broke that promise. But, in the end, I didn’t have to. We’re okay. It’s all okay. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask as I put him down. “Making dinner.” “Is that what I smell?” I walk into the kitchen, where music is softly playing on the Bluetooth speaker and Steven, as if he is in Top Chef, sprinkles salt on something in a pan. “I’m sorry. Who are you and what have you done with my baby daddy? Clean kid? Dinner on the stove?” He turns and smiles that glittering Steven smile. I have to admit, this picture of domesticity is pretty appealing. He pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass and me a glass of sparkling water. “What are we celebrating?” I ask. “Being alive.” And I remember what I adore about him. Today I had been consumed with the idea that I have ruined everything, that I have done nothing productive and that I am making everything worse for everyone around me, while Steven is celebrating because he has oxygen in his lungs. And so I decide that I will be like Steven. I will celebrate tonight because I am still youngish and upright and healthy, and I have a beautiful child. “Henry,” Steven says, as he raises his glass, “to your wonderful mommy.” “My beautiful mommy!” Henry chimes in, hugging my leg. He looks up at me. “Mommy, Aunt Lanier came over when you were gone.” “Oh, yeah,” Steven says. “She said… I don’t know. Something, something, something, she’s sorry. Something, something, something, can you meet her at camp at five tomorrow?” “Um, no. No, I cannot.” June walks in, and I squeal and hug her. It’s the first time I have seen June wearing something other than a camp shirt in years, and I like it. My heart aches a little that Lanier won’t | 0 |
27 | Silas Marner.txt | 60 | why Squire Cass throws big raucous parties and spends his time at the local pub--his wife died long ago. Eliot expresses here her ideal of woman's role--as a source of order, refinement, and loving feelings. Lacking a mother, the Cass sons have turned out badly. Compare this all-male family to Silas Marner's, which seems to consist only of himself, a mother, and a sister. Eliot lets you hear the village gossip about Dunstan and Godfrey. While Dunstan sounds thoroughly bad, Godfrey seems good-hearted. But people have been worried about Godfrey's behavior lately. Everyone's hoping he'll straighten himself out by marrying Nancy Lammeter, obviously the daughter of another important Raveloe family. Now you meet the Cass brothers in person, so you can make up your own mind about them. As Godfrey stands by the fire, the parlor around him defines his gloomy mood. It's dimly lit and messy, full of pleasure's leftovers--discarded hunting clothes, half-empty mugs of beer, ashy pipes, and a dying fire. When Dunsey, who's been drinking, strolls into the room, his jeering tone lives up to the villagers' opinion of him. Agitated, Godfrey demands that Dunstan return the money he borrowed from Godfrey, which was a tenant's rent payment. Dunstan knows how to manipulate Godfrey, though. He threatens to tell the Squire about Godfrey's marriage to drunken Molly Farren, and Godfrey reacts with fear. Now you know why lately Godfrey's been acting strangely. NOTE: PARALLELS Like Silas, Godfrey is taken advantage of by a thieving brother. (Dane was like a brother to Silas.) Both hope to marry a nice young woman but are prevented by shameful situations--Silas' conviction and Godfrey's marriage. What obvious contrasts, however, can you point to? This is the first scene Eliot dramatizes directly. She doesn't comment much, except to show characters' gestures and expressions. In slangy, lively speech, the brothers refer casually to people they know, whom you haven't met. You've caught them in the midst of life, with upcoming events (the hunt, Mrs. Osgood's party) and ongoing quarrels. Afraid of their father, they blackmail each other. Godfrey declares he may confess his marriage to the Squire to shake off Dunstan's hold on him. But Eliot takes you into his thoughts, to show that this springs from desperation more than courage--Molly's been threatening to reveal herself to his father, anyway. He thinks over the consequences of confession: losing Nancy and being disinherited. Bred to a useless life, he couldn't do anything for a living. Dunstan knows how to handle his brother. He sits back, waiting until Godfrey has cowardly talked himself out of this move. Godfrey realizes that he must sell his horse Wildfire to get the money. Actually, this is Dunstan's suggestion, and Dunstan convinces his flustered brother to let him sell the animal. Compare Dunstan's cool confidence in his own luck to Godfrey's nervous decision to risk getting caught rather than turn himself in. Which brother seems the stronger in this scene? Which brother do you like better? Why? After Dunstan has left, Eliot enters Godfrey's thoughts with sympathetic insight into his problems. Surprisingly, | 1 |
56 | Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt | 61 | do you think you’re so complicated?” “Because everyone else does.” I shake my head, rolling to my side to face her and propping my head on a hand. “Not me. You’re a Rubik’s Cube with four blocks.” She laughs, reaching across her body to smack my chest. “Hey.” “A maze with a straight line through the middle. It’s just that most men are quite stupid.” I can tell she wants to be mad but the delight in her eyes burns bright. She reaches up, brushing my hair off my forehead. “Careful,” she says. “Careful what?” Her lips are soft and wet, her neck bare and stretching endlessly, soft for my mouth. I can see her pulse beating just beneath her jaw and want to press my face there and absorb the feeling of her fire thrumming under my touch. “You gonna rough me up for being straight with you that you’re just a big, messy softie?” She drags her fingers along my temple and down my jaw. “Are you trying to make me want you?” “I think that’s the problem,” I say, adjusting my head in my hand. “I don’t really have to try.” Fizzy smiles distractedly. “Because you’re so sexy?” “Obviously.” She rolls back to her side, tracing her thumb along my bottom lip, and not even an oncoming train could get me to evade her touch. I can see in her eyes, too, that she understood my true meaning. I don’t have to try with her because everything between us is too easy. Too obvious. Too good. The idea that she’d end up with a Jude or even a Nick seems laughable now. But so is the idea that she’d end up with me. Trying to clear the fog of alcohol and desire, I pull away from her touch. Her eyes refocus and she blinks away from my lips. “Uh-oh,” she whispers. “The spell is broken.” “Nah, it’s late. I’m sure you’ve got more wedding celebrations early tomorrow. I should head home.” Fizzy frowns. “Let’s put on a movie or something. You’ve been drinking.” “I’ll cab it.” I move to climb from bed, but she cups a hand over my forearm, stilling me. “Connor. You should stay here. I can behave myself. I promise.” I laugh. “You’re not the only one who needs to behave, sweet. Historically I just have more self-control. I don’t think I do tonight.” She sucks in a sharp breath and exhales it shakily. “I’ll have it for us, then. I know we can’t fool around.” “For about a hundred reasons,” I say. “The most obvious one being the show. A second, equally important one being that for you it can be just sex, and for me it’s something more sincere. I don’t want one without the other, and unfortunately, sincerity seems to be off the table.” “Does it?” she asks quietly. I stare at her, at her thoughtful pout and lashes fanned on her cheeks as she closes her eyes and exhales again. “What does that mean?” I ask. “I don’t think this is just | 0 |
15 | Frankenstein.txt | 53 | me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said, "I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile." "I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear." Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness." These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration; | 1 |
60 | Divine Rivals.txt | 93 | tires were coated in mud, its metal body dinged by bullets. It rolled in from the western road, which Iris knew led to the war front. “Oh my gods,” Marisol said with a gasp. She dropped her basket and ran, following the lorry as it drove down another road. Iris had no choice but to set down her basket and follow her. “Marisol! Marisol, what’s happening?” If Marisol heard her, she didn’t slow. Her black hair was like a pennant as she raced, as everyone around them followed suit, until a huge crowd gathered around the lorry. It parked at the infirmary, and that was when Iris, sore for breath with a stitch in her side, realized what this was. The lorry had brought a load of wounded soldiers. “Quickly, get the stretchers!” “Easy, now. Easy.” “Where’s a nurse? We need a nurse, please!” It was madness as the lorry’s back doors were opened and the wounded were carefully unloaded. Iris wanted to help. She wanted to step forward and do something—Do something! her mind screamed—but she could only stand there, frozen to the road, watching. The soldiers were dirty, smeared in grime and blood. One of them was weeping, his right leg blown off at the knee. Another was missing an arm, moaning. Their countenances were blanched in shock, creased in agony. Some were unconscious, with battered faces and ripped uniforms. Iris felt the world tilt. But no one paid her any attention as she turned and vomited. Get a grip on yourself, she thought, hands on her knees, eyes closed. This is war. This is what you signed up for. Don’t look away from it. She straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She turned, envisioning her brother. If Forest were in that lorry, she would go to him with confidence. She would be calm and collected and helpful. She wove through the crowd and helped a soldier down from the lorry bed. Iris noticed the girl could hardly stand upright; she had a gut wound. The blood on her dark green uniform was sticky—it smeared onto Iris’s hand and jumpsuit, crimson as a rose—and the girl groaned as Iris eased her inside the infirmary. There weren’t enough beds. A nurse at the door motioned for Iris to take the girl down the right-hand corridor after looking at her wounds. “Find any place you can where she’ll be comfortable,” the nurse had said, and Iris was now searching for a spot. But there was only the floor—even all the chairs were taken—and Iris could feel the girl slowly losing consciousness. “You’re all right,” Iris said to her when she whimpered. “You’re safe now.” “Just … put me down … on the … floor.” Iris did, gently, leaning her against the wall. The girl closed her eyes, hands pressed to her stomach. Overwhelmed, Iris found the closest nurse, who was rushing by with a bucket of bloody water and rags. “Please, there’s a soldier over there who needs attention. I’m not sure what to do to help | 0 |
79 | Quietly-Hostile.txt | 9 | feeling sorry for him. “Ugh, this old brontosaurus thinks this music is still good.” But I get it now, your jam is always gonna sound like your jam, timeless and relevant even if the youths fail to appreciate it. 12. “Let You Down” most romantic lyric, to me: “I’m a puppy for your love” Here I am, wagging my lil fluffy tail, thumping it against the hardwood floor, covered in microscopic bugs, eating my own poop, just desperately trying to get you to kiss me! 13. “Crush” (Radio City version) most romantic lyric, to me: “Lovely lady / Let me drink you, please” This is about eating pussy, right? There’s an earlier lyric in which he says “I am at your feet,” and listen, there are not enough songs about a man getting on the floor and worshipping at his woman’s feet, then working his way up to suck her vaginal fluids dry. That’s so hot. Plus, I love a song about having a crush. I love thinking about crushes. I love the idea that he has a crush on someone but maybe he doesn’t, because there’s a later lyric where he sings, “Crush me, come on, oh yeah,” and he’s definitely talking about her squeezing his head like a juicy plum between her thighs, right? Either way, don’t ever let anyone tell you this dude is not an absolute freak who loves S-E-X. 14. “Belly Belly Nice” most romantic lyric, to me: “You can’t get too much love” I mean, CAN YOU??? My friend Wil Blades, whom I have known forever—literally from back in the days when white kids like him had ill-advised dreadlocks and smoked weed before class and taped Bob Marley posters over their beds—lives in Oakland and plays the Hammond B3 organ, and he’s always touring with cool groups. Dude texts me and is like “GIRL WE’RE OPENING FOR DAVE MATTHEWS BAND AT ALPINE VALLEY THIS SUMMER YOU GOTTA COME.” He told me that if I did, he could get me backstage to meet Dave. Do I want to? No, because I don’t want to humiliate myself. But do I have to? I think I do. Can’t wait to cry on my king while blubbering, “I love you, you’re so romantic!” chub street diet Samantha Irby had the most boring week of all time because she doesn’t live in a culinarily adventurous town, and we told her we wouldn’t publish this if it was just detailed descriptions of every menu item at Olive Garden. Honestly, we aren’t sure why we even asked her to participate in this in the first place, other than that we thought she might have something funny to say about Midwestern casseroles. We reached out to several other writers (you know the ones), but she’s the only one who replied to our email. Damn, she uses a lot of exclamation points. The eagerness to please was palpable. What a huge mistake. [grotesque illustration of Samantha Irby looking pained] Wednesday, February 9 I wake up in a panic at eight thirty because it scares me | 0 |
70 | Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt | 47 | likeness of a giant owl. It looms over us. Set in its eye sockets are polished black stones, and the firelight reflected in them gives them a lifelike appearance. Part of me wonders if it’s alive, if this is the figure Ms. Keane spoke of. I picture it opening its pointed beak, grasping me in its taloned claws. A shudder runs through my body, and as I step back to take in the entirety of the massive carving, my foot nearly slips out from under me. I steady myself and point my flashlight at the wooden planks beneath my sneakers. “It’s wet,” I say. “This whole area right here.” I crouch down and touch the damp planks, a watery substance coating my fingers, and as I examine it in the light, I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s blood that somebody has tried to clean up by flooding the area with water. “Look,” Bezi says. She’s got her light pointed at another path that snakes off the opposite side of the outdoor amphitheater. I wipe my hands on my jeans and march toward the path with Bezi at my heel. This pathway is paved and much narrower than the others. The trees and shrubbery that run alongside it are neatly trimmed. Ahead, a large structure unfolds out of the darkness. Bezi and I find ourselves in the shadow of a massive lodge. Three stories high, it looks similar to the Western Lodge but is triple the size, and its entrance is flanked by two massive carved owls. The upper windows are dark and some are boarded up. A tangle of twisted thorny vines snakes its way up the facade of the building. The path leading to the front steps is smooth and even. Lying directly in the center of it is a shoe. I rush forward and snatch it up. It’s covered in mud and the laces are undone, but I recognize it as soon as I wipe it off with the hem of my shirt. It’s a red sneaker with a yellow swoosh on the side. “Porter.” I take a step toward the building, but Bezi grabs my arm and pulls me back. “We cannot go in there,” she says. “Why not?” Bezi shakes her head. “Think about what happened to Tasha. Maybe the person who did that to her is in there. What do you think they’ll do to us? Nah. We gotta get out of here and get some help.” “We don’t have time to go back. We’re here right now.” I glance around. I hold up the shoe. “This is Porter’s. He was here. He might be in there. Maybe Paige too.” Bezi runs her hands over the sides of her face. “I know. I just—” “You’re scared,” I say. “Look at me. I’m scared out of my mind right now, but we gotta get Paige and Porter, and then we’ll get as far away from here as we can. I don’t care if we have to walk out.” Bezi nods. “If we’re going in, let’s not just walk | 0 |
8 | David Copperfield.txt | 68 | here,' said I, 'I believe there is one person, here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do you remember - hear what I say, with fortitude - think of your great object! - do you remember Martha?' 'Of our town?' I needed no other answer than his face. 'Do you know that she is in London?' 'I have seen her in the streets,' he answered, with a shiver. 'But you don't know,' said I, 'that Emily was charitable to her, with Ham's help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door.' 'Mas'r Davy!' he replied in astonishment. 'That night when it snew so hard?' 'That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?' 'Too well, sir,' he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone. 'You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I could only hope to do so by chance.' 'I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look.' 'It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her tonight?' He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room, put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet, which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes, neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a night, no doubt. 'The time was, Mas'r Davy,' he said, as we came downstairs, 'when I thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt underneath my Em'ly's feet. God forgive me, theer's a difference now!' As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words as formerly, that Ham was just the same, 'wearing away his life with kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuring, and liked by all'. I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind was, in reference to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should encounter? 'I doen't know, sir,' he replied. 'I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I can't awize myself of it, no matters.' I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we were all three on the | 1 |
46 | To Kill a Mockingbird.txt | 81 | all interested in our private lives. She was our friend. How so reasonable a creature could live in peril of everlasting torment was incomprehensible. "That ain't right, Miss Maudie. You're the best lady I know." Miss Maudie grinned. "Thank you ma'am. Thing is, foot-washers think women are a sin by definition. They take the Bible literally, you know." "Is that why Mr. Arthur stays in the house, to keep away from women?" "I've no idea." "It doesn't make sense to me. Looks like if Mr. Arthur was hankerin' after heaven he'd come out on the porch at least. Atticus says God's loving folks like you love yourself-" Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. "You are too young to understand it," she said, "but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of- oh, of your father." I was shocked. "Atticus doesn't drink whiskey," I said. "He never drunk a drop in his life- nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn't like it." Miss Maudie laughed. "Wasn't talking about your father," she said. "What I meant was, if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn't be as hard as some men are at their best. There are just some kind of men who- who're so busy worrying about the next world they've never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results." "Do you think they're true, all those things they say about B- Mr. Arthur?" "What things?" I told her. "That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford," said Miss Maudie grimly. "Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of the night and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie, move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while." I was sure it did. Miss Maudie's voice was enough to shut anybody up. "No, child," she said, "that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was a boy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely as he knew how." "You reckon he's crazy?" Miss Maudie shook her head. "If he's not he should be by now. The things that happen to people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, what secrets-" "Atticus don't ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don't do in the yard," I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. "Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn't even thinking about your father, but now that I am I'll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How'd you like some fresh poundcake to take home?" I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. | 1 |
77 | Maame.txt | 6 | thankfully Callum and his table don’t hear her. I’ve read many internet tales of ghosting, but it’s usually after the first date or a couple of days texting, so disappearing after the third date is new. My first thought is: What did she do wrong? Then I shake my head and call myself a bad feminist. “I can’t believe people really don’t call you back after you’ve slept with them,” I say. “Men don’t,” Cam says. “Not even a bedside note?” I ask. Cam laughs at this. “He’s not even that good-looking,” Jo says. “Not to say the good-looking ones are excused, but he’s … so plain!” “Those kind of men always have the most audacity,” Cam remarks. “Are you going to say something?” Jo asks. “No,” Cam replies. “Kirsten wouldn’t thank me for it. She’s talking to someone new now, anyway.” “Where is she finding all these eligible—although questionable—men?” Jo asks. “I have a friend who’s been looking with no luck.” I should probably contribute something meaningful to this conversation; it’s like doing a group presentation and the two alphas dominate, but soon the teacher is going to look my way, say, “You’ve been quiet, Maddie,” and stick me with a question I have no hope of answering. Cam pulls a face. “Online.” “You’re not a fan?” I say, curious. “I don’t know how you could be,” she replies. “With shit algorithms that present you with profiles proudly displaying DTF? It’s hard to get excited.” I nod supportively whilst making a mental note to google “DTF.” I think it means “down to fuck,” but I’d like to make sure. “Cam is a little old-fashioned,” Jo mock-whispers. “I’m less so.” This surprises me as I assumed it would be the other way around. Cam gives the impression that she eats time-wasters alive, whilst Jo looks like she’d expect flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolates on a first date. “You can afford to be,” Cam says. “You have Sam.” “I don’t have Sam,” Jo corrects. “Who’s Sam?” “Just a guy I’m seeing,” Jo says, running a finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s not serious.” If I ask why, is that intrusive? “They’re just sleeping together,” Cam explains. Jo nods and it’s a very nonchalant, you-get-it nod. But I don’t. “Is he not boyfriend material?” I ask. Jo gets a faraway look in her eye. “Don’t get me wrong—he’s gorgeous. Tall, dark, and handsome.” “Literally,” Cam adds. “He’s six two, Black, and very good-looking.” “He’s also an artist,” Jo continues. “We’re part of this big group of friends from uni so we’ve always hung out and one night about … two months ago? It just happened. Sometimes he comes by the flat, so you’ll meet him eventually.” Jo clasps her hands under her chin and smiles to herself. “He’s great, but we both don’t want anything serious, you know? I’m not ready to be accountable for someone else. And I’ve started messaging this guy from work—Conrad.” “Sam is better,” Cam says and Jo rolls her eyes. “I’ve only met him twice | 0 |
69 | In the Lives of Puppets.txt | 1 | to make yours. You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. Your strings have been cut. You’re free, Hap.” He pushed himself up the wall, limbs heavy. He started toward the bed. He stopped when Hap grabbed his hand. He looked down. Hap said, “You k-kissed me.” Vic flushed. He couldn’t stop it. He’d half hoped Hap had forgotten. “Yeah. Uh. I guess I did.” “Why?” He shrugged awkwardly. He wished Hap would let him go. He didn’t try to pull away. “Because I wanted to. Because I needed to remind you that you aren’t HARP.” “I’m Hap,” he whispered. “Yeah. You’re Hap.” “I f-felt it. I was l-lost in blood. You found me. Again.” Vic turned his hand, thumb brushing against Hap’s. “Something to it, I think. Maybe I was meant to find you. Before and now.” Hap looked away. Vic thought that was the end of the conversation. He was about to leave Hap to it when he changed everything. He said, “C-can … can you d-do it again?” Vic closed his eyes. “Is that what you want?” “I am choosing,” Hap said slowly, each word sounding as if it was punched from his chest. “I am making my own choice. I don’t have strings.” Vic pulled his hand away. Hap didn’t try to stop him. He took a step toward the bed. Stopped, because he had to. He wanted to. It was his choice, and he turned around, sinking to his knees in front of Hap. For his part, Hap gripped his knees tightly even as he tracked Vic’s every movement. Vic said, “Hello.” Hap said, “I—” Vic kissed him. There, in Heaven, in the City of Electric Dreams. It wasn’t like the first time. There wasn’t death and destruction raining down around them, a Blue Fairy looking on behind their mask. It was just the two of them, Vic’s hands in his own lap, Hap’s hands curling into fists. Vic was electrified, the hairs on his arms standing on end. They barely moved, their lips pressed together. Hap tasted of cold steel. Vic pulled away, but only just. He leaned his forehead against Hap’s, their eyes mere inches away. Hap said, “I … like it.” Vic exhaled sharply. “Okay.” “I l-like you.” “You do?” No one had ever said that to him before. “How do you know?” “You’re annoying.” “Gee, thanks. That’s what I want to hear after I—” “You’re h-human.” “Glad you caught on to that—” “But I choose you.” Vic swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah?” “Yes.” Hap didn’t argue when Vic took him by the hand once more, pulling him up. He didn’t speak as Vic led him toward the bed. He didn’t try to stop him as Vic pushed him down onto the mattress. He watched Vic with glittering eyes as Vic knelt before him, removing his boots, first the right, and then the left. Hap pulled his legs up as Vic crawled onto the bed, pulling the comforter over both of them. They laid their heads on the same pillow, their noses brushing | 0 |
37 | The Hunger Games.txt | 10 | looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt. “Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an ar- row stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions. “Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?” “Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me luck.” “Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a cheese.” I pull it out. His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim. We’ll have a real feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping. “I al- most forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He plucks a few black- berries from the bushes around us. “And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me. 8 I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it. I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way. That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My mother’s parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to re- member that when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her | 1 |
95 | USS-Lincoln.txt | 73 | Bosun Polk shut down all of her weapons systems. Add to that, we can’t risk hitting our own fighters out there.” “Take a breath; you’re not wrong, Lieutenant. Truth is, our Arrows seem to be holding their own … Actually, they’re doing better than that.” Ryder joined her at the tactical station. “Those are my pilots,” he said, looking proud. “… and you’re right, Cap. They’re doing more than holding their own.” I got to my feet. “Sitrep, Hardy.” Seeing that the three of us had retracted our helmet faceplates, the Marines followed suit. Immediately, I could see the emotional impact of what they had observed. Hardy, with constant interjections from Max and crew, relayed, in detail, what they had found within that lower deck hold. A fiery explosion from the halo display caught everyone’s attention. “We lost another Arrow,” Akari said. “That makes five thus far.” “But we’ve taken out twenty-six of those scorpion-flies,” Ryder said. “What now?” Max said. “May I suggest we amscray out of here?” Wanda said, joining her fellow marines. It was Grip who answered first. “No. There’s serious payback in order here.” Ham and Hock nodded; they seemed to be on the verge of tears, something I had never witnessed from the twins. Wanda saw the conviction on Grip’s face and slowly nodded. “Copy that, big guy. I’m with you.” They fist punched to affirm their mutual commitment. I wanted to tell Grip, to tell each of them, that this wasn’t our mission. That keeping Adams’ crew safe was paramount. That it was time for us to head home; we had our own fight there to return to. Sonya’s projected image appeared above a nearby console. “We’re still pirates, right?” she said in a voice so quiet I barely heard her. She angrily secured several wayward strands of purple hair behind one ear. “I mean, sure, we’re being dragged back into your US Space-Navy bullshit, but we’re still pirates, aren’t we?” she repeated, her words coming out more as pleading than questioning. “I saw what they saw, you know … via helmet cams down there in that hold … It was terrible … horrible.” “We’ll always be pirates,” I said to Sonya, then glanced at the others. “We’re not abandoning Lincoln’s crew. I promise. But for right now, we, I, need to get back to Adams.” No one looked to be buying what I was selling. “You have my word,” I said. Max gave a half nod while Grip shrugged. Wanda said, “Fine. What are our orders?” “Lincoln is slowly coming back online.” I looked to Ryder. “How about the propulsion system?” “Same … drives are slowly coming back online. But remember, this is a big mother of a ship. Nothing happens fast.” “There you go … Nothing we can do here right now. I want everyone back on Adams. Let’s head down to the flight deck.” A quick glance toward Sonya’s projected image told me she wasn’t happy about that, but at least she wasn’t putting up a fight. Chapter 18 Liquilid Empire Star System | 0 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 95 | when I found myself in the sitting-room once more. My first impression as I opened the door was that a fire had broken out, for the room was so filled with smoke that the light of the lamp upon the table was blurred by it. As I entered, however, my fears were set at rest, for it was the acrid fumes of strong coarse tobacco which took me by the throat and set me coughing. Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips. Several rolls of paper lay around him. "Caught cold, Watson?" said he. "No, it's this poisonous atmosphere." "I suppose it is pretty thick, now that you mention it." "Thick! It is intolerable." "Open the window, then! You have been at your club all day, I perceive." "My dear Holmes!" "Am I right?" "Certainly, but how?" He laughed at my bewildered expression. "There is a delightful freshness about you, Watson, which makes it a pleasure to exercise any small powers which I possess at your expense. A gentleman goes forth on a showery and miry day. He returns immaculate in the evening with the gloss still on his hat and his boots. He has been a fixture therefore all day. He is not a man with intimate friends. Where, then, could he have been? Is it not obvious?" "Well, it is rather obvious." "The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Where do you think that I have been?" "A fixture also." "On the contrary, I have been to Devonshire." "In spirit?" "Exactly. My body has remained in this armchair and has, I regret to observe, consumed in my absence two large pots of coffee and an incredible amount of tobacco. After you left I sent down to Stamford's for the Ordnance map of this portion of the moor, and my spirit has hovered over it all day. I flatter myself that I could find my way about." "A large-scale map, I presume?" "Very large." He unrolled one section and held it over his knee. "Here you have the particular district which concerns us. That is Baskerville Hall in the middle." "With a wood round it?" "Exactly. I fancy the yew alley, though not marked under that name, must stretch along this line, with the moor, as you per- ceive, upon the right of it. This small clump of buildings here is the hamlet of Grimpen, where our friend Dr. Mortimer has his headquarters. Within a radius of five miles there are, as you see, only a very few scattered dwellings. Here is Lafter Hall, which was mentioned in the narrative. There is a house indicated here which may be the residence of the naturalist -- Stapleton, if I remember right, was his name. Here are two moorland farm- houses, High Tor and Foulmire. Then fourteen miles away the great convict prison of Princetown. Between and around these scattered points extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, | 1 |
23 | Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt | 17 | behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color, and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows --a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues --every stately or lovely emblazoning --the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if .. <p 194 > operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge --pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt? .. <p 187n. > With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who would fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the whiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable hideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness, it might be said, only arises from the circumstance, that the irresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the fleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together two such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us with so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true; yet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified terror. As for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that creature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the same quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly hit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish mass for the dead begins with Requiem eternam (eternal rest), whence Requiem denominating the mass itself, and any other funereal music. Now, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark, and the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him Requin. I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged gale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch below, I | 1 |
13 | Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt | 50 | pout, then remember his threat and think better of it. “Playroom,” he murmurs. Oh—I don’t know if that’s a good idea. “You up for the challenge?” he asks. And because he’s used the word chal- lenge, I can’t say no. “Bring it on,” I murmur, desire and something that I don’t want to name thrum through my body. He carries me through the door, then up the stairs to the second floor. “I think you’ve lost weight,” he mutters disapprovingly. I have? Good. I re- member his comment when we arrived back from our honeymoon, and how much it smarted. Jeez—was that just a week ago? Outside the playroom, he slides me down his body and sets me on my feet, but keeps his arm wrapped around my waist. Briskly he unlocks the door. It always smells the same: polished wood and citrus. It’s actually become a comforting smell. Releasing me, Christian turns me around until I’m facing away from him. He undoes the scarf, and I blink in the soft light. Gently, he pulls the hairpins from my updo, and my braid falls free. He grasps it and tugs gently so I have to step back against him. “I have a plan,” he whispers in my ear, sending delicious shivers down my spine. 236/551 “I thought you might,” I answer. He kisses me beneath my ear. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, I do.” His tone is soft, mesmerizing. He tugs my braid to the side and plants a trail of soft kisses down my throat. “First we have to get you naked.” His voice hums low in his throat and reson- ates through my body. I want this—whatever he has planned. I want to connect the way we know how. He turns me around to face him. I glance down at his jeans, the top button still undone, and I can’t help myself. I brush my index finger around the waistband, avoiding his T-shirt, feeling the hairs of his happy trail tickle my knuckle. He inhales sharply, and I look up to meet his eyes. I stop at the unfastened button. His eyes darken to a deeper gray . . . oh my. “You should keep these on,” I whisper. “I fully intend to, Anastasia.” And he moves, grabbing me with one hand to the back of my neck and the other around my backside. He pulls me against him, then his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. Whoa! He walks me backward, our tongues entwined, until I feel the wooden cross behind me. He leans into me, the contours of his body pressing into mine. “Let’s get rid of this dress,” he says, peeling my dress up my thighs, my hips, my belly . . . deliciously slowly, the material skimming over my skin, skimming over my breasts. “Lean forward,” he says. I comply, and he pulls my dress over my head and discards it on the floor, leaving me in my sandals, panties, and bra. His eyes blaze as he grasps both my | 1 |
7 | Casino Royale.txt | 62 | octopus under a rock, Le Chiffre watched him from the other side of the table. Bond reached out a steady right hand and drew the cards towards him. Would it be the lift of the heart which a nine brings, or an eight brings? He fanned the two cards under the curtain of his hand. The muscles of his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth. His whole body stiffened in a reflex of self-defence. He had two queens, two red queens. They looked roguishly back at him from the shadows. They were the worst. They were nothing. Zero. Baccarat. "A card," said Bond fighting to keep hopelessness out of his voice. He felt Le Chiffre's eyes boring into his brain. The banker slowly turned his own two cards face up. He had a count of three - a king and a black three. Bond softly exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke. He still had a chance. Now he was really faced with the moment of truth. Le Chiffre slapped the shoe, slipped out a card, Bond's fate, and slowly turned it face up. It was a nine, a wonderful nine of hearts, the card known in gipsy magic as 'a whisper of love, a whisper of hate', the card that meant almost certain victory for Bond. The croupier slipped it delicately across. To Le Chiffre it meant nothing. Bond might have had a one, in which case he now had ten points, or nothing, or baccarat, as it is called. Or he might have had a two, three, four, or even five. In which case, with the nine, his maximum count would be four. Holding a three and giving nine is one of the moot situations at the game. The odds are so nearly divided between to draw or not to draw. Bond let the banker sweat it out. Since his nine could only be equalled by the banker drawing a six, he would normally have shown his count if it had been a friendly game. Bond's cards lay on the table before him, the two impersonal pale pink-patterned backs and the faced nine of hearts. To Le Chiffre the nine might be telling the truth or many variations of lies. The whole secret lay in the reverse of the two pink backs where the pair of queens kissed the green cloth. The sweat was running down either side of the banker's beaky nose. His thick tongue came out slyly and licked a drop out of the corner of his red gash of a mouth. He looked at Bond's cards, and then at his own, and then back at Bond's. Then his whole body shrugged and he slipped out a card for himself from the lisping shoe. He faced it. The table craned. It was a wonderful card, a five. 'Huit la banque,' said the croupier. As Bond sat silent, Le Chiffre suddenly grinned wolfishly. He must have won. The croupier's spatula reached almost apologetically across the table. There was not a man at the table who did not believe Bond | 1 |
99 | spare.txt | 15 | work with wounded soldiers. J let you have veterans, why cant you let<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">me have African elephants and rhinos?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I complained to Teej and Mike that I’d finally seen my path, that I'd<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">finally hit upon the thing that could fill the hole in my heart left by<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">soldiering, in fact a thing even more sustainable—and Willy was standing in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">my way.<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 aghast. Keep fighting, they said. Theres room for both of you<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">in Africa. Theres need for you both.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">So, with their encouragement, I embarked on a four-month fact-finding<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">trip, to educate myself about the truth of the ivory war. Botswana. Namibia.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Tanzania. South Africa. I went to Kruger National Park, a vast stretch of dry,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">barren land the size of Israel. In the war on poachers, Kruger was the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">absolute front line. Its rhino populations, both black and white, were<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">plummeting, due to armies of poachers being incentivized by Chinese and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Vietnamese crime syndicates. One rhino horn fetched enormous sums, so for<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">every poacher arrested, five more were ready to take their place.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Black rhinos were rarer, thus more valuable. They were also more<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">dangerous. As browsers, they lived in thick bush, and wading in after them<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">could be fatal. They didn’t know you were there to help. I’d been charged a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">few times, and I was lucky to get away without being gored. (Tip: Always<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">213<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">know the location of the nearest tree branch, because you might need to<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">jump onto it.) I had friends who’d not been so lucky.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">White rhinos were more docile, and more plentiful, but perhaps wouldn’t<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">be for long, because of that docility. As grazers, they also lived in open<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">grassland. Easier to see, easier to shoot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">I went along on countless anti-poaching patrols. Over several days in<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Kruger, we always got there too late. I must have seen forty bullet-riddled<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">rhino carcasses.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p3"><span class="s1"></span><br></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">Poachers in other parts of South Africa, I learned, didn’t always shoot the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">rhinos. Bullets were expensive, and gunshots gave away their position. So<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1">they’d dart a rhino | 0 |
1 | A Game of Thrones.txt | 16 | he thought first of her. "Your sister," he said. "And Jon's boy. What word of them?" "The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie," Catelyn said. "I wish they had gone to Riverrun instead. The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband's place, not hers. Lord Jon's memory will haunt each stone. I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her." "Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I'd heard." Catelyn nodded. "Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort, but still . . ." "Go to her," Ned urged. "Take the children. Fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and Lysa should not be alone in her grief." "Would that I could," Catelyn said. "The letter had other tidings. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out." It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the A GAME OF THRONES 23 understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. "Robert is coming here?" When she nodded, a smile broke across his face. Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs. "I knew that would please you," she said. "We should send word to your brother on the Wall." "Yes, of course," he agreed. "Ben will want to be here. I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird." Ned rose and pulled her to her feet. "Damnation, how many years has it been? And he gives us no more notice than this? How many in his party, did the message say?" "I should think a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many freeriders. Cersei and the children travel with them." "Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes," he said. "It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare." "The queen's brothers are also in the party," she told him. Ned grimaced at that. There was small love between him and the queen's family, Catelyn knew. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to Robert's cause, when victory was all but certain, and he had never forgiven them. "Well, if the price for Robert's company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court." "Where the king goes, the realm follows," she said. "It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman's teat the last time I saw him. He must be, what, five by now?" "Prince Tornmen is seven," she told him. "The same age as | 1 |
83 | Romantic-Comedy.txt | 63 | But the next issue is there are too many characters. Do you think anyone serves a purpose here besides you and the choreographer?” “Isn’t it important for the record label execs to be there? To show that these are directives coming from above and the musician—well, me—can’t just shrug them off?” “True. Maybe we should even play that up.” The current first line was from the choreographer, who said, “I want to give you some ideas to jazz up your dance moves onstage.” Above it, I inserted an executive saying Noah, we’ve summoned you here because we at your record label are getting feedback that your live shows lack excitement, and we think some cutting-edge choreography will really enhance the audience’s experience. “It’s ridiculously obvious,” I said, “but, unless there’s a payoff for withholding the premise, you might as well give it as fast as possible.” “What if the guy is like, ‘According to some focus groups…’ ” “Oh, that’s even better,” I said. “How about ‘According to focus groups held with one hundred twelve-to-fifteen-year-old girls residing in four mid-Atlantic states…’ ” He laughed, and I retyped the sentence. We both were quiet, and after a few seconds, I said, “ ‘We’re concerned that the girls sitting up in the nosebleed section aren’t sufficiently receiving your soulful emotions.’ ” “ ‘And this could affect your long-term sales,’ ” Noah added, and I typed both parts. “ ‘So the world-famous choreographer’—we need to give her a silly name—‘is here to offer her expertise.’ Hmm. Lulu von Floppy Bosoms?” Again, he laughed in that light way. “Sure.” “Just FYI, some stuff that reads on the page as only mildly funny is automatically ten times better when the cast is acting it out. Okay, now we can cut everyone other than the record label guys, you, and Lulu. The celebrity entourage clutters up the sketch because they aren’t really what it’s about. So we give everyone else’s dialogue to the execs, but you pick who plays the parts, and their names go in the script, not the characters’ names. Who do you want to be Lulu and who do you want to be the executives?” “Shouldn’t I ask people if they’re interested before assigning them a role? I don’t want to be presumptuous.” I laughed. “You’re the host. Any cast member will be happy to be in your sketch.” “What do you think? For one of the execs, Josh always cracks me up.” “Yeah, he’d be good.” I typed Josh’s name before the first record executive’s dialogue. “And maybe Hakeem is the other? And for the choreographer—” Either Henrietta or Viv would do an excellent job and each was likely to appear in multiple other sketches. Naming a chronically underused cast member, I said, “What about Grace?” “Sure.” “Then from here on out, really the only change I’d make is to put Lulu’s choreography suggestions in order of ridiculousness from least to most. It’s more satisfying if they escalate, so it starts with waving your hands around a lot and ends with the panther idea.” | 0 |
37 | The Hunger Games.txt | 35 | At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable. Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you! I hear Cinna’s voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand. I’m glad now I have Peeta to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program. The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire. For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me. Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on! And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games? Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing. 70 “Katniss! Katniss!” I can hear my name being called from all sides. Everyone wants my kisses. It’s not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta’s hand. That’s how tightly I’ve been holding it. I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says. The firelight flickers off his blue eyes. “Please. I might fall out of this thing.” “Okay,” I say. So I keep holding on, but I can’t help feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us together. It’s not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol. Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow’s mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish. The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is tradi- tional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech. But I can see on the screen that we | 1 |
19 | Hound of the Baskervilles.txt | 34 | them, his absurd net dangling behind him. He gesticulated and almost danced with excitement in front of the lovers. What the scene meant I could not imagine, but it seemed to me that Stapleton was abusing Sir Henry, who offered explanations, which became more angry as the other refused to accept them. The lady stood by in haughty silence. Finally Stapleton turned upon his heel and beckoned in a peremptory way to his sister, who, after an irresolute glance at Sir Henry, walked off by the side of her brother. The naturalist's angry gestures showed that the lady was included in his displea- sure. The baronet stood for a minute looking after them, and then he walked slowly back the way that he had come, his head hanging, the very picture of dejection. What all this meant I could not imagine, but I was deeply ashamed to have witnessed so intimate a scene without my friend's knowledge. I ran down the hill therefore and met the baronet at the bottom. His face was flushed with anger and his brows were wrinkled, like one who is at his wit's ends what to do. "Halloa, Watson! Where have you dropped from?" said he. "You don't mean to say that you came after me in spite of all?" I explained everything to him: how I had found it impossible to remain behind, how I had followed him, and how I had witnessed all that had occurred. For an instant his eyes blazed at me, but my frankness disarmed his anger, and he broke at last into a rather rueful laugh. "You would have thought the middle of that prairie a fairly safe place for a man to be private," said he, "but, by thunder, the whole countryside seems to have been out to see me do my wooing -- and a mighty poor wooing at that! Where had you engaged a seat?" "I was on that hill." "Quite in the back row, eh? But her brother was well up to the front. Did you see him come out on us?" "Yes, I did." "Did he ever strike you as being crazy -- this brother of hers?" "I can't say that he ever did." "I dare say not. I always thought him sane enough until to-day, but you can take it from me that either he or I ought to be in a straitjacket. What's the matter with me, anyhow? You've lived near me for some weeks, Watson. Tell me straight, now! Is there anything that would prevent me from making a good husband to a woman that I loved?" "I should say not." "He can't object to my worldly position, so it must be myself that he has this down on. What has he against me? I never hurt man or woman in my life that I know of. And yet he would not so much as let me touch the tips of her fingers." "Did he say so?" "That, and a deal more. I tell you, Watson, I've only known her these few weeks, | 1 |
9 | Dracula.txt | 91 | he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us. 3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. "It is here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It, empty as the air." And as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on, "But It is here, and I'll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm." And with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails, and lie by, and signal for help. . . It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! Save me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a | 1 |
24 | Of Human Bondage.txt | 22 | ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness. Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else. He dared not bore her. "I say, how about going to a music-hall?" he said. He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she preferred to stay there. "I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going," she answered. "Come on then." Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed. "There, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no business to be," she said. "I always know when men try and put their arm round my waist. That pin always catches them." "I'll be more careful." He put his arm round again. She made no objection. "I'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully. "So long as you're happy," she retorted. They drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and Philip quickly kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. She turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to like it. "If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured. He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away. "Once is enough," she said. On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her: "Won't you give me another kiss?" She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that no one was in sight. "I don't mind." He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him away. "Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy," she said. CHAPTER LXI HE SAW her then | 1 |
Subsets and Splits