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Maame.txt

burn, and I don’t know if I can move without being heard. Somehow if I’m discovered, the embarrassment will definitely be mine to bear. I take another step and the landing creaks, but they don’t stop. I take the opportunity to run to my room and close the door behind me. Great. I need to use the toilet. Chapter Thirteen I’m nervously tapping my foot on Tuesday when, during our catch-up, I ask Kris, “How was last week’s Creative?” “It was all right.” She shoves her hair back with a headband. “It was shit, actually.” “What happened?” “I think we’re all in a bit of a creative funk,” she says. “We don’t have any fresh ideas and all the new stuff we keep losing.” “Ideas?” I repeat. “So the team can come up with ideas instead of waiting for agents to bring us their titles?” “It’s something Penny started when we were really struggling,” Kris answers. “Instead of continuously trying to outbid other publishers, we’d focus on food writers already on our list and come up with exciting things for them to write about. For example, getting Carmen to write about her stay in Italy was Penny’s idea.” Wow. Carmen Loremo’s Sardinia is one of OTP’s bestsellers. “I didn’t know that was an option.” I write down: What do we want and which of our writers can do it? “It’s a good idea.” “It’s a good idea when we have good ideas,” Kris says. “It’s not easy getting a book about foreign cuisine from our list of writers who are … well, limited in foreign experience.” In other words, homogenous in culture. I nod. “Of course.” “It only worked for Carmen because her husband is from Sardinia so they travel there a lot. We’ll think of something.” She closes her notebook. “Did you manage to get that list of titles up on MDX?” “Yes, but, actually, I’ve had an idea about something.” I pitch her my practiced paragraph on Cooking Combos, a book focused on classic and unique pairings, what you can do with them and why. It would discuss the science behind the flavor combination, as text-heavy, informative cookbooks are popular now, and how to cook classic or unexpected dishes with what you’ve got at home. Kris listens patiently and at the end says she’ll think about it but well done me for bringing ideas to the table already. I smile at this and, after, print out a list of our authors going back a decade. Like Kris hinted, we have a lot of white, middle-aged men writing about pies, potatoes, and bread. The majority of our female authors specialize in comfort cooking and family meals. I try not to pull a face. On the train ride home, I think about that list. We need something different, a quiet, undiscussed cuisine; we need recipes we wouldn’t have thought to try or even search for, but no one on our list seems qualified. I get home and, whilst my pasta boils, I google the rest of OTP’s food writers. On one man’s

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

end of things,” Corinne tacked on without missing a beat. Two women hustled out from the kitchen and started forking salad onto one of the smaller plates in each setting. Corinne said something to one of them, then redirected her attention to Ingram. “My daughter has a head for numbers, and I’m sure that will be a major advantage for Zelnick Cellar. As far as the production side, her company title will likely run along the lines of official taste tester.” Natalie had just forked up a bite of salad, but paused while everyone chuckled at Corinne’s jest, though she noticed that August didn’t laugh. At all. “It’s true. I know how to stay in my lane. Especially if it’s the checkout lane at the wine store.” More laughs. But none from August. “Zelnick Cellar might give Vos some stiff competition in a few years.” Corinne raised an eyebrow at August. “Wouldn’t that be something?” “It sure would,” Ingram agreed. “I’m sure a small business loan would go a long way toward making that future a reality.” Corinne gave Natalie a meaningful look. “Yes,” Natalie said to Ingram. “It would.” When August said nothing, she squeezed his hand under the table, and he nodded once without meeting her eyes. What was going on with him? He knew this dinner was important. Well, if he wasn’t going to make it count, she would show up for the both of them. “It’s not so far-fetched, actually. I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated to teaching himself the art of winemaking with so few tools at his disposal. August came to St. Helena with a dream and a serious work ethic, while so many just show up with millions of Silicon Valley dollars and state-of-the-art equipment, and they never truly understand the finer transformations that take place within the grape. But August continues to try and fail and try again—and eventually he’s going to get it. I know he is. And when he does, it’s going to be amazing, because he’s doing it by hand. By the sweat of his brow. It’s going to mean something more than money.” She’d gotten so lost in her speech, she didn’t realize Ingram had lowered his glass to the table and was regarding her seriously. Minus the smirk for once. “We should all be so lucky to have someone believe in us the way you believe in your husband, Ms. Vos.” “Mrs. Cates,” she corrected with a flustered smile. And there was no way not to be flustered when August was using his grip on her hand to pull her closer, all but physically dragging her into his lap. “Stop it,” she whispered. “No.” His voice had thickened. “People sit on other people’s laps at barbecues.” “I told you, this isn’t a barbecue,” she whispered back, laughter in her voice. “Barbecues don’t have salad plates.” “I don’t acknowledge salads. I see nothing.” Outright giggling now, Natalie slapped at his tugging hand and August finally settled for having their chairs pressed together, their outer thighs flush. Finished with their impromptu

The Call of the Wild.txt

besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness--faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny. The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel's treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them. "You might wrap up the goods before you deliver 'm," the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck's neck under the collar. "Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative. Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends 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

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

The sunlight turned everything to silver and pearl. I wore the green dress Wendell had made; he had sent it to me that morning with a note saying that he’d decided it was inappropriate for a wedding, and so why didn’t I wear it today? There had been other things in the note, of course, and I had torn it to shreds and tossed it down the mountainside after I’d finished reading. The dress was perfect, every inch of it, covering me in emerald green drapery that flowed like the boughs of a weeping willow, the bodice embellished with crushed pearls that made a whispery sound when I moved. And with it was a matching veil which I wore pushed back from my face. My hair had been swept up by my servants and woven with jewels, but several pieces were already falling into my eyes, proving once again that even magic is not enough to keep me neat. The pearls lining the veil brushed against my forehead, cold and hard. A faerie woman as tall and slender as evening shadow placed a cage at the king’s feet. He motioned to a servant, who opened the cage door, and out sprang a white raven. “An albino!” the king exclaimed, leaning forward onto his hand, his elbows on his knees. He had a childlike manner about him in such moments that made me wonder at Wendell’s description of him—older than the mountains. But I never wondered for long. These moments were only flashes, the drops of sunlight winnowed through the deepest and darkest woods. He settled back in his throne, growing far too still again, his magic enveloping us all like wind. He is more magic than person, that is the truth of it. Is this what happens to all the Folk as they age, their power hollowing them out like the fissures in an ancient glacier? Many of the gifts were for me. There were jewels and gowns and furs and paintings—done on ice canvases that made everything bleed together far more than watercolours—and a strange, empty box with a base of some sort of pale velvet that the faerie claimed would sprout white roses with diamonds in them if left outside at midday, and blue roses with rubies if left outside at midnight. There were other nonsensical presents along these lines, including a saddle of shapeless grey leather that would allow me to ride the mountain fog, though no explanation was given as to why I should wish to do this. The only presents I truly appreciated came in the form of ice cream, which the Hidden Ones are obsessed with and cover with sea salt and nectar from their winter flowers. The king turned to beam at me lovingly every few moments, and I forced a smile in return while my hands, hidden in my sleeves, clenched into fists. The brief clarity I had felt during Wendell’s visit was gone, and my thoughts were foggy. I always felt worse in the king’s presence, by which I mean that it was

Things Fall Apart.txt

kotma and made to work every morning clearing the government compound and fetching wood for the white Commissioner and the court messengers. Some of these prisoners were men of title who should be above such mean occupation. They were grieved by the indignity and mourned for their neglected farms. As they cut grass in the morning the younger men sang in time with the strokes of their machetes: "Kotma of the ashy buttocks, He is fit to be a slave. The white man has no sense, He is fit to be a slave." The court messengers did not like to be called Ashy-Buttocks, and they beat the men. But the song spread in Umuofia. Okonkwo's head was bowed in sadness as Obierika told him these things. "Perhaps I have been away too long," Okonkwo said, almost to himself. "But I cannot understand these things you tell me. What is it that has happened to our people? Why have they lost the power to fight?" "Have you not heard how the white man wiped out Abame?" asked Obierika. "I have heard," said Okonkwo. "But I have also heard that Abame people were weak and foolish. Why did they not fight back? Had they no guns and machetes? We would be cowards to compare ourselves with the men of Abame. Their fathers had never dared to stand before our ancestors. We must fight these men and drive them from the land." "It is already too late," said Obierika sadly. "Our own men and our sons have joined the ranks of the stranger. They have joined his religion and they help to uphold his government. If we should try to drive out the white men in Umuofia we should find it easy. There are only two of them. But what of our own people who are following their way and have been given power? They would go to Umuru and bring the soldiers, and we would be like Abame." He paused for a long time and then said: "I told you on my last visit to Mbanta how they hanged Aneto." "What has happened to that piece of land in dispute?" asked Okonkwo. "The white man's court has decided that it should belong to Nnama's family, who had given much money to the white man's messengers and interpreter." "Does the white man understand our custom about land?" "How can he when he does not even speak our tongue? But he says that our customs are bad, and our own brothers who have taken up his religion also say that our customs are bad. How do you think we can fight when our own brothers have turned against us? The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart." "How did they get hold of Ancto to hang him?"

The Hunger Games.txt

I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down. 247 My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?” I whip around. It’s come from the left, so I can’t pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak. Still, it must have been Peeta. Who else in the arena would call me swee- theart? My eyes peruse the bank, but there’s nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks. “Peeta?” I whisper. “Where are you?” There’s no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I’m certain it was real and very close at hand, too. “Peeta?” I creep along the bank. “Well, don’t step on me.” I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there’s nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It’s the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. “Close your eyes again,” I order. He does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.” Peeta smiles. “Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.” 248 “You’re not going to die,” I tell him firmly. “Says who?” His voice is so ragged. “Says me. We’re on the same team now, you know,” I tell him. His eyes open. “So, I heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me.” I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. “Did Cato cut you?” I ask. “Left leg. Up high,” he answers. “Let’s get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got,” I say. “Lean down a minute first,” he says. “Need to tell you some- thing.” I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” At least, he’s still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It’s only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I real- ize he’s unable to move an inch on his own. He’s so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he’s doing all he can to keep

Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt

that she could not breathe, but it still hurt, and she could feel the terrible strength in him. “I warned you. One way or another,” he said. He was silver and black-blue smoke, he was ash that was reshaped into sinews. He was real. But he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t. They had not finished the spell. Yet he flickered into existence before her wide eyes. She stepped backward. “How?” she asked. “You gave me a voice. You drew my runes. You even joined the audience in watching me,” he said, his mouth curling in glee, ash and smoke somehow able to smile. “You made me real.” She shook her head. “Say it now, say I’m alive, and you’ll follow me into the night.” “You can’t—” “No, you can’t. Those are my runes, this is my magic, this is my power. Give in. Say it.” “You’re choking—” She tried to shove him away, but his grip on her throat grew more vicious. She squeezed her eyes shut. He released his hold on her, instead sliding his hands down her shoulders and holding her in place like that. “Better?” he asked, almost innocently. She coughed and opened her eyes, shocked to see he was indeed alive. No, not quite. For a moment he looked to be flesh and blood, nostrils flaring, and then he flickered. The edges of him were smudged one second, crisp the next. He was still a half-thing, existing between spaces. Oh, but he was more real than she’d ever seen him before. She could almost taste the power of the sorcerer, trace the edges of the magic holding him in place. She was afraid she’d inhaled some of this power, of Ewers, that it would settle in her lungs like the smoke of tobacco. “I’m already there,” he said and pressed a finger against the hollow of her throat. “Make me live.” She was tired and he was right. It was as José López had explained. All she and Tristán had done was essentially cause an explosion and they’d been exposed to a radioactive element, to poison, because of it. This magic she commanded wasn’t hers. It was his. Bits of Ewers, his runes and his spells, channeled and making their way around them. It was heady, this well of strength, it made her head spin. “Will me to life. Say it. Say I live.” “Words are ritual, gestures are spells,” she muttered, dazed. “Yes.” Her pulse drummed madly. They’d done exactly what he wanted anyway. Drawn his runes, played his game. She had not given in to fear but still she’d bent to his will. One way or another, as he’d promised. Dancing to his tune, following the steps he traced… “Momo!” “Complete my ritual.” A thought cleaved her mind. His runes, his ritual. He’d stolen bits of knowledge, remade it, remixed it, took from here and there. He’d painted a canvas, but he had not invented colors. Even now, even this spell they were completing was not how the original ritual would have gone. It was not the

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!' (`I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.) `That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: `but then--I shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.' `Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: `but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.' `Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked. The Hatter shook his head mournfully. `Not I!' he replied. `We quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) `--it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you're at!" You know the song, perhaps?' `I've heard something like it,' said Alice. `It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, `in this way:-- "Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle--"' Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep `Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop. `Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, `when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his head!"' `How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice. `And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, `he won't do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.' A bright idea came into Alice's head. `Is that the reason so many tea-things are put out here?' she asked. `Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: `it's always tea-time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.' `Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice. `Exactly so,' said the Hatter: `as the things get used up.' `But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured to ask. `Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning. `I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.' `I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at the proposal. `Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. `Wake up, Dormouse!' And they pinched it on both sides at once. The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. `I wasn't asleep,' he said in a hoarse, feeble voice: `I heard every word you fellows were saying.' `Tell us a story!' said the March Hare. `Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice. `And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, `or you'll be asleep again before it's done.' `Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--' `What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking. `They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute

Oliver Twist.txt

to look back at his pursuers. There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in every direction. 'Stop, you white-livered hound!' cried the robber, shouting after Toby Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. 'Stop!' The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes was in no mood to be played with. 'Bear a hand with the boy,' cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his confederate. 'Come back!' Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly along. 'Quicker!' cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and drawing a pistol from his pocket. 'Don't play booty with me.' At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in advance of them. 'It's all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, and show 'em your heels.' With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone. 'Ho, ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in the rear. 'Pincher! Neptune! Come here, come here!' The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together. 'My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my ORDERS, is,' said the fattest man of the party, 'that we 'mediately go home again.' 'I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,' said a shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are. 'I shouldn't wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,' said the third, who had called the dogs back, 'Mr. Giles ought to know.' 'Certainly,' replied the shorter man; 'and whatever Mr. Giles says, it isn't our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my stars, I

Blowback.txt

120, 122–23 military powers of president as potentially exploited in future by, 217, 218, 225, 226, 227–28 politics as performative in, 154–56 potential weaponization of intelligence agencies in future by, 85–86 potential weaponizing of justice system in future by, 113, 115, 117–20, 124 in silencing and punishing of opposition, 10, 11, 35–38, 41–42, 45, 77, 80, 118–20, 153–54, 155–57, 192–93, 307, 308, 309 as threat to career civil service, 82–83, 84–86 in 2022 midterms, 309 VA as target of, 72–74 “Make Trump Better Plan,” 21, 23 Mar-a-Lago, 71, 186 Marco Island, author’s sojourn on, 202–5, 210 Maria, Hurricane (2017), 126, 127 Maricopa County, Ariz., 38–41 Maricopa County Board of Supervisors, 39, 40, 41 Marine One, 63, 174 Marines, U.S., 30, 64, 268, 282 Marquardt, Kristen, 189 Marshall, John, 123 Marshall Plan, 227 Martini (dog), 312 Matthews, Chris, 15 Mattis, Jim, 6, 29, 52, 53, 60, 61, 72, 96, 142, 143, 163, 196 Atlantic reproach of Trump by, 226 resignation of, 146–47 May, Theresa, 50 McAleenan, Kevin, 184 McCabe, Andrew, 102, 110–12, 123–24 McCain, John, 16, 38, 132, 137, 295 death of, 130–32 McCarthy, Andy, 22 McCarthy, Kevin, 19, 128–29 McCaul, Michael, 22, 24–25, 28, 29 McConnell, Mitch, 101 McCool, Mike, 178 McEnany, Kayleigh, 242, 243 McGinley, Bill, 150 McMaster, H. R., 102 McMullin, Evan, 24, 260, 294, 297 Meadows, Mark, 36, 81 Messages to the World (bin Laden), 263 Mexico, 52, 80, 146, 162–63, 169–70, 171, 173, 181, 188, 217, 226 U.S. Embassy in, 176 Michigan, 173, 244, 257, 258, 259 Middle East, 21, 32, 50, 56–57, 189 Mill, John Stuart, 298–99, 301 Millennium Development Goals, 14 Miller, Stephen, 74, 75, 92, 94, 108, 109, 122, 143, 162, 170–71, 234 unlawful immigration proposals of, 187–88, 190 Mitch (pseud., Secret Service agent), 165–66 Mitnick, John, 118, 247 Mnuchin, Steve, 178–79 Moldova, 224 MoveOn.org, 206 MSNBC, 15, 294 Mueller Report (2019), 214 Mukasey, Michael, 22 Mulvaney, Mick, 20, 162, 173 Murphy, Brian, 85–86, 116 Murray, Bill, 183 Muslims, 20, 21, 22, 29, 91, 92, 188, 206 MyPillow, 171 N Nakasone, Paul, 134 National Geospatial Intelligence Agency, 247 National Journal, 154 National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), 83, 84 National Rifle Association (NRA), 78–79, 80 National Security Agency (NSA), 47, 48, 134 National Security Council (NSC), 52, 54, 75, 80, 85, 116, 133, 219, 224, 226, 264 Trump in attempt to install Christina Bobb at, 185–86 National Weather Service (NWS), 83, 84 Navarro, Peter, 75, 216 NBC News, 138, 199, 276, 284 Netherlands, 190 Neumann, Elizabeth, 51, 52, 53, 55, 69, 100, 184, 243 in public opposition to Trump, 240, 242, 247, 250 New York Post, 288 New York Times, 134, 196, 201, 211, 231, 263, 276, 280 author’s anonymous op-ed in, 3, 4–5, 132–33, 135–40, 144, 164, 196, 197–98, 200–201, 210, 231, 249, 272, 294 Stephens’s “Dear Anonymous” letter in, 147 Nick (DHS military aide), 174 Nielsen, Kirstjen, 49, 50, 51, 53, 55, 61, 67, 68, 69, 95, 99, 102, 103, 105, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 136, 138–39, 144–45, 162, 166, 232, 233, 244 in cybersecurity trip to London (2019), 174–76 family separation

Titanium-Noir.txt

“You about to go and show these pretty children a good time? You don’t look like their type, but maybe they like their evenings a little rough sometimes. That about it, honey?” She looks at the woman, who grins. “Oh, yes. I think so.” “No,” I say. “Misunderstanding. I was declining politely, but some offence was taken. I’m not polished like some of your other customers.” “No, I’d say it’s pretty clear all the original edges are still on you,” Vic murmurs, stroking the oiled arm. “Come on, kids. Let me find you someone a little more suitable.” Kids. Suitable. Grandma voice. Thanks, Vic. The guy pushes her away. Vic staggers theatrically into the bar, and a little pyramid of champagne glasses crashes to the floor. The smashing echoes and people stop talking and look. Vic uncoils off the copper top like she’s made of plastic, smiling wide enough to swallow an entire cat. No one in the whole place isn’t looking now. The heroes know it. The woman stretches slightly, pushing her shoulder blades together. Her boyfriend turns his hands in so that his deltoids ripple, and leans in my face. He’s about to speak but Vic gets there first. She pulls a cord mic down from the ceiling and lets out a rebel yell. “LAAAADIIIES AND GENTLEMENNNNN! AND OTHERS MORE INTRIGUINGLY COMPLEX! WELCOME! GOOD EVENING AND WELCOME! I’M VICTOR DEVINE AND THIS IS MY PLACE, AND AS YOU KNOW IT IS THE OOOOONLY PLACE TO FIND. WHAT. YOU. NEED! “With all due respect to Mick—and we all love Mick—I done went and created a place where—whatEVER you like, whatEVER you crave—you can, you can, YOU CAN GET…SATISFACTION!” There’s something happening on the stage level that I’ve never seen before. The tables are sliding apart and an object is rising up out of the floor. An enclosed metal frame four metres by four. Or, no. Not a frame. A cage. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Vic has one hand flung out over her head like a prophet. “Here at Victor’s we like to think we can make anything happen for you, make everyone happy…but dis-agree-ments. Do. Arise. “I love it when something tasty ARISES. Don’t you?” A fat wink, white teeth flashing. She only comes alive in front of the crowd. Vic was never a hooker. She was never a hitman either, whatever you may have heard. She never ran guns out of Lisbon and she never divorced a billionaire. She was a televangelist. It’s not even a secret, yet somehow no one knows but me. “AND TONIGHT…we have something a little special to whet your appetite. Oh YES WE DO.” The cage slides into place, and the door opens with a massive crash. “A DUEL! For the honour of—well now. I wonder. WHICH OF YOU WILL STEP INTO THE CAGE?” The spotlight picks out the heroes and they love it. She jumps on him, wraps her legs around his hips and drives her tongue into his mouth, then bucks off again and raises his hand in hers: “WE DO EVERYTHING…TOGETHER!” Vic

Quietly-Hostile.txt

if I still have to get the approval of weird booze snobs rather than buy what I actually want? If I gotta be outside my house and drinking, then I want that drink to be called something like a “Sunset Passion Colada,” not a “Poet’s Lament” or whatever these fancy-ass places name their drinks. If I order a Frozen Favorites™ Bahama Mama, I know it’s gonna taste like orange pineapple juice from the store with a splash of watered-down rum on top; but if I make my way down to the bespoke artisanal modern-day speakeasy (WHAT), and order a “Smirking Priest”? I have no idea what the fuck that drink is gonna taste like. I went to a bachelorette party at a Red Lobster a few years ago and it was a busy Saturday night, so our large, shrieking party had to wait at the bar for a couple of tables to open up, so they could push them together for us to scatter with penis straws and paper crowns. While we waited, I noticed that the bartender looked like a dude I’d grown up with, like a kid-who-was-in-my-kindergarten-class-with-me kind of grown up with, and I walked over to say hi. There were several older women seated at the bar, dressed like they were trying to get fucked that night, and I was instantly smitten. This is what I want for my future. My man was giving these ladies the full Cocktail experience: shaking his tightly pants’ed ass, flipping and twirling a bottle of mango Malibu rum, really emphasizing the ASS when he delivered one of them her Tiki Passion Punch™ as she squealed in delight. I need to remind you that this isn’t a sultry beachside cocktail lounge in Jamaica. I was standing in a too-bright mall bar in Lincolnwood, Illinois. And it was still somehow sexy and glamorous! As the women whispered conspiratorially over their drinks, I went to the other end of the bar and said, “Oh my God, [paste-eating child friend], you are gonna get your dick sucked!!” And he was like, “Sam, I fuck at least three women a week? And you should see my tips!” I resisted making a joke about giving me some tip and mourned a future in which I would not be tits up to a Red Lobster bar, slurping seductively on a Berry Mango Daiquiri, trying to bone a dude who smells like Clamato and is young enough to be my son. The hot bar “What kind of person am I going to be today?” I think to myself as I sidle up to the salad bar at the local Overpriced Fresh Vegetable Emporium, my single seltzer (do I wish it was a Diet Coke? I absolutely do, but they don’t sell that poison here) and modestly sized square of wholesome dark chocolate (revolting!) rolling around my basket. Salad bars offer the opportunity to reinvent yourself in the time it takes to wolf down a bowl of damp lettuce while hunched over the important papers strewn across your desk, or during the

Great Expectations.txt

I dare say we took too much to drink, and I know we talked too much. we became particularly hot upon some boorish sneer of Drummle's, to the effect that we were too free with our money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that it came with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my presence but a week or so before. "Well," retorted Drummle; "he'll be paid." "I don't mean to imply that he won't," said I, "but it might make you hold your tongue about us and our money, I should think." "You should think!" retorted Drummle. "Oh Lord!" "I dare say," I went on, meaning to be very severe, "that you wouldn't lend money to any of us, if we wanted it." "You are right," said Drummle. "I wouldn't lend one of you a sixpence. I wouldn't lend anybody a sixpence." "Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say." "You should say," repeated Drummle. "Oh Lord!" This was so very aggravating - the more especially as I found myself making no way against his surly obtuseness - that I said, disregarding Herbert's efforts to check me: "Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I'll tell you what passed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money." "I don't want to know what passed between Herbert there and you," growled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might both go to the devil and shake ourselves. "I'll tell you, however," said I, "whether you want to know or not. We said that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed to be immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it." Drummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands in his pockets and his round shoulders raised: plainly signifying that it was quite true, and that he despised us, as asses all. Hereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than I had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop, being a lively bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact opposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct personal affront. He now retorted in a coarse lumpish way, and Startop tried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made us all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything, Drummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his pockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and would have flung it at his adversary's head, but for our entertainer's dexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that purpose. "Gentlemen," said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and hauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain, "I am exceedingly sorry to announce that it's half-past nine." On this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,

The Turn of the Screw.txt

bedtime having come and gone, I had, before my final retirement, a small interval alone. Much as I liked my companions, this hour was the thing in the day I liked most; and I liked it best of all when, as the light faded--or rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees-- I could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity of the place. It was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself tranquil and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety, I was giving pleasure-- if he ever thought of it!--to the person to whose pressure I had responded. What I was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me, and that I COULD, after all, do it proved even a greater joy than I had expected. I daresay I fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly appear. Well, I needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the remarkable things that presently gave their first sign. It was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of my very hour: the children were tucked away, and I had come out for my stroll. One of the thoughts that, as I don't in the least shrink now from noting, used to be with me in these wanderings was that it would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet someone. Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would stand before me and smile and approve. I didn't ask more than that-- I only asked that he should KNOW; and the only way to be sure he knew would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face. That was exactly present to me--by which I mean the face was-- when, on the first of these occasions, at the end of a long June day, I stopped short on emerging from one of the plantations and coming into view of the house. What arrested me on the spot-- and with a shock much greater than any vision had allowed for-- was the sense that my imagination had, in a flash, turned real. He did stand there!--but high up, beyond the lawn and at the very top of the tower to which, on that first morning, little Flora had conducted me. This tower was one of a pair--square, incongruous, crenelated structures-- that were distinguished, for some reason, though I could see little difference, as the new and the old. They flanked opposite ends of the house and were probably architectural absurdities, redeemed in a measure indeed by not being wholly disengaged nor of a height too pretentious, dating, in their gingerbread antiquity, from a romantic revival that was already a respectable past. I

Pride And Prejudice.txt

this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, ``I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! -- What do you think has happened this morning? -- Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.'' Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. ``Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,'' she added in a melancholy tone, ``for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.'' Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. ``Aye, there she comes,'' continued Mrs. Bennet, ``looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. -- But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all -- and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. -- _I_ shall not be able to keep you -- and so I warn you. -- I have done with you from this very day. -- I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children, -- Not that I have much pleasure indeed in talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! -- But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.'' Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, ``Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.'' Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons. Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived. The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards- somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the "Star Sprangled Banner", but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish. In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans. ================================================================= Chapter 24 Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points. The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all. Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour. He closed his eyes in terror. After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

coats. I suddenly became very aware of my own thoughts – this constant stream of ridicule. As Martha pointed out, wasn’t I the one who had walked straight into the bookshop on my first night here? Yet I had immediately dismissed it as some kind of drunken mirage. My mind wouldn’t let me believe. Martha suffered no such resistance and I decided that if I could not necessarily believe, I could at least believe in her. ‘The soul of the night turned upside down.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘That line from the book. It said that you have to trust you will end up exactly where you’re meant to be.’ ‘I feel like I already have,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure if she heard me. No sooner had I spoken the words than I saw a literal light at the end of the tunnel. My heart began to race. Chapter Fifty-Five OPALINE Dublin, 1952 ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – I let Emily Dickinson’s poetry book fall on to my lap and spied the stained-glass windows of the shop, the colours of which now painted the image of a bird and an open cage. I made a kind of pact with the universe that if I kept the door to my heart open, one day my little girl would walk through it. In the meantime, I found an occupation that created the illusion of doing something to bring that day ever closer. I began writing a book. A children’s book. A Place Called Lost. I knew there was a strange kind of magic in these walls. Maybe not the kind you’d find in travelling shows or under the big top, but something far subtler than that. I began to switch off the lights, lingering over the task. I had an undefinable sense that something, or someone, was close. Someone I knew. Someone I loved. But I couldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t. Even when I heard the knock on the glass door, I didn’t turn to look. Couldn’t face the disappointment of being wrong. I placed my hands on the desk and let my weight lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was disobeying my mind and without consciously making the decision, I turned around. He was there. Josef. The snow falling gently on his head and shoulders. A sigh of relief escaped my lips and I could have sworn the books on the shelves sighed too. The bookshop had let him in when I had first escaped St Agnes’s and needed him the most. Now he had returned, everything felt hopeful again. He stepped closer to the window and I followed. We were separated only by the thinnest pane of glass. My eyes searched his eyes, his lips, his entire frame. Was he real? ‘Are you going to let me in?’ he asked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘It’s a little cold.’ I burst out laughing and it sounded like

The Call of the Wild.txt

when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams. So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again. Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance travellers might praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and from a too demonstrative man he would get up and walk away. When Thornton's partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the long-expected raft, Buck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to Thornton; after that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from them as though he favored them by accepting. They were of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the earth, thinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into the big eddy by the saw- mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his ways, and did not insist upon an intimacy such as obtained with Skeet and Nig. For Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone among men, could put a pack upon Buck's back in the summer travelling. Nothing was too great for Buck to do, when Thornton commanded. One day (they had grub-staked themselves from the proceeds of the raft and left Dawson for the head-waters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were sitting on the crest of a cliff which fell away, straight down, to naked bed-rock three hundred feet below. John Thornton was sitting near the edge, Buck at his shoulder. A thoughtless whim seized Thornton, and he drew the attention of Hans and Pete to the experiment he had in mind. "Jump, Buck!" he commanded, sweeping his arm out and over the chasm. The next instant he was grappling with Buck on the extreme edge, while Hans and Pete were dragging them back into safety. "It's uncanny," Pete said, after it was over and they had caught their speech. Thornton shook his head. "No, it is splendid, and it is terrible, too. Do you know, it sometimes makes me afraid." "I'm not hankering to be the man that lays hands on you while he's around," Pete announced conclusively, nodding his head toward Buck. "Py Jingo!" was Hans's contribution. "Not mineself either." It was at Circle City, ere the year was out, that Pete's apprehensions were realized. "Black" Burton, a man evil-tempered and malicious, had been picking a quarrel with

Wuthering Heights.txt

ever watched. She must have had a warm heart, when she Ioved her father so, to give so much to me. I said her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally needed nothing after six o'clock; thus the evening was her own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after tea. And though fre- quently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library. CHAPTER XXIV. At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house; and on the first occasion of my sitting up in the evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We were in the library, the master having gone to bed. She consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imag- ining my sort of books did not suit her, I bade her please herself in the choice of what she perused. She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent questions. "Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn't you better lie down now? You'll be sick keeping up so long, Ellen." "No, no, dear; I'm not tired," I returned continually. Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning and stretching, and--- "Ellen, I'm tired." "Give over, then, and talk," I answered. That was worse. She fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, com- pletely overdone with sleep, judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impa- tient still, and on the third from recovering my com- pany she complained of a headache and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs in the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below. The servants af- firmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar's door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, ex- tinguished my candle, and seated myself in the window. The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow cov- ered the ground, and I reflected that she might possibly have taken it into her head to walk about the garden for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along the inner fence of the park, but it was not my young mistress. On its merging into the light I recognized one of the grooms. He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds, then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and re- appeared presently

The Hunger Games.txt

charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable. 136 When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Peeta and I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games. I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strat- egy on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Por- tia will travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here. Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say some- thing awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!” Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, over- come with either the emotional parting or the possible im- provement of her fortunes. Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over. “Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta. “When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just 137 clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?” “And after that?” I ask. “Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we only nod. What else is there to say? When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her. I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the design- team’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to

The Secret Garden.txt

any child. I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happy and comfortable. I don't know anything about children, but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need. I sent for you to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you. She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about." "She knows all about children," Mary said again in spite of herself. "She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven had been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman. Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things. Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like. Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?" "Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?" In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled. "Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?" "To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see them come alive," Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes. "Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly. "I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I was always ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimes made littlebeds in the sand and stuck flowers in them. But here it is different." Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room. "A bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. "You can have as much earth as you want," he said. "You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make it come alive." "May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?" "Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now, I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock. "Good-by. I shall be away all summer." Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor. "Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I have seen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be less delicate before she begins lessons. Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild in the garden. Don't look after her too much. She needs liberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerby is to

Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman’s) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant,

Katherine-Center-Hello-Stranger.txt

continued. “But it did reveal a neurovascular issue.” Okay, that didn’t sound good. “A neurovascular issue?” The word neurovascular felt like a foreign language in my mouth. “A lesion,” he explained, “that should be treated.” “A lesion?” I asked, like he’d said something obscene. Dr. Estrera put some images from the MRI up onto a lightboard. He pointed to an area with a tiny dark dot and said, “The scan revealed a cavernoma.” He waited for recognition, like I might know what that was. I did not. So I just waited for him to go on. “It’s a malformed blood vessel in the brain,” he explained next. “You’ve had it all your life. An inherited condition.” I glanced at Lucinda, like that didn’t seem right. But Lucinda lifted her hands and said, “Don’t blame me. I’m just the stepmother.” I looked back at the scan—and that menacing little dot. Could he have gotten my scan mixed up with someone else’s? I mean, I just didn’t feel like a person walking around with a malformed blood vessel in her brain. I frowned at Dr. Estrera. “Are you sure?” “It’s plain as day right here,” he said, pointing at the image. Plain as day? More like a fuzzy blur, but okay. “Cavernomas frequently cause seizures,” he went on. “They can be neurologically silent. You could go your whole life without ever having a problem. But they can also start to leak. So your best option is to get it surgically resected.” “It’s leaking?” I asked. “It is. That’s what brought on the seizure.” “The nonconvulsive seizure,” Lucinda noted, like that made it better. “I thought you said there was no bleed in the brain,” I said. “No significant bleed,” he clarified. Why was I arguing with him? He went on, “We need to go in and resect that blood vessel.” Huh. “By go in,” I said, “do you mean go in … to my brain?” “Exactly,” he said, pleased I was getting it now. I was definitely getting it now. “You’re telling me I need brain surgery?” I looked at Lucinda again. There was no one else to look at. Lucinda leaned toward the doctor like she had a juicy secret. “Her father is a very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon,” she said, as if that might somehow earn me a pass. Then, with all the confidence of a woman whose biggest accomplishment was being married to a very prominent cardiothoracic surgeon, she stated: “Richard Montgomery.” Dr. Estrera took that in like a random pleasantry he was too polite to ignore. “Yes. I’ve met him on several occasions.” He turned back to me. “It’s an elective procedure, in the sense that you can schedule it at your convenience. But I’d recommend sooner rather than later.” “How can brain surgery be an elective procedure?” I asked. Botox was an elective procedure. Tummy tucks. Tonsillectomies. “I’ll have to refer you to scheduling,” Dr. Estrera went on, “but we can probably get it done in the next few weeks.” The next few weeks! Uh, no. That wouldn’t work. I

Confidence_-a-Novel.txt

of a bin of loose Easter candy. I held it up to him. “How much do you think this costs?” He raised his eyebrows delightedly. “I have no idea,” he said. “Yeah, me neither,” I said. “We’re gonna find out.” The cashier was clean-shaven with an emo haircut and black nail polish. I put the single Kiss down in front of him. “Can we buy these individually?” I asked. His name tag read “Steven.” He looked at me dazedly. I had intruded on his private fantasies with an incredibly stupid request. “You want to buy that just on its own?” I looked over at Orson, who was pretending to read a tabloid with Jennifer Aniston’s crying face on it. I looked back at Steven. “Yes.” “It’s forty-three cents,” Steven said. I opened my wallet and made a show of looking through my cash. “Shit,” I said. “Shit, I’m sorry.” I produced a ten. “This is the smallest bill I have.” Steven took the bill, unable to conceal his disgust, and proceeded to count out nine dollars and fifty-seven cents. After he handed me the change, I magically found a single. “Sorry!” I said. “I missed this. Listen, can I get the ten back and I’ll give you all the singles?” Steven began to make a calculation in his head that he clearly lost interest in, because he handed me the ten, which I added to my hand of bills. Then I counted out nine singles and slipped the ten underneath. Steven took the wad from me, looking almost curious now, and began counting what I’d given him. “You gave me the ten back,” he sighed. “Oh, did I?” Orson made a little snorting noise behind the tabloid that I hoped Steven couldn’t hear. “Listen,” I said. “I just gave you nineteen there. How about I give you this extra dollar here and you give me back twenty?” Steven now seemed torn between doing what I said and calling his manager. I continued to make eye contact with him, my face even, my stare maybe a little impatient. After a few seconds of this, Steven took the bills back and gave me the twenty. “Holy shit!” Orson crowed when we were outside again. “What was that?” I unwrapped the Kiss and popped it in my mouth. “I saw it in an old movie,” I said, chewing. “What’re you going to do with your eight dollars?” “I dunno. Maybe take in a moving picture show?” He laughed—loud, resounding—and then made an effort to quiet himself when he realized we weren’t yet out of the strip mall parking lot. “Maybe seduce a nice broad into showing you her ankles?” “I do love me some gams,” I said, and he broke into laughter again. There was nothing in the world like pleasing him. TWO MY MOM WAS PERHAPS MORE ashamed of her parents’ Evangelical faith than she was of their alcoholism. Because of this, she kept all details of her religious past from me until I was ten and she mentioned on the drive home from

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt

had died away into the silence from which it rose. "What can it mean?" I gasped. "It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room." With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand. It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long gray dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion. "The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes. I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent. "It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened." As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day. "I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

over barriers he didn’t even know existed inside him. She’d started helping him bring Sam’s dream to life . . . and slowly it was becoming their dream, too. Yeah, it was becoming theirs, and that was more than okay. It was his life now and he desperately wanted to go on living it forever. August dropped down from the doorframe after a few more pull-ups, his brow knitting over the arrival of a second car. Who was that? When he walked out of the barn, the person he needed to see was Natalie—and he did. Briefly. She glanced at him with a strange look on her face as she slipped into the house with a bunch of roses in her arms, shutting the door behind her. What the hell was that? He started after her, stopping short when his CO climbed out of the second car. “Cates.” As always, his spine snapped straight at the sound of his commanding officer’s voice, but his mind didn’t follow. Not this time. Something was up with his wife. Why was his neck tingling like danger was imminent? Commander Zelnick approached with his hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t mean to keep surprising you like this, Cates, but I never know when I’m going to get enough free time to drive up from Coronado.” He nodded at the barn. “I trust things are on their way to improving.” “Yes, sir,” he said automatically—and it was the truth—but a hundred-pound weight had dropped in his stomach and something was prodding the edges of his consciousness. “Sir, would you mind waiting here a moment while I figure out my wife?” He didn’t mean it to sound ridiculous, but his mouth wasn’t connecting with his brain. She’d stopped to buy flowers? For their house? Why did that make him feel like there was a potato sack race happening inside his chest? And why hadn’t she smiled at him? Was something wrong? Yes. Something is wrong. He’d been avoiding thinking about it during their week of bliss, but with the appearance of his commanding officer, the monumental thing he’d been keeping from Natalie jumped up and dug its teeth into his jugular. Every time he thought he had gathered enough courage to tell her about the investment, he recalled the way her father and ex-fiancé had manipulated her with the contents of their bank accounts. Or her trust fund. Not to mention, the investor she’d met with in New York. How she resented their refusal to be straightforward about money. A little longer, he kept thinking. I’ll tell her about the investment once some time has passed since my last fuckup. Really, it had been just over a week since he’d sent her running to the other side of the country. They were so happy. He’d just wanted more things about their marriage in the pro column before he added deceptive about money to the con side. “Of course, go greet your wife,” the CO answered, laughing. “Didn’t recognize her at the flower stand. She looks different. Good

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

his hair, he groans and raises his eyes to mine. “Ah . . .” “Do you like me touching you?” I whisper. His brow furrows briefly as if he doesn’t understand the question. He stops grinding against me. “Of course I do. I love you touching me, Ana. I’m like a starving man at a banquet when it comes to your touch.” His voice hums with pas- sionate sincerity. Holy cow . . . He kneels between my legs and drags me up to haul off my top. I’m naked beneath. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head and tosses it on the floor, then pulls me onto his kneeling lap, his arms clasped just above my behind. “Touch me,” he breathes. Oh my . . . Tentatively I reach up and brush the tips of my fingers through the smattering of chest hair over his sternum, over his burn scars. He inhales sharply and his pupils dilate, but it’s not with fear. It’s a sensual response to my touch. He watches me intently as my fingers float delicately over his skin, first to one nipple and then the other. They pucker beneath my caress. Leaning forward, I plant soft kisses on his chest, and my hands move to his shoulders, feeling the hard, sculp- tured lines of sinew and muscle. Jeez . . . he’s in good shape. “I want you,” he murmurs and it’s a green light to my libido. My fingers move into his hair, pulling his head back so I can claim his mouth, fire licking hot and high in my belly. He groans and pushes me back onto the couch. He sits up and rips off my sweatpants, undoing his fly at the same time. “Home run,” he whispers, and swiftly he fills me. “Ah . . .” I groan and he stills, grabbing my face between his hands. 137/551 “I love you, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs and very slowly, very gently, he makes love to me until I come apart at the seams, calling his name and wrapping myself around him, never wanting to let him go. I lay sprawled on his chest. We’re on the floor of the TV room. “You know, we completely bypassed third base.” My fingers trace the line of his pectoral muscles. He laughs. “Next time, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses the top of my head. I look up to stare at the television screen where the end credits for The X- Files play. Christian reaches for the remote and switches the sound back on. “You liked that show?” I ask. “When I was a kid.” Oh . . . Christian as a kid . . . kickboxing and X Files and no touching. “You?” he asks. “Before my time.” “You’re so young.” Christian smiles fondly. “I like making out with you, Mrs. Grey.” “Likewise, Mr. Grey.” I kiss his chest, and we lie silently watching as The X- Files finish and the commercials come on. “It’s been a heavenly three weeks. Car chases and fires and

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

second she had, it felt unutterably right. She told the Janes to burn their uniforms. She wanted them to buy opera coats, and furs, and parasols, and patent-leather boots. She sent one of her men under cover to a department store to buy them a pair of hats. They were shaped like boats and were crammed with white roses. They wore them at the dinner table. “You’re my best girls,” she said, holding them close, feeling teary. “Thanks, Mrs. Bone,” they replied, unmoved. Alice sat between them. They’d edged their chairs aside, making a little room for her. “Thanks,” she said in a whisper. She’d gone pale when Winnie spoke of her own triumphant negotiation with Miss de Vries. “But I took it,” Alice said, voice hoarse. “I took Madam’s money.” The silence was dreadful. Winnie’s expression grew taut. Mrs. King opened her mouth—to protect her sister, to smooth things over. But Jane-two spoke first, eyes solemn. “You did what was necessary for your own preservation,” she said to Alice. “There is honor in that.” Mrs. King touched Winnie’s arm. “Miss de Vries would have reneged on the bargain anyway. She wants to be great. She doesn’t want to be free.” “You don’t know that,” Winnie said. Mrs. King looked grim faced. “I do.” “I’ll pay Madam back,” said Alice, agonized. “I promise.” “Turns out you’ve got some pluck, after all,” said Jane-one to Alice, forking her jelly. “Good for you.” “Pluck?” said Winnie, pulling herself together, pointing to Hephzibah. “Talk about pluck. I’ve never seen such fine acting in my life.” Hephzibah went as pink as her ball gown and threw a shaky smile at Winnie. Mrs. King sat ramrod straight, eating nothing. At last, Mrs. Bone leaned over. “Well? What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing.” “Don’t ‘nothing’ me.” “Something’s missing,” said Mrs. King. “That’s all.” * * * She had been through every item. They came to her for inspection, one by one, carried or hauled or dragged out from under dustcloths. Painstaking, brutal work. The letter wasn’t there. Had it ever been? she wondered. She pictured Mr. de Vries’s watery gaze. It could have been another trick, a lie, sickbed delirium... She sat on an upturned crate in the yard as the sun went down over the factory, and ran her hands through her hair. A small voice said, “All right?” Alice had been watching her, keeping her distance, as if uncertain about Mrs. King’s mood. Mrs. King roused herself. She stood up. Went to her sister, grasped her by the shoulders. “It’s a funny world, this,” she said. “Don’t let it get to you.” Her sister gave it back at her. “Don’t let it get to you.” * * * Mrs. Bone had given each of them a bedroom, armored, bunkered, almost without light. “Lie low,” she’d said. “Don’t move a muscle. I need three days to shift the best stuff. And a week to get rid of the rest.” They obeyed her. Mrs. Bone knew what she was doing. Mrs. King faced the wall, ancient bedsprings creaking

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

head. "I entreat you." The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. [22] "I must go, Basil," he answered. "Very well," said Hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-by, Harry; good-by, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow." "Certainly." "You won't forget?" "No, of course not." "And . . . Harry!" "Yes, Basil?" "Remember what I asked you, when in the garden this morning." "I have forgotten it." "I trust you." "I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing.--"Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.-- Good-by, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon." As the door closed behind them, Hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. CHAPTER III [...22] One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Curzon Street. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "Les Cent Nouvelles," bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled with parrot- tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in London. Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "Manon Lescaut" that he had found in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away. At last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. "How late you are, Harry!" he murmured. "I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," said a woman's voice. He glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I thought--" "You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them." [23] "Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?" "Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera." She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in

The Foxglove King.txt

spoken in days, like the last words he’d said were to her and in anger. “We’ll leave in twenty minutes.” “Such a man of his word.” His jaw twitched. Gabe laid down the bag and backed out the door, clicking the lock behind him again. Carefully, still feeling some aftereffects from the wine, Lore made her way over and picked up the bag, pulling out a gown. It wasn’t heavy—panels of sheer dark lace made up the skirt, with a simple black bodice that dipped low in the front and back and left her arms bare. No appliques, no embroidery. Just black lace and black silk. “Showtime,” Lore muttered. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE To hold both darkness and light—to hold everything the world is made of—should be the burden of only one god. All powers will come into My hand, and then the world will know the hour of My return. —The Book of Holy Law, Tract 856 (green text, spoken directly by Apollius to Gerard Arceneaux) Twenty minutes later and ten until eight, Gabe opened the door again, just as Lore was dragging a comb through her hair. “Give me a second,” she said, twisting it into a messy braid and winding it around her head. The bag had held a handful of jet hairpins; she stuck them in the braid to hold it in place and only stabbed her scalp once. He didn’t say anything, didn’t relax his pose. Gabe’s shoulders nearly took up the width of the doorframe, solid and straight. He’d evened out whatever apprehension had made them crooked before. A harsh sound; his throat clearing. “You look…” She looked good, and she knew it. The gown fit perfectly, as if it’d been made for her, and the lack of ornamentation or jewelry suited it just fine. Lore resisted the urge to twirl. She’d done it a couple times before he opened the door, but as satisfying as the swirl of skirts had been, it felt somewhat morbid, what with an impending doom ritual. Instead, she ignored Gabe, nodded at her reflection in the spotted mirror, and approached the door. “Let’s get this over with.” But he didn’t move. Gabe blocked the door, looking down at her with an expression that seemed to hover somewhere between determination and pain. She met his gaze, tried to keep her own expression from saying anything at all. “I’m going to keep you safe,” he murmured. “You can trust that.” “I can’t trust anything,” she said lightly, and there was no waver in it; she wouldn’t give him wavering. Lore nodded to the door. “We’re going to be late.” He stood there a moment longer, looking for words and not finding them. Finally, Gabe turned and offered her his elbow, the same way he’d done when they were newly arrived and dressed like foxgloves, headed to Bastian’s masquerade with no idea what to expect. They walked into the hall. They were silent. In a twist of dark irony, the eclipse ball was taking place in the same atrium that Bastian and Lore had crossed

Happy Place.txt

Before Sabrina can reply to that, I jump in: “Well, I’m so glad you and Kim could still make the trip work. That means a lot.” Cleo’s mouth softens into a smile. “I’m glad too.” She brushes a hand over Sabrina’s elbow. “I mean, how often do two of your best friends get married?” Sabrina grins now too, irritation apparently forgotten. “Well, in this case, at least twice, since we’ll still have to do a big family wedding next year. Plus, if Parth has his way, there will probably be three or four more sprinkled in there somewhere.” “Well, of course,” I say. “You’ve got to make sure it sticks.” From the far end of the shop, I can hear Kimmy barking orders at Wyn and Parth like she’s a musher. Their strategy in this pseudo-game is always to go as fast as possible, which means they end up having to circle the whole store like three times, while Cleo, Sabrina, and I lazily meander, testing fruit and sorting through the impressive imported cheese fridge. There are usually even a couple of Cleo’s favorite nut cheeses. The game’s gotten more elaborate over the years. We are now to the point where Sabrina makes the list, cuts it into tiny one-line strips, folds the strips, puts them in a bowl, and has each of us take turns pulling random grocery items out until both “teams” have an even number. Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive. “Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.” Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.” A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio. I wince. “Don’t say that word.” Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?” “Puce is more like a dark red,” Cleo puts in helpfully. “Like if one were to puke up red wine?” Sabrina asks. I grab a loose Maine blueberry and throw it at her. At the front of the store, someone is whooping. “We Are the Champions” starts to play over phone speakers. “Wow,” Sabrina says, tossing a couple of blueberries into her mouth. “They win again. Who would’ve thought?” “How is Kimmy even alive,” I ask, “let alone whooping and cheering?” “I don’t know, dude. She’s superhuman,” Cleo says. “Plus, she woke me up to tell me about the body shots, and I took the opportunity to pour three gallons of water into her mouth.” Her brow arches. “Kind of surprised Wyn didn’t think to do that for you. He was totally sober when I went to bed.” I busy myself with another package of blueberries. “Aha!” I spin back. “See that? Mold.” “Every rose has its thorn,” Sabrina says, angling our cart back toward the front of the shop. “Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.”

Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

of the day. Nevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless curiosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted my key, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked round anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that he was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for an indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my office, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat of a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean, reclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under the empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin, with soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of ginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident enough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping bachelor’s hall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across me, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His poverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a Sunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day it is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with industry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all through Sunday is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole spectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous—a sort of innocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage! For the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging melancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a not-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me irresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby were sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I had seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi of Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought to myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay; but misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad fancyings—chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain—led on to other and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of Bartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The scrivener’s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring strangers, in its shivering winding sheet. Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby’s closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock. I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt something there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna handkerchief, heavy and knotted.

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

home together from the club arm in arm, or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger. Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly well informed man,--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric--brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day you will look at Gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of color, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be [11] perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will alter you. The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic." "Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change too often." "Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud- shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's friends,--those were the fascinating things in life. He thought with pleasure of the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he would have been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. It was charming to have escaped all that! As he thought

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

The house was still so extraordinarily big, so white—like a wedding cake, many tiers high. The park was a desert, all baked earth and scrub grass. Dust came in great billowing clouds from Rotten Row. It was desolate, a dreadful place. I’m not equal to this, she thought. “Yes, here,” she said to the driver, and he got out to deliver her card. Her own self vanished. She sank into her silks and ruffles, and became the Duchess of Montagu. * * * The head footman ushered Hephzibah through the hall. Servants paused in their duties and huddled behind pillars. The staircase was still tremendously ugly. She’d forgotten its recesses, those blocks of black and blood-red marble. They looked like gravestones, signposts on the way to hell. How many times had she cleaned the banisters, rubbed them with blacking, cracked her nails on their grooves and whorls? The footman gave Hephzibah a wide and courteous berth. “No more visitors,” he murmured to the under-footmen, and they closed the doors. He was enormously good-looking. Stony faced, dark haired, terrific eyes. He was something to focus on, to occupy the mind. “This way,” he said, extending a gloved finger. “Oh, I can guess the way,” said Hephzibah. She needed to warm up, to test the voice. “People only move in one direction when they build a house like this.” She held out her parasol, and he took it. “Up.” His eyes flashed, a single golden gleam. Amused. Good, Hephzibah told herself, that was a clever line. Well judged. Nice and rude. She wondered, Would a duchess speak to a footman? Perhaps there were no rules for duchesses. She tried to quiet her mind. It was too easy to lose a character, just by listening to all the chatter in one’s head. She eyed the footman’s calf muscles, the hard curve of his arse underneath his tails. Lovely, she said to herself, trying to cheer herself up. She could smell beeswax: there was parquet upstairs. It made her dizzy, the memory of all those tiny pieces of wood. It took hours and hours to polish every block. The saloon doors slid open—slowly, slowly. She spied a small figure on a couch, far away in the center of the room. Great slanting shafts of light came through the windows facing the park. Hephzibah shaded her eyes with her hand. She had tried to cast her mind back to the old days, to remember the child who’d lived in the nursery. A snowball creature, with yellow-gold hair done up in ringlets. More like a pet than a person, a fluffy thing fed and watered by the senior servants. Hephzibah had hardly thought about her, had hardly imagined her living or breathing or existing at all. This woman—straight, thin, upright, alert—was different altogether. “Don’t let her hook you,” Mrs. King had warned her. “Whatever you do.” Hephzibah paused at the threshold. She could leave, right now. Claim another appointment, feign illness, call the whole thing off. Slowly, Miss de Vries rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” she said,

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

pecking in the ground. A pheasant was strutting close to a hedge, making a throaty squawk. Neil pulled her close to him, kissing her lips, and she felt the warmth of his arms. ‘You know I love you, don’t you, Lindy? There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ She kissed him back, remembering sharply how much she adored her husband. She wasn’t sure how to convey the depth of her feelings, so she said, ‘You too, love.’ But almost instantly her mind bounced back to the fact that he had been away all day, that he’d been late home yet again, and his words came back again – ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about.’ Why would he tell her not to worry, unless the opposite was true? Perhaps he had a secret: he was unwell, or he didn’t love her any more. Or perhaps there was someone else – he was meeting another woman. Lin pulled herself together, reprimanding herself sharply. They would be all right – she was making up things to worry about. But what if there was something wrong? What if she lost him? Lin wrapped an arm around him, clinging tightly. She couldn’t lose him, not after all the years they’d been together, not now. 22 Minnie left Middleton Ferris station behind her and strode past the village green towards Odile’s café. It was a warm June day, and she was still thinking about the matinee she’d seen a week ago. It had been the most vibrant Julius Caesar, sharply political, modern, and the battle at the end had been all explosions and smoke. The direction reminded her of Jensen, vibrant, fresh, intelligent. She’d watched the play, sitting alone and undisturbed, her eyes fixed on the stage, analysing the meaning of every move. It helped her to know him better. At the end, as the exhilarated audience left the theatre, she considered going round the back to the stage door, finding Jensen, sharing a discussion. But it was still too early – she’d wait for the right moment. As Minnie passed the rec, she gazed across the road and saw a familiar figure in the allotments, a hoe in her hand. She called out eagerly, ‘Tina!’ Tina stood up slowly, her pale hair across her face. Minnie rushed across to the small gate that led to the separate patches of soil, weaving past flowers and newly sprouting vegetables to where Tina was standing, wearing overalls and wellington boots. She put a hand to her head. ‘These bloody weeds won’t get the better of me – I’ve been at it since seven this morning.’ Minnie surveyed the neat rows, the bright orange nasturtiums next to newly growing French beans and courgettes. ‘It’s all looking good.’ ‘So it should, the amount of time I spend here.’ Tina wiped soil from her hands. ‘I’m going to Odile’s – come with me. I’m meeting Josie and Lin and Cecily.’ Tina pulled a face. ‘Like this?’ ‘You live minutes away – we can pop to yours and you can change into shoes.

The Hunger Games.txt

enough that I’m at least able to speak. “I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.” Everyone stops eating. “You what?” The horror in Effie’s voice confirms my worse suspicions. “I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direc- tion. It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just . . . I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” I say defiantly. “And what did they say?” says Cinna carefully. “Nothing. Or I don’t know. I walked out after that,” I say. “Without being dismissed?” gasps Effie. “I dismissed myself,” I said. I remember how I promised Prim that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of coal has dropped on me. “Well, that’s that,” says Haymitch. Then he butters a roll. “Do you think they’ll arrest me?” I ask. “Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage,” says Haymitch. “What about my family?” I say. “Will they punish them?” “Don’t think so. Wouldn’t make much sense. See they’d have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can’t since it’s secret, so it’d be a waste of effort,” says Haymitch. “More likely they’ll make your life hell in the arena.” “Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us any way,” says Peeta. 106 “Very true,” says Haymitch. And I realize the impossible has happened. They have actually cheered me up. Haymitch picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Effie frown, and dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to chuckle. “What were their faces like?” I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. “Shocked. Terri- fied. Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” An image pops into my mind. “One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch.” Haymitch guffaws and we all start laughing except Effie, al- though even she is suppressing a smile. “Well, it serves them right. It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.” Then her eyes dart around as if she’s said something totally outrageous. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think,” she says to no one in particular. “I’ll get a very bad score,” I say. “Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy,” said Portia. “I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot.” I grin at him and realize that I’m starving. I cut off a piece

Tarzan of the Apes.txt

to thwart or antagonize them." "Right you are, Alice. We'll keep in the middle of the road." As they started to straighten up their cabin, Clayton and his wife simultaneously noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from beneath the door of their quarters. As Clayton stooped to reach for it he was amazed to see it move further into the room, and then he realized that it was being pushed inward by someone from without. Quickly and silently he stepped toward the door, but, as he reached for the knob to throw it open, his wife's hand fell upon his wrist. "No, John," she whispered. "They do not wish to be seen, and so we cannot afford to see them. Do not forget that we are keeping to the middle of the road." Clayton smiled and dropped his hand to his side. Thus they stood watching the little bit of white paper until it finally remained at rest upon the floor just inside the door. Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an unaccustomed task. Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had told them--to refrain on pain of death. "I rather imagine we'll be good," said Clayton with a rueful smile. "About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come." Chapter 2 The Savage Home Nor did they have long to wait, for the next morning as Clayton was emerging on deck for his accustomed walk before breakfast, a shot rang out, and then another, and another. The sight which met his eyes confirmed his worst fears. Facing the little knot of officers was the entire motley crew of the Fuwalda, and at their head stood Black Michael. Chapter 2 13 At the first volley from the officers the men ran for shelter, and from points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned the fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship. Two of their number had gone down before the captain's revolver. They lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from Black Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had been able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with boat hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars. The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge was made. The second mate's gun had jammed, and so there were but two weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the officers, who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of their men. Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which, together with the reports of the firearms

1984.txt

If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (71 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt When they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no one was coming. Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!' she said parenthetically), and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky electric motor. She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces. She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop-leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like 'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School', to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal. 'What are these books like?' said Winston curiously. 'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I

Happy Place.txt

a corkscrew in your pocket at ten thirty in the morning?” “No,” he says, “I’m just happy to see you.” “Hilarious.” His eyes steadily hold mine as he sets the wine bottle into his boot and smacks the whole arrangement against the wall. I yelp. “What are you doing?” He drives the boot against the wall again three more times. On the last hit, the cork leaps up the bottle’s neck a half inch. With another two quick snaps against the wall, the cork pops out entirely. Wyn lifts the open bottle toward me. “I’m concerned that you know how to do that,” I say. “So you don’t want any.” He takes a swig. As the bottle lowers, his eyes dart over his shoulder, toward the alcove under the stairs. Heat swiftly rises from my clavicles to my hairline. Don’t go there. Don’t think about that. I know it’s ill-advised, but a part of me is desperately hoping there’s something to the whole hair-of-the-dog school of treating hangovers when I grab the bottle and take a sip. Nope. My stomach does not want that. I pass it back to him. “Parth taught me that trick,” he says. “I’ve never needed to use it before now.” “Oh, you haven’t found yourself imprisoned with any other jilted lovers in the last five months?” He snorts. “Jilted? Not exactly how I remember it, Harriet.” “Maybe you have amnesia,” I suggest. “My memory’s fine, Dr. Kilpatrick, though I do appreciate the concern.” As if to prove his point, his eyes dart toward the nook under the stairs again. He can’t be seeing someone. He’d never go along with this act if he was. Wyn may be a flirt, but he’s not disloyal. Unless he’s in something brand-new? Not officially exclusive? But if it were brand-new, then would he have already reached comfortable-relationship status? The little so-called clues could just as easily be random bits of information I’m jamming together to tell a story. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t seeing anyone. The bottom line is, I have no idea what’s going on in his life. I’m not supposed to. He takes a few more sips. I guess it doesn’t do the trick for him either, because within minutes, he’s pacing. He rakes his hands through his hair as he walks in circles around the space, sweat brimming along his forehead. “If only you’d brought your coffee-table book.” Wyn looks abruptly back at me, eyes sharply appraising. “Then we’d have something to look at,” I say. His brow arches, tugging on his lip. “What do you have against my coffee- table book, Harriet?” “Nothing.” “Did you suffer some kind of coffee-table-book-related trauma in the last five months?” “That thing cost sixty dollars,” I say. He shakes his head, goes back to pacing. “Is it a gift?” I say. “Why would it be a gift?” he says. Not an answer. “Because you never spend that kind of money on yourself,” I say. The tops of his cheeks flush a little, and I really, really regret asking now. We

The-Scorched-Throne-1-Sara-Hashe.txt

at all, Sylvia?” “No, my liege.” I focused on a point past Supreme Rawain’s shoulder. My liege, Hanim repeated in disgust. Rawain shook his head, leaning his scepter against the chair. “Vaida is insisting Murib leave a khawaga at the cliff another day. Murib is bowing to her will. Asinine. Anything crawling over that cliff’s edge will be slain on sight.” A rapping at the door drew a smile from Rawain. “Ah, the last member of our company has arrived.” The door opened, and I glimpsed the identical alarm on Wes and Jeru’s faces seconds before Vaun entered the room. The Nizahl guardsman bowed deeply. “Your Highness. Commander.” A quick glance at Arin confirmed he was as surprised to see his former guardsman here as Wes and Jeru were. “Vaun, sit. You and Sylvia are well acquainted already, yes?” A pronounced limp slowed Vaun’s gait, and he eased himself into a chair between Arin and the Supreme with a wince. “Yes, sire. We are.” The Nizahl guardsman finally looked at me. Instead of the loathing I expected, vindictive glee animated Vaun. This isn’t right, Hanim said. Rawain does not remember the names of guardsmen. He does not invite them to a private supper two kingdoms away. “Sylvia was going to tell us how she finished the first trial,” Rawain said. He peered into his chalice, taking an experimental sip. He grimaced. “I am especially curious to hear how you climbed a rope with poisoned sap clotted on your palm.” Arin’s plate remained untouched. I held his gaze as my cuffs tightened, my magic chasing the emptiness back to its dark corner. Only one possible piece of information could compel Rawain to invite Vaun against Arin’s wishes. Rawain suspected I was a Jasadi. Why else ask such a pointed question about the first trial? Strangely, I found the prospect thrilling. Let him suspect I was his enemy. Let Vaun’s accusation cut a place in his head and carve my name into his skull. I had lived in the maw of discovery almost my entire life, simply waiting for its teeth to close. But now… fear had spent its currency, and a more dangerous power paved the road ahead. I smiled brightly at Supreme Rawain. “I climbed it the same way I would have without poisoned sap, just with more screaming. Sire.” Ah, I had missed Vaun’s furious glare. His reliably terrible presence undid some of the damage I had wrought unto myself after Rawain’s visit. Rawain laughed, causing Arin and Vaun’s heads to whip toward him. “My apologies for a silly question.” He unrolled a grape leaf, evaluating the seasoned rice inside. He tried to rewrap it. “You were in a distressing state when you reached us. My son reduced several medics to tears.” “His Highness has been diligent in preparing me for the Alcalah.” I could play at pleasant if it would prove Vaun a liar. “I would have hated to waste his efforts in the very first trial.” “Yes, he is quite particular about such matters. Too particular, sometimes. But I

Titanium-Noir.txt

even just send someone to take them. One of Mr. Zoegar’s many counterparts in his organisation. He might even go to court. But if, say, a man who functions as a damper on all things Titanic were to vouch for their destruction to Stefan while nonetheless delivering them to me…that would be an optimal outcome.” “That’s not the same thing. You said the Travis. Stealing’s another matter.” “It is the same thing, sir. The Travis and I…we are one, financially speaking. When all the shells are plucked away and the cockle is winkled from the rock. I can even prove it to you, though with that level of knowledge of my affairs would come certain constraints upon you. No, there’s no need for that, Mr. Sounder. You can just drop them discreetly at the front desk. The staff will accommodate you as to timing and matters of…tradecraft.” “You want me to lie to Stefan.” “I offer you the opportunity to defeat him, in this one, small way.” “Why would I want to do that?” “Oh, come now. Everyone who meets him longs to beat him in one way or another. Otherwise we must acknowledge we are outmatched, made secondary in our own world. If we do not defeat the Titan king, what is left to us but obsolescence?” “You think that’s going to persuade me?” “I’m interested to find out. Who are you, Cal Sounder? I told you one story, will you not tell me another? Who are you?” “I’m sure you did your research.” “I did, but you’re an enigma, sir. A nobody, and yet somehow also a pin around which the city turns. Of course you’re only a small businessman, but you are, undeniably, something of a figure in all of this, and I cannot for the life of me see how it comes to be so. You walk with giants. Are you on a mission? Like Peter, a grieving husband nursing a grudge? A son seeking vengeance? Is there some heroic story playing out here that I’m not aware of? Whatever it is, you may not be in the job much longer. I have my spies: Stefan is unhappy with you. He feels you have fumbled in this matter. And perhaps it means more to him than just a liver and some offal.” “What do you want them for?” Doublewide steeples those long fingers. Long enough to go all the way around my head. The leverage on those arms would let him twist it off like the top of a ketchup bottle. “I think what I do with them once I have them is my business, Mr. Sounder.” “If you’re going against Stefan, you’re going to need a lot more than Mr. Zoegar here.” “Oh, not against. Never against. Around, beneath, beside. Orthogonal influence, dimensionalities of control. We are not in collision, for all that we occasionally abrade. But you? Do you think he won’t pin you in a case like a butterfly?” “I can handle Stefan.” The huge chest rocks, and the head lolls from side to side.

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck. “Barefoot and in the kitchen,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I smirk. He stills, his whole body tensing against me. “Not yet,” he declares, appre- hension clear in his voice. “No! Not yet!” He relaxes. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.” “You do want kids though, don’t you?” “Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet.” He kisses my neck again. Oh . . . share? “What are you making? Looks good.” He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it’s to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine. “Subs.” I smirk, recovering my sense of humor. He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. “My favorite.” I poke him with my elbow. “Mrs. Grey, you wound me.” He clutches his side as if in pain. “Wimp,” I mutter disapprovingly. “Wimp?” he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I’ll show you how wimpy I can be.” He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge. “Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks. “Please.” Christian spreads Gia’s plans out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spec- tacular ideas. “I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but . . .” “But?” Christian prompts. I sigh. “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.” “Character?” 132/551 “Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but . . . well . . . I fell in love with the house as it is . . . warts and all.” Christian’s brow furrows as if this is anathema to him. “I kind of like it the way it is,” I whisper. Is this going to make him mad? He regards me steadily. “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” “I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.” “I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana.” His gaze holds mine. He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me. “Well”—I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat—“I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically.” Christian grins. “Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?” “I’m cool with those.” “Good.” Okay . . . I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you want to put in a playroom?” I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you?” he replies, surprised and amused at once. I shrug. “Um . . . if you want.” He regards me for a moment. “Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home.” I’m surprised by

Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt

is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye shall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally unknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm whale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But even granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered slippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable carrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to drink in all ladies' plaudits? And if the .. <p 107 > idea of peril so much enhances the popular conceit of the soldier's profession; let me assure ye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would quickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale's vast tail, fanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the comprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God! But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory! But look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of scales; see what we whalemen are, and have been. Why did the Dutch in DeWitt's time have admirals of their whaling fleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit out whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some score or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did Britain between the years and pay to her whalemen in bounties upwards of 1,000,000 pounds? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of America now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world; sail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen thousand men; yearly consuming 00824,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth, at the time of sailing, 20,000,000 dollars; and every year importing into our harbors a well reaped harvest of 00847,000,000 dollars. How comes all this, if there be not something puissant in whaling? But this is not the half; look again. I freely assert, that the cosmopolite philosopher cannot, for his life, point out one single peaceful influence, which within the last sixty years has operated more potentially upon the whole broad world, taken in one aggregate, than the high and mighty business of whaling. One way and another, it has begotten events so remarkable in themselves, and so continuously momentous in their sequential issues, that whaling may well be regarded as that Egyptian mother, who bore offspring themselves pregnant from her womb.

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

moved to New York and spent four years as a coatcheck girl, going to auditions during the day. She never made it on Broadway, but she’d come close. Finally, she heard Chicago had a good theater scene and less competition so she headed out there and met a guy who gave her the biggest part of her life: Mrs. Eric Joyner. Her dad’s family hated her, but that didn’t stop her mom. She had so much energy, she had so much optimism, she had so much love for their dad that she made it work. Even on their wedding day, when not a single member of his family showed up at city hall, when they had to ask the people standing behind them in line to be their witnesses, when they didn’t get a single wedding present, even that day she made it work. Louise saw it in their only wedding picture, her mom in a white miniskirt and go-go boots, their dad’s mustache impossibly thick and shaggy, busting out laughing at something she’d said. It was a cold, gray day outside some municipal building in cold, gray Chicago, and because of her mom they were having the best day of their lives. They moved to Charleston for his career and moved back into their only asset: the house where Nancy had grown up. They’d had casserole and handme-down years, but her mom had sung show tunes, started her puppet ministry, had Louise and Mark, and acted like this had been the plan all along. They hadn’t been able to afford a TV for the first three years of Louise’s life, but it didn’t matter. From the time Louise was three, every night her mom put Pupkin on one hand and turned Louise’s bedroom into his magical home of Tickytoo Woods. She’d weave elaborate bedtime stories about the Tick Tock Tree and the Bone Orchard, his friend Girl Sparrow, who always rescued him at the last minute, and the spooky Inside-Out Man who lived in the trees. When Mark was born, he’d sit with them, too, and even before he understood the words he’d been hypnotized by their mom’s voice, by Pupkin’s tricks, by his sister’s attention. During those bedtime stories, her mom and Pupkin filled the room, and if Louise had been able to tear her eyes away from them, she knew that her bedroom walls would have disappeared, replaced by Tickytoo Woods and Sugar Bats flitting through the trees. At some point after Louise turned five, the stories lost their shine. She embraced brushing her teeth by herself and putting herself to bed. She loved being responsible, she relished her independence, she got addicted to her parents’ praise when they told her what a big girl she was. It felt more real than hearing yet another story about Pupkin getting in trouble and finally finding his way back home again thanks to the hard work of Girl Sparrow. Mark kept listening, though. Mom thought he was fascinated by her elaborate tales of Pupkin’s adventures, but Louise knew he just wanted

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

surely there was a maid or footman who could accompany them for propriety’s sake—Olivia would be hurt if Lucy suggested that route—but neither could she spend any of William’s money, no matter how rich he was purported to be. She had no right to anything of his, and that included his family. She would have to stand her ground and remain behind, lest something go wrong. “Perhaps I should wait until William—” Her words stopped immediately upon Simon entering the room, and at first she wasn’t sure why she couldn’t look away from him. There was something . . . different . . . about him. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was like he had a sort of determination in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. She had seen confidence and humor, weariness and uncertainty, but this was a new look for Lord Calloway, and she found she liked it very much. It made him look powerful. Like the sort of man who would never feel belittled by someone who had their own aspirations and dreams because another’s success could never devalue his own. Where had this come from? It hardly mattered, because he looked at Lucy in a way no one had ever looked at her before, like he could see right through her. A large part of her wanted him to see the truth as they stood there gazing at each other. Then everything would be out in the open, and she wouldn’t have to hide anymore. But another part hoped he would see only the good parts of her. The parts that hadn’t lied to him. She wanted him to see her as someone worth knowing. She had never thought much about marriage since the death of her father, and at twenty-two, she was well on her way to becoming a spinster. Besides, no respectable man wanted to marry a penniless governess, and when the truth came to light about her sham engagement to William, she would likely be ruined anyway and never have a single prospect for the rest of her life. Despite girlish fantasies in her youth, she had come to accept that she would forever be alone, so she had rarely looked at a man and wondered whether she found him attractive. There was little point in getting distracted. But Simon? Simon was assuredly attractive, and he had so much to recommend himself. His dark hair and strong jaw had given him that commanding appearance of a baron she’d seen in him a few times, but his eyes were always so soft, with laugh lines at the edges that spoke of easier days, before his father had died. He noticed when she was upset, even when she tried to hide it, and he tried to make things right when he made a misstep . . . or thought he did. And with this new determination in Simon’s eyes, Lucy had to wonder whether she could ever find a man to rival him. She doubted it. It didn’t matter that she had known him

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt

ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, "Hel-LO, Jim, looky yon- der!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. So I says: "Le's land on her, Jim." But Jim was dead against it at first. He says: "I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot- house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you -- and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and THEY don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure -- that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it? -- wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here." Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next

Dune.txt

old face remained impassive, betraying none of the loathing he felt. "I suspect many things, my Lord," he said. "Yes. Well, I wish to know how Arrakis figures in your suspicions about Salusa Secundus. It is not enough that you say to me the Emperor is in a ferment about some association between Arrakis and his mysterious prison planet. Now, I rushed the warning out to Rabban only because the courier had to leave on that Heighliner. You said there could be no delay. Well and good. But now I will have an explanation." He babbles too much, Hawat thought. He's not like Leto who could tell me a thing with the lift of an eyebrow or the wave of a hand. Nor like the Old Duke who could express an entire sentence in the way he accented a single word. This is a clod! Destroying him will be a service to mankind. "You will not leave here until I've had a full and complete explanation," the Baron said. "You speak too casually of Salusa Secundus," Hawat said. "It's a penal colony," the Baron said. "The worst riff-raff in the galaxy are sent to Salusa Secundus. What else do we need to know?" "That conditions on the prison planet are more oppressive than anywhere else," Hawat said. "You hear that the mortality rate among new prisoners is higher than sixty per cent. You hear that the Emperor practices every form of oppression there. You hear all this and do not ask questions?" "The Emperor doesn't permit the Great Houses to inspect his prison," the Baron growled. "But he hasn't seen into my dungeons, either." "And curiosity about Salusa Secundus is . . . ah . . . " Hawat put a bony finger to his lips. ". . . discouraged." "So he's not proud of some of the things he must do there!" Hawat allowed the faintest of smiles to touch his dark lips. His eyes glinted in the glowtube light as he stared at the Baron. "And you've never wondered where the Emperor gets his Sardaukar?" The Baron pursed his fat lips. This gave his features the look of a pouting baby, and his voice carried a tone of petulance as he said: "Why . . . he recruits . . . that is to say, there are the levies and he enlists from --" "Faaa!" Hawat snapped. "The stories you hear about the exploits of the Sardaukar, they're not rumors, are they? Those are first-hand accounts from the limited number of survivors who've fought against the Sardaukar, eh?" "The Sardaukar are excellent fighting men, no doubt of it," the Baron said. "But I think my own legions --" "A pack of holiday excursionists by comparison!" Hawat snarled. "You think I don't know why the Emperor turned against House Atreides?" "This is not a realm open to your speculation," the Baron warned. Is it possible that even he doesn't know what motivated the Emperor in this? Hawat asked himself. "Any area is open to my speculation if it does what you've

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

back, giving myself an androgynous look. My blouse looked remarkably well, tucked into the trousers, and I only wished I had a cravat to finish off the look, like the Parisian author, Colette. Perhaps I could also be known purely by my Christian name and conceal my identity. Opaline, however, was not a very common name. ‘Hello, Miss …’ I spotted a book lying on the dusty floor. The Picture of Dorian Gray. ‘Hello, Miss Gray.’ Not bad. Keen to investigate the rare book dealers in Dublin city and see what could be picked up, I set out and walked across the humpbacked Ha'penny Bridge, like the spine of a whale decorated with lamps, to visit Webb’s bookshop on the quays. Sylvia had mentioned the name to me before I left, and the only way I could retain the information was to picture a spider’s web. I took a moment to lean against the iron railing and looked up at the green domes of the cathedral and the Four Courts. My eyes followed the River Liffey as it flowed down towards The Custom House, which had only recently been burned out by the Irish Republican Army. Joyce had neglected to mention that the country was in the middle of a civil war when he suggested I escape here. From the frying pan into the fire, as they say. Wearing a man’s trousers and using a pseudonym, I felt like I was playing the part of an actress. Mr Hanna was one of those rare types who took absolutely no notice of my appearance and instead filled a box with some popular titles to ‘keep me ticking over’, as he put it. At the mere mention of James Joyce, it seemed my good reputation was sealed. I had a quick scan through his Dickens collection, just in case my father’s copy of David Copperfield was among them. It had become a little habit of mine, a way of keeping him close to my heart. It was a rare edition, and I could tell with a glance that it wasn’t there. No matter, I said to myself. I will find it one day. Armed with my new books and a list of distributors I could call on, I arrived back at Ha'penny Lane with renewed purpose. I looked around the shop, at the rich green walls and the little Tiffany lamps shedding their colourful glow on all the treasures that had held their breath, waiting for the doors to reopen after Mr Fitzpatrick’s death. It almost felt like Sleeping Beauty’s room in the tower and I needed to find the spell to waken her. I had insisted on keeping all of Mr Fitzpatrick’s stock, for the shop would have looked bare with only my small bookcase of titles to furnish it, yet I had no idea how these two ideas would merge. I first looked at the window display, which hadn’t changed in all the time the shop had been closed. If I wanted to entice customers inside, I had to use my imagination.

Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt

identical smiling people and never create anything of meaning or significance?” he asked. I slammed the closet door shut. “Yes. If those are my two options, I will take the smiling people. Who are not identical, and neither are the photos. They’re happy, so you think they’re beneath me. But you know what? It means a hell of a lot more to a hell of a lot more people than a story in an obscure magazine that doesn’t pay and never even sent you the contributor copies.” That was harsher than I’d intended, but I didn’t back down. I couldn’t. I was running blind through the forest, and the hunter was behind me. I could only go forward. “I didn’t realize you thought so little of my work,” Mitch said stiffly. “Whereas I knew perfectly well how little you thought of mine,” I snarled back. Then I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. Can we just pretend that I didn’t say any of that?” “You’re under a lot of stress.” Translation: He’d find a time to bring this up when he could be the unambiguous victim. But I let him wrap his arms around me and tuck my head against his chest. I held my hand curled awkwardly, my thumb throbbing, as he made soothing sounds and stroked my hair. “Come on. Let’s drink. It’ll solve all our problems.” I laughed a little, surrendering. I’d have a drink, and we wouldn’t fight, and Stahl would stay dead, and the past would remain the past, and no one would ever have to know the truth. Then I heard it—the faint buzz, buzz, buzz. My phone was ringing in my purse. I maneuvered past Mitch in the narrow hall and got to it on the last ring. Liv—really Liv this time. “Hey,” I said as soon as I picked up, Mitch trailing behind me. “Naomi. I’ve been calling all day,” Liv said, fretful. I could picture her perfectly, folded up in the corner of her couch, wrapping her long black hair around her finger. “Did you hear?” “About Stahl? Yeah. I heard.” “I can’t believe he’s dead.” She sounded far away. “I know. Liv, hang on.” Mitch was standing too casually halfway across the room. I held up a Just one minute finger and slipped back through the hall into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly when the door was shut. If I was a mess, I couldn’t imagine how Liv was holding up. “Have you talked to Cassidy?” “A little. She texted. I haven’t … I wanted to talk to you first,” Liv said carefully. “About Stahl?” I asked. “No. Not exactly.” She took a steadying breath. “I did something.” “Liv, you’re kind of freaking me out,” I told her. “What do you mean, you did something? What did you do?” Her words sank through me, sharp and unforgiving. “I found Persephone.” I hadn’t opened the box in years. Through several moves, assorted boyfriends and girlfriends, and three therapists, the box

Kristy-Woodson-Harvey-The-Summer-of-Songbirds.txt

to mind. When I got to camp the day after their funeral, it looked eerie, desolate, lonely. I was used to this place being filled with excited girls and young women holding painted welcome signs, hugging, cheering, waving. But now, all of that was gone. A chain hung at the camp entrance with two removable placards attached: NO TRESPASSING. FOR SALE. I knew instantly I would use the money my parents had left me to buy Camp Holly Springs. I unfastened the clasp holding the chain to an eye hook, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign. That didn’t apply to me. I drove to the director’s hut, and when I opened the door, Karen Stevenson, the camp’s owner, had her head down on the office desk. She startled when I entered. “June!” She stood to hug me. “Hi, Karen.” I burst into tears, the story of my parents’ death pouring out. It was only when I finished that I realized she was crying too. “I’m so sorry, June. Doubly so. I’m sorry about your parents, and I’m sorry to say that I’ve lost the camp,” she said. “I can’t afford to keep it open anymore, this magical place that so many little girls have come to love.” I nodded. “I want to buy it.” She laughed, wiping her eyes. “No, June. It isn’t profitable anymore. I can’t let you. I’ll probably sell it for the land. Trust me, this is no investment.” “What do you want for it?” It was a little bit more than my inheritance, after taxes. I told her what I could pay, and Karen sent me away. “Sleep on it, June. If you still want it in a month, I’ll agree. I won’t sell it to anyone else.” One month later, we signed the papers. Karen agreed to stay on in a volunteer capacity through my first summer. We visited colleges and sororities, offered nights off, flexible weeks, and community service hours for counselors. It took three years to get Holly Springs back in the black, but we survived. And for twenty-three years after that, we thrived. I still couldn’t understand how my wonderful camp didn’t qualify for so many of the federal funds that businesses received during the pandemic to keep them afloat. But every application was rejected; every answer was no. And so, now, there was only one thing left to do. I sat down at my desk in the director’s office, picked up the heavy black phone that had been on this desk—remarkably—since the camp opened in the late 1940s, and dialed Rock Springs, our brother all-boys camp just down the river. Our finances weren’t tied together, but our fates were. Brothers and sisters and friends attended these two camps. We had events together all summer long. I didn’t expect Rich to answer, but I recognized his voice right away when he did. “Rich, it’s June.” “Oh, hi,” he said. I could hear him brighten, and I wanted to yell, This isn’t a happy call! I sighed. “This isn’t a call I wanted to make, Rich,

A Day of Fallen Night.txt

enchanted, that he alone could slay the creature – but it was not kindness that moved him. In exchange for his blade, the knight of Inysca had two conditions. First, he would see the people of Lasia convert to his new religion of Six Virtues. And second, when he returned to his own country, he would have Cleolind as his bride.’ Siyu stopped to clear her throat. Tunuva passed her a goblet of walnut milk, which she drank. ‘And what then?’ Tunuva asked her. ‘What did Cleolind say?’ When Siyu lay back down, she rested her head against Tunuva. ‘She told her father to banish the knight,’ Siyu said. ‘Desperate though their city was, she would not see her people on their knees for a foreign king – but when she went to meet her death, the knight followed. And when Cleolind was bound to a stone, and the Nameless One emerged from the foul water to claim his payment, the knight faced him. ‘But Galian Berethnet – that was his name – was a coward and a fool. The fumes and fire overcame him. Cleolind took up his sword. From the acrid shore of Lake Jakpa, deep into the Lasian Basin, she fought the Beast of the Mountain, tracking him to his lair. There, Cleolind was astonished, for in the valley grew a befruited tree, taller than any she had ever seen.’ That image appeared on many walls in the Priory. The tree, its golden oranges, the red beast twined around its trunk. ‘They fought,’ Siyu said, ‘for a day and a night. At last, the Nameless One set Cleolind afire. She cast herself beneath the tree – and though the beast was drawn to it, his fire could not burn anything that lay within the shadow of its branches. ‘As Cleolind began to die, the orange tree yielded its fruit. With the last of her strength, she ate, and all about her, the world brightened. She could hear the earth, feel its heat in her blood, and suddenly, fire was at her command, too. This time, when she confronted the beast, she drove the sword between its scales, and at last, the Nameless One was vanquished.’ Tunuva released her breath. No matter how many times she heard the story, it moved her. ‘Cleolind returned the sword to Galian the Deceiver, so he would never come back for it,’ Siyu said, ‘before she banished him from Lasia.’ Her voice was slowing. ‘She renounced her claim to the throne, and with her loyal handmaidens, she withdrew from the world to guard the orange tree, to stand in wait for the Nameless One, for he shall one day return. And we, who are blessed with the flame, are her children. We remain.’ ‘For how long?’ Tunuva asked. ‘Always.’ Her breathing deepened. Tunuva closed her own eyes, and against her will, she remembered someone else falling asleep against her, long ago. The thought held her in place until Imsurin came and led her away. 7 West The day of her commendation. Glorian Hraustr Berethnet

treasure island.txt

THE wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the “Ah!” says he. “Well, that’s unfort’nate—appears as if kill- west. We could run so much the easier from the north-east ing parties was a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don’t corner of the island to the mouth of the North Inlet. Only, as reckon for much, by what I’ve seen. I’ll chance it with the we had no power to anchor and dared not beach her till the sperrits, Jim. And now, you’ve spoke up free, and I’ll take it tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands. kind if you’d step down into that there cabin and get me a— The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good well, a—shiver my timbers! I can’t hit the name on ‘t; well, many trials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over an- you get me a bottle of wine, Jim—this here brandy’s too strong other meal. for my head.” “Cap’n,” said he at length with that same uncomfortable Now, the coxswain’s hesitation seemed to be unnatural, smile, “here’s my old shipmate, O’Brien; s’pose you was to and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, I en- tirely disbelieved it. The whole story was a pretext. He wanted Contents heave him overboard. I ain’t partic’lar as a rule, and I don’t take no blame for settling his hash, but I don’t reckon him me to leave the deck—so much was plain; but with what pur- ornamental now, do you?” pose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never met mine; Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 208 209 they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a short dirk, look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead discoloured to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for a O’Brien. All the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child his hand, and then, hastily concealing it in the bosom of his could have told that he was bent on some deception. I was jacket, trundled back again into his old place against the bul- prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where my advan- wark. tage lay and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily This was all that I required to know. Israel could move conceal my suspicions to the end. about, he was now armed, and if he had been at so much “Some wine?” I said. “Far better. Will you have white or trouble to get rid of me, it was plain that I was meant to be red?” the victim. What he would do afterwards— whether he would “Well, I reckon it’s about the blessed same to me, ship- try to crawl right across the island from North Inlet to

In the Lives of Puppets.txt

me!” “D-do me,” Hap said, a sneer on his lips. “D-do m-me. I n-never stop talking.” “Wow,” Rambo said. “That was scarily accurate.” “He’s learning,” Dad said, crouching down before Hap. “It’s only going to continue, and most likely at an exponential rate.” “Why?” Vic asked. Dad sighed. “Because of you, Victor.” Vic felt his stomach sink. “Hap,” Dad said. “Can you show us?” Hap looked at each of them in turn before his gaze rested on Vic, who nodded. He reached down and lifted his shirt above his head, the collar stretching. He folded it carefully before setting it on his lap. The wood on his chest and face gleamed in the cool morning light coming in through the skylights above. “This,” Dad said, pointing at the wood. “Why did you do this?” Nurse Ratched said, “The skin wouldn’t—” “Thank you, Nurse Ratched, but I would like to hear from Victor.” She fell silent. Vic popped his knuckles without thinking. “I…” He cleared his throat. “Some of the tears were too big to close. And we couldn’t grow new skin, so I had to use what I had available.” “And why not use metal?” Vic looked away. “He’s already metal. Almost all of him. Underneath. I thought it would look better if we used wood. It’d make him look more…” He struggled to find the words to describe what he meant, what he was trying to say. The concept was there in his mind, but it was loose and shaky. “Hysterically Angry Puppet,” Hap said. “I came up with that!” Rambo cried. “That,” Vic said, thought it wasn’t quite right. “He’s … I thought it’d look better.” “And you carved it yourself.” “Nurse Ratched helped.” “Thank you, Victor. I have always wanted to be thrown under a bus.” A yellow vehicle appeared on her screen, mowing down a pixelated version of herself over and over again. “Yes. I helped.” “Hap,” Dad said. “Would you please open your chest?” Hap tapped his breastbone. The compartment slid open. The heart looked as it had the night before. It beat. The gears moved. Vic couldn’t stop the sense of pride he felt then, the accomplishment tinged with guilt. “And this?” Dad asked quietly. “Why did you keep this from me?” Vic squirmed, trying to keep his thoughts in order, but they were on the wings of butterflies, floating up around him, just out of reach. “I didn’t…” He took a deep breath and tried again. “I wanted to…” What? He went with something that didn’t feel like a lie. “Because I didn’t know if it would work.” Dad nodded slowly. “Why did you make it?” Why indeed? He said the only thing he could. “I had to know if I could do it like you did. Just in case.” Dad rose from his crouch, and before Vic could move, wrapped him in a hug, holding him close. Vic hooked his chin over Dad’s shoulder. Hap was watching them closely, head tilted slightly, eyes unblinking. “You wonderful boy,” Dad whispered. “You foolish, lovely boy.” He

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

you like the boys that are left?” “I do…” My voice trails off, and the Just not in that way follows in a droopy echo. Juno nods for a few long seconds. “What’re their names?” “Evan and Isaac.” “Do you like one of them more than the other?” Her very normal question makes me sad again. “Isaac, I guess.” “What’s he like?” “Nice,” I say, and look up to the ceiling, thinking. “Attractive.” God, pull it together, Felicity. Isaac is an amazing man and you’re describing him the way you would a new couch. I look at Juno and take a deep breath, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into my words. “He’s a scientist, just like your dad.” “He’s a geneticist, too?” she asks, squinting skeptically. She’s smarter than I am. “No, I think he makes robots or makes sure robots don’t take over the world or something related to the reason I’m nice to my Alexa.” Juno laughs. “That’s not the same thing as genetics, Auntie Fizzy.” I throw a wadded-up napkin at her. She ducks out of the way and the flash of her laughter propels her question out, so sneakily: “Do you think Mr. Prince wants Isaac to win?” I hold on to my smile, leaning closer. Juno is a worthy sparring partner. Pride and unease battle it out in my pulse. “I don’t think Mr. Prince cares who wins as long as the show is successful.” “I think he cares who wins.” She goes for broke: “I think he likes you.” “Yeah?” “Mm-hmm. Like at the concert? I could tell he liked you. He stared at you the whole time.” “That’s because I’m fascinating, Juno. Keep up.” She giggles. “I bet he doesn’t like seeing other boys on dates with you.” I hum, studying her. She doesn’t flinch or shrink at all. “And—okay, you know Aiden R.?” she continues. I nod, because there are, like, four Aidens in her class. “He likes Stevie, and they always sit together at lunch, but today Stevie was assigned to Indonesia for World Cultures Day with Eric, and Aiden was quiet-sad the same way Mr. Prince was tonight.” “Oh yeah? How’s that?” She points to her face. “You know how boys clench their jaw like this?” She does a pretty solid impression. “He was doing that and just, like, ignoring her at lunch. But it wasn’t like Stevie had a choice about who she does World Cultures Day with. It’s assigned.” “Right,” I agree sympathetically. Ugh, this metaphor is pretty great. I redirect: “Who did you get assigned to work with?” “Kyle Pyun,” she says, and gives a vague grimace. “He’s really hyper but at least he gets good grades.” “Totally.” I lean in, grinning. “Is he cute?” Juno looks genuinely disgusted. “Auntie Fizzy, we’re in fifth grade.” “I’m not asking if you’re engaged, Junebug, just whether he’s got potential.” “Mom says boys are dumb until high school.” “Wow, that’s generous.” “So if Isaac wins,” Juno says, doing her own redirection, “does he get money or something?” “In theory he gets me.”

Hedge.txt

they really think we were going to stay inside drinking while some creepy clown takes our kids into the cold?” “They wanted to get rid of the women and children,” another woman said. “They’re probably smoking cigars in there.” Maud texted Ella again. I’m fine MOM! With a final blast of his horn, the clown waved goodbye, shift finished. Still holding her kite, Louise took over leading the group. The other children followed her down the beach, skirting the clutching fingers of tide toward a cluster of objects that, Maud saw as they all drew nearer, weren’t rocks or washed-up redwood trunks as they had seemed. Three baby sea lions, ribs pushing though their mottled skin, eyes dull, lifted their heads, squirmed, dropped back down to the sand. “They’re starving,” someone said. “Poor things.” In a chorus of alarmed exclamations, the children reeled in their kites. A woman called a ranger on her phone and alerted the fathers, several of whom now materialized on the beach. “Climate change,” a woman said. “They come in too far to find food.” “We need to go back to Ella,” Maud told Louise. “We can’t leave them,” Louise said. She had tears in her eyes. “Can’t we do something? Like carry them back into the water?” “Let’s wait for the experts,” Maud said. She texted Peter, who was still inside, and he replied that he’d take a cab home to Ella. Finally, two rangers arrived. They loaded the sea lions onto stretchers, explaining that they’d release them back into the water when they were strong enough to swim again. As the truck drove away, the children cheered, save Louise, who stayed quiet on the walk to the car. “What if they don’t find their mothers?” she said. “Their mothers will find them,” Maud said, and Louise nodded resolutely, as if trying to convince herself that this was true. Back home, she plopped down next to Ella on the couch to tell her what had happened, giving the story a happy end. But as Maud made dinner with Peter, she couldn’t get the image of the sea lions out of her head. And when she kissed Louise good night, she knew her daughter was haunted by that image too. The way the pups had thrashed and churned in the sand. The way they looked up at the sky as if confused, as if they thought it should be water. 13 In the winter of 2007, Maud had attended a conference in Oxford and sat next to a woman who worked for the National Trust, which administered England’s historic gardens. “Would you ever consider moving?” the woman said. “The odds are slim,” Maud said, “but tell me about it?” Monk’s House, the home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, had recently been vacated and a gardener was needed to live in the house to manage the grounds, conduct tours, and write about the Woolfs’ passion for gardening. Maud was flattered, but she explained that her husband would never be able to find work in Suffolk, and London was two

Happy Place.txt

day. As soon as Wyn removes his arm from around my shoulders, I scooch my chair sideways under the pretense of grabbing the open prosecco to refill my glass. “To Grocery Gladiators,” Kimmy joins in. To drinking your body weight in wine and hoping you wake up and realize this was all a dream, I think. Across the table, Cleo’s looking at me thoughtfully, a little divot between her delicate brows. I force a smile and lift my flute in her direction. “To that one guy at Murder, She Read who still gives us the student discount.” Cleo’s mouth quirks faintly, like she’s not fully convinced by my display, but she clinks her glass—water; Cleo gave up alcohol years ago because it irritated her stomach—to mine anyway. “May we always be so lucky, and so youthful.” “Shoot, bottle’s empty,” Sabrina says from the end of the table. I lurch to my feet before Wyn can volunteer. He starts to rise anyway, and I shove him back down in his chair. “You stay here and relax, honey,” I say, acidly sweet. “I’ll get the wine.” “Thanks, Har,” Sab calls as I beeline for the back doors. “Door should be open!” Another facet of Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something. Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops. It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it. One day. Let them have one perfect day, and tomorrow we’ll come clean. By the time I get back upstairs, everyone’s laughing, the very picture of a laid-back best friends’ trip. Wyn’s gaze snags on mine, and his dimpled smile doesn’t fall or even falter. He’s fine! No big deal that his ex-fiancée’s here, or that we’re essentially staying in a honeymoon suite with an extreme every-surface-here-is- specifically-designed-with-fucking-in-mind vibe! No discernible reaction to my presence. This time, the zing that goes down my spine feels less like a zipper undone and more like angry flame on a streak of gasoline. It’s not fair that he’s fine. It’s not fair that being here with me doesn’t feel like having his heart roasted on a spit, like it does for me. You can do this, Harriet. If he’s fine, you can be too. For your friends. I set the wine bottle on the table as I round it and come to stand behind Wyn, sliding my hands down his shoulders to his chest, until my face is beside his and I can feel his heartbeat in my hands, even and unbothered. Not good

Frankenstein.txt

that at the end of two years I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me --a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt

admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner." "Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered." "But if he is innocent, who has done it?" "Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow." There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool. "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of." "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes. "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

Why was it that when he thought of Cranly he could never raise before his mind the entire image of his body but only the image of the head and face? Even now against the grey curtain of the morning he saw it before him like the phantom of a dream, the face of a severed head or death-mask, crowned on the brows by its stiff black upright hair as by an iron crown. It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor, in the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the jaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly smiling; and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all the tumults and unrest and longings in his soul, day after day and night by night, only to be answered by his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that it was the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those whom he had not power to absolve but that he felt again in memory the gaze of its dark womanish eyes. Through this image he had a glimpse of a strange dark cavern of speculation but at once turned away from it, feeling that it was not yet the hour to enter it. But the nightshade of his friend's listlessness seemed to be diffusing in the air around him a tenuous and deadly exhalation and He found himself glancing from one casual word to another on his right or left in stolid wonder that they had been so silently emptied of instantaneous sense until every mean shop legend bound his mind like the words of a spell and his soul shrivelled up sighing with age as he walked on in a lane among heaps of dead language. His own consciousness of language was ebbing from his brain and trickling into the very words themselves which set to band and disband themselves in wayward rhythms: The ivy whines upon the wall, And whines and twines upon the wall, The yellow ivy upon the wall, Ivy, ivy up the wall. Did anyone ever hear such drivel? Lord Almighty! Who ever heard of ivy whining on a wall? Yellow ivy; that was all right. Yellow ivory also. And what about ivory ivy? The word now shone in his brain, clearer and brighter than any ivory sawn from the mottled tusks of elephants. IVORY, IVOIRE, AVORIO, EBUR. One of the first examples that he had learnt in Latin had run: INDIA MITTIT EBUR; and he recalled the shrewd northern face of the rector who had taught him to construe the Metamorphoses of Ovid in a courtly English, made whimsical by the mention of porkers and potsherds and chines of bacon. He had learnt what little he knew of the laws of Latin verse from a ragged book written by a Portuguese priest. Contrahit orator, variant in carmine vates. The crises and victories and secessions in Roman history were handed on to him in the trite words IN TANTO DISCRIMINE and he had

Lord of the Flies.txt

get hurt." "What can he do more than he has? I'll tell him what's what. You let me carry the conch, Ralph. I'll show him the one thing he hasn't got." Piggy paused for a moment and peered round at the dim figures. The shape of the old assembly, trodden in the grass, listened to him. "I'm going to him with this conch in my hands. I'm going to hold it out. Look, I'm goin' to say, you're stronger than I am and you haven't got asthma. You can see, I'm goin' to say, and with both eyes. But I don't ask for my glasses back, not as a favor. I don't ask you to be a sport, I'll say, not because you're strong, but because what's right's right. Give me my glasses, I'm going to say--you got to!" Piggy ended, flushed and trembling. He pushed the conch quickly into Ralph's hands as though in a hurry to be rid of it and wiped the tears from his eyes. The green light was gentle about them and the conch lay at Ralph's feet, fragile and white. A single drop of water that had escaped Piggy's fingers now flashed on the delicate curve like a star. At last Ralph sat up straight and drew back his hair. "All right. I mean--you can try if you like. We'll go with you." "He'll be painted," said Sam, timidly. "You know how he'll be--" "--he won't think much of us--" "--if he gets waxy we've had it--" Ralph scowled at Sam. Dimly he remembered something Simon had said to him once, by the rocks. "Don't be silly," he said. And then he added quickly, "Let's go." He held out the conch to Piggy who flushed, this time with pride. "You must carry it." "When we're ready I'll carry it--" Piggy sought in his mind for words to convey his passionate willingness to carry the conch against all odds. "I don't mind. I'll be glad, Ralph, only I'll have to be led." Ralph put the conch back on the shining log. "We better eat and then get ready." They made their way to the devastated fruit trees. Piggy was helped to his food and found some by touch. While they ate, Ralph thought of the afternoon. "We'll be like we were. We'll wash--" Sam gulped down a mouthful and protested. "But we bathe every day!" Ralph looked at the filthy objects before him and sighed. "We ought to comb our hair. Only it's too long." "I've got both socks left in the shelter," said Eric, "so we could pull them over our heads like caps, sort of." "We could find some stuff," said Piggy, "and tie your hair back." "Like a girl!" "No. 'Course not." "Then we must go as we are," said Ralph, "and they won't be any better." Eric made a detaining gesture. "But they'll be painted! You know how it is." The others nodded. They understood only too well the liberation into savagery that the concealing paint brought. "Well, we won't be painted," said

Pride And Prejudice.txt

and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.'' ``This is quite shocking! -- He deserves to be publicly disgraced.'' ``Some time or other he _will_ be -- but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.'' Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. ``But what,'' said she after a pause, ``can have been his motive? -- what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?'' ``A thorough, determined dislike of me -- a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood -- the sort of preference which was often given me.'' ``I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this -- though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him -- I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!'' After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, ``I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.'' ``I will not trust myself on the subject,'' replied Wickham, ``_I_ can hardly be just to him.'' Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, ``To treat in such a manner, the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!'' -- She could have added, ``A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable'' -- but she contented herself with ``And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!'' ``We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to -- but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged. himself to be under the greatest

Blowback.txt

fighting terrorists. Well, Afghanistan and Syria just so happened to be the places where we were fighting terrorists, they told him. If we pulled out too fast, extremist operatives would be able to carry out their plots with impunity, and Trump would get blamed for it by the public. The national security ramifications didn’t matter to the president, but the political implications mattered to him a great deal. I could tell that Trump’s careless handling of military decisions weighed on General Kelly. Amid the internal debates, he made a speech in New York City about honoring U.S. service members. As Kelly spoke, I was sitting close to the stage, reviewing his written remarks, when I realized he was going off script. He brought up the death of his son Robert, who had been killed several years earlier by a land mine in Afghanistan. The room went quiet. When a parent loses a son or daughter in combat, Kelly explained, they are visited in person by a U.S. military casualty officer who delivers the news. In November 2010, there was a knock on John Kelly’s door from his close friend, Joseph Dunford, who was then the number two of the Marine Corps. That morning General Dunford had volunteered to personally break the terrible news to Kelly and his wife Karen. As soon as they saw their friend’s face at the door, they knew that it meant their lives would be forever changed. “It’s a kind of grief that is unbearable to the mind and antagonizing to the heart,” Kelly recounted. He had been on the other side of the doorway many times in the past, comforting families. In those moments, grieving mothers and fathers asked him whether the sacrifice was worth it—“worth the life of someone they brought into the world, raised and nurtured, and looked forward to seeing grow up… meeting husbands and wives… having kids of their own,” he said. Kelly had felt ill-equipped to answer such a heartbreaking question without having experienced it himself. “I learned I was right,” he said. Until he received the knock on the door himself, he had no idea how deep the grief could go. The day Kelly buried his own son at Arlington National Cemetery, he described the feeling of emptiness in his heart. He arrived at an answer to the question other parents asked themselves in mourning. Was it worth it? “Robert volunteered to risk everything—including himself—to serve our country,” Kelly explained. “So was it worth his life? That wasn’t up to me. My son answered the question for me.” When it came time to deliver options on Afghanistan, Kelly was worried that Trump was unprepared. The thick briefing memo that had landed on the president’s desk was beyond the man’s comprehension or reading ability, truly. I was asked to boil the fifty- or sixty-page document down to a page or two—in the president’s voice. So overnight in my office, I stayed awake writing a Wikipedia-style 101 about why America was in Afghanistan and what was at stake, all in the Trumpian vernacular.

Hell Bent.txt

Mercy’s finger, but the web above the courtyard still hung thick with melancholy. It took them the better part of an hour to pull it down with a broom they borrowed from the janitor’s closet, and transfer it into the waters of the basin, where they watched it dissolve. They were all weeping uncontrollably by the time they were rid of the damned thing. They had left the body for last. Eitan Harel lay facedown in the mud and melting snow. Turner retrieved his Dodge and waited for them by the York Street entrance. The tempest Dawes had brewed was still hot enough to manage the cameras, but there was nothing magical or arcane about the act of putting a corpse in a trunk. It was a cold act, ugly in its transformation: the body made cargo. Mercy hung back, clutching her salt sword, as if it might ward against the truth of what they’d done. “You said you weren’t going to help clean up our messes,” Alex noted when the work was finished, and they piled into the Dodge, damp and weary, dawn still hours away. Turner only shrugged and gunned the engine. “This is my mess too.” The door to Il Bastone sprang open before they reached the top of the steps. The lights were on, the old radiators pumping heat through every room. In the kitchen, Dawes had lined up thermoses of leftover avgolemono that they drank in greedy swallows. There were plates of tomato sandwiches and hot tea spiked with brandy. They stood at the kitchen counter, eating in silence, too tired and battered to talk. Darlington couldn’t help but think of how rarely the dining room at Il Bastone had been used, of how few meals he’d shared with Michelle Alameddine or Dean Sandow, of how few conversations he’d had with Detective Abel Turner. They’d let Lethe atrophy, let its secrecy and ritual make them strangers to each other. Or maybe that was the way Lethe had always been intended to function, toothless and powerless, bumbling along with a sense of their own importance, a sop to the university while the societies did as they pleased. At last, Mercy set her mug down and said, “Is it done?” The girl was brave, but tonight had been too much for her. The magic, the spells, the strange objects had all been a kind of play. Now she had helped to kill a man, and the weight of that was no easy thing to carry, no matter the justification. Darlington knew that well. Alex had warned them that there would be a moment when she needed their defense, when she would ask them to fight for her without question. They’d done it—because they were desperate, and because for all their noble protestations, none of them wanted to suffer for eternity. Mercy had been eager to go along with the plan, to wear her salt armor, to face a very human monster. Maybe she regretted that now. But this was not the time to be gentle. “It’s not over,” he

Pineapple Street.txt

painkillers that they should chuck them all, that pot was healthier. It seemed part of his being into meditation, breathing. He got the football team doing vinyasas. The pot talk never felt like a big deal. And even if it was more than talk: Every other kid on campus had a Ziploc of weed, or at least of oregano they’d been sold as weed. Ronan Murphy, that slick little kid from Bronxville, was the one everyone actually bought from, and he sold much more than pot. After Omar’s arrest, I certainly believed he was selling to students, if only because everyone else said so. I’d wondered in the years since why he would jeopardize his career that way—but then, why would he jeopardize his career by stalking a student? “I do think my mother would have lived longer,” Sheila Evans said, “were it not for the stress. She had deep vein thrombosis, and that’s not helped by worry. He was her first grandbaby. She used to get mad if I’d bathed him before she came over, she was so eager to do it.” She swallowed in a way that dimpled her chin; she was holding in so much it was a wonder she didn’t implode, turn to a tiny pebble of grief. “My mother left us in 2008,” she said. I took my laptop with me into bed. “My own sister fell out with all of us. She wasn’t sure of Omar’s innocence. We haven’t spoken in years. I started with a family,” she said. Her voice had started cracking, and she paused until she had control. “A healthy, functional family, and—you know, I ended with a shambles. It’s the ruins of a family.” The dosage of my antidepressant is such that I haven’t cried actual tears in a decade, but there are times when I want so badly to cry that I make all the noises of crying, press my fists into my eyes so I feel something similar. The absence of tears hurts more—or makes whatever hurts hurt more—than if I could just sob. In any case: That’s what I was doing, on my bed. There was a childish bitterness to it all that I only slowly identified beneath the sympathy: Sheila Evans, unlike my own mother, hadn’t abandoned her remaining child. I hated that I was thinking about myself rather than becoming a pure vessel to absorb Sheila’s grief, but the truth is that while anyone with a heart would have felt it break right then, my heart cracked along familiar fault lines. Since I shouldn’t be thinking about myself, I stuffed the recognition down into the subterranean, into the dank, loamy places where it might take root. Instead of working it all out, I went to sleep. #1: OMAR EVANS In the morning I couldn’t remember what I dreamed, except that it was troubling, that it was about water, that I dreamed about texting friends about the dream. I didn’t feel rested in the slightest. I knew, as the sun finally came through the blinds, that I couldn’t

Jane Eyre.txt

bedroom each night to brood over it. In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs about the will I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as St. John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the keenest anxiety. I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed. Renewed hope followed renewed effort; it shone like the former for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered not a line, not a word reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt dark indeed. A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer approached; Diana tried to cheer me; she said I looked ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too purposeless I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment; and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him I could not resist him. One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly-felt disappointment. Hannah had told me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take It, almost certain that the long looked-for tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on business. The bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and now as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again. St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my voice failed me; words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only occupants of the parlor; Diana was practicing her music in the drawing-room, Mary was gardening it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said: "We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed." And while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk and looking like a physician watching with the eye of science an expected and fully-understood crisis in a patient's malady. Having stifled my sobs,

Wuthering Heights.txt

shoulders, her eyes flashing, the mus- cles of her neck and arms standing out preternaturally. I made up my mind for broken bones at least; but she only glared about her for an instant, and then rushed from the room. The master directed me to follow. I did, to her chamber door. She hindered me from going farther by securing it against me. As she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went to ask whether she would have some carried up. "No!" she replied peremptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and tea, and again on the morrow after, and received the same answer. Mr. Linton, on his part, spent his time in the library, and did not inquire concerning his wife's occupations. Isa- bella and he had had an hour's interview, during which he tried to elicit from her some sentiment of proper hor- ror for Heathcliff's advances; but he could make noth- ing of her evasive replies, and was obliged to close the examination unsatisfactorily, adding, however, a sol- emn warning that if she were so insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it would dissolve all bonds of re- lationship between herself and him. CHAPTER XII. While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and almost always in tears, and her brother shut himself up among books that he never opened---wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague expectation that Catherine, repenting her con- duct, would come of her own accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation---and she fasted pertina- ciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running to cast himself at her feet, I went about my household duties, convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and that lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on miss, nor any expostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the sighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady's name, since he might not hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice at length in a faint dawn of its progress, as I thought at first. Mrs. Linton on the third day unbarred her door, and having finished the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a speech meant for Edgar's ears. I believed no such thing, so I kept it to myself, and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank eagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and groaning. "Oh, I will die," she exclaimed, "since no one cares anything about me. I wish I had not taken that." Then a good while after I heard her murmur, "No, I'll not die--- he'd be glad---he does not love me at all---he

Great Expectations.txt

going to ask you to take a walk with me." I was about to excuse myself, as being but a bad companion just than, when Wemmick anticipated me. "I know your engagements," said he, "and I know you are out of sorts, Mr. Pip. But if you could oblige me, I should take it as a kindness. It ain't a long walk, and it's an early one. Say it might occupy you (including breakfast on the walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn't you stretch a point and manage it?" He had done so much for me at various times, that this was very little to do for him. I said I could manage it - would manage it - and he was so very much pleased by my acquiescence, that I was pleased too. At his particular request, I appointed to call for him at the Castle at half-past eight on Monday morning, and so we parted for the time. Punctual to my appointment, I rang at the Castle gate on the Monday morning, and was received by Wemmick himself: who struck me as looking tighter than usual, and having a sleeker hat on. Within, there were two glasses of rum-and-milk prepared, and two biscuits. The Aged must have been stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the perspective of his bedroom, I observed that his bed was empty. When we had fortified ourselves with the rum-and-milk and biscuits, and were going out for the walk with that training preparation on us, I was considerably surprised to see Wemmick take up a fishing-rod, and put it over his shoulder. "Why, we are not going fishing!" said I. "No," returned Wemmick, "but I like to walk with one." I thought this odd; however, I said nothing, and we set off. We went towards Camberwell Green, and when we were thereabouts, Wemmick said suddenly: "Halloa! Here's a church!" There was nothing very surprising in that; but a gain, I was rather surprised, when he said, as if he were animated by a brilliant idea: "Let's go in!" We went in, Wemmick leaving his fishing-rod in the porch, and looked all round. In the mean time, Wemmick was diving into his coat-pockets, and getting something out of paper there. "Halloa!" said he. "Here's a couple of pair of gloves! Let's put 'em on!" As the gloves were white kid gloves, and as the post-office was widened to its utmost extent, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They were strengthened into certainty when I beheld the Aged enter at a side door, escorting a lady. "Halloa!" said Wemmick. "Here's Miss Skiffins! Let's have a wedding." That discreet damsel was attired as usual, except that she was now engaged in substituting for her green kid gloves, a pair of white. The Aged was likewise occupied in preparing a similar sacrifice for the altar of Hymen. The old gentleman, however, experienced so much difficulty in getting his gloves on, that Wemmick found it necessary to put him with his back against a pillar, and then to

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

coincidence. He reminded himself again to stop making conjectures and focus on the task at hand. Namely, ridding himself of this tedious fop and getting back to work. “Calloway!” Forester’s clear voice echoed through the entry hall, preceding him by only a moment. He came to rest at Simon’s side, looking out to the doorstep, where the strange man still stood, seeing as Simon hadn’t bothered to let him in. “Who’s this well-dressed specimen?” While the stranger stood a little taller, Simon forced back a laugh. Forester spent enough time in Society to recognize a dandy when he saw one, and Simon knew for a fact that Forester cared little for them. There was more to a man than the clothes on his back, and Forester had been known to subtly knock vain men down a peg or two without them realizing he had done it. That tongue of his was used for more than spinning falsehoods. “Mr. Jonathan Granger, at your service,” the man said, offering a bow. Then he frowned. “Did you—did you say Calloway?” His eyes flitted about the entryway again, this time with a different gleam in his gaze. Envy. Desire. Greed. “I had no idea—you’re Calloway?” Simon had just about reached his limit, even with Forester here. “There’s usually a Lord before that, but yes.” Forester coughed, though it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He knew too well how little Simon cared for titles and prestige. If Simon could have gone his whole life without using his birthright to intimidate someone or get his way, he would have died happy. But England put a good deal of stock in the power of nobility, and his name had saved a business on more than one occasion when Simon had first taken over after the death of his father. “This man has lost his governess,” Simon said to his friend. Granger’s eyes went wide, a bit of color popping up in his face. “Not my . . . that is to say . . .” “I understand,” Forester said with mock solemnity. “I too would be lost without my governess. How would I know how to be a proper member of Society if I did not have her there to show me the way? How unfortunate for you, Mr. Granger, to lose such a valuable asset to your life. Might we be of assistance?” He must have pushed the jest just a little too far, because Granger shifted his stance, growing more angry than embarrassed. “And you are?” If he were being proper, Simon would have made the introductions, but he simply stood there at the door and let Forester take the lead, knowing it would be far more entertaining if he did. Anyone who dressed as carefully as Granger would be well enough acquainted with London Society to know exactly who stood before him. Forester offered a little bow. “Mr. Nick Forester,” he said as pompously as he could. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.” Simon might have been offended that Granger’s reaction this time around was far

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

the thing is, it never works. He probably asked his mother a dozen times not to take a dangerous assignment, and she never listened, because she went where the story was. That was her priority, not her son’s worry. He isn’t sure why he expected any different from Nick. * * * After finding the photographs on Monday morning, the rest of the week is quiet. It isn’t even strained, because Andy won’t let it be, and Nick meets him halfway. Andy’s heart is working double time, but he thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding it. On Friday, Andy lingers after the usual morning meeting. He watches as the editors file out of the room, the last one shutting the door behind him. He’s been meaning to ask his father about expanding the Sunday supplement. Right now it’s a Frankenstein’s monster of syndicated columns, recipes, television listings, and a seemingly random assortment of features. Andy wants to know what it would cost to turn it into a proper magazine—a magazine with the Chronicle’s editorial perspective and the cachet to be financed by something other than ads for department store underwear sales. What he’s not comfortable saying—what he’s not even sure he’s comfortable thinking—is that the Chronicle’s editorial perspective is something he can change. If—God help them all—he’s this paper’s publisher, then that’s very much in his job description. And he’s not sure he can separate his own perspective from the paper’s. He’s not sure he should. Right now Andy’s perspective is shaped by too many things to count: the values he had passed on to him by his parents, the things he saw in Washington, the fact that Nick’s been shutting the curtains before so much as cooking dinner in case someone across the street has a telephoto lens. For now, though, he’s only asking about budgets. But his father speaks first. “Have you decided whether to put your mother’s apartment on the market?” Andy had offhandedly mentioned this plan last week, but the idea of actually getting rid of all his mother’s things is daunting both physically and emotionally. And he’s a little hesitant to sell the apartment without Nick having said— Well, Andy isn’t sure what he’s expecting Nick to say. He isn’t expecting an engraved invitation to spend the rest of their lives together, but he needs to know that Nick actually wants him to stay. That isn’t quite accurate—it’s pretty obvious that Nick does want him there, but deciding to settle down with someone can’t possibly be as simple as Andy not moving out. He feels like there ought to be a conversation, some kind of confirmation that what they’re doing actually is settling down. He’s had this thought so many times that the phrase settling down has ceased to carry any meaning. “Not yet,” Andy says. “I wondered if you needed help finding a new place to live.” “I don’t,” Andy says, feeling churlish for not offering any more information than that. His father is trying. His father takes off his glasses and polishes them.

Love Theoretically.txt

hardwood floor. The shelves waiting to be filled with my books. “And another second to marvel at the splendor of my future office.” Jack shakes his head and smiles, almost wistful. “Sorry, Elsie. It won’t be your office.” The thought is bloodcurdling. “You’re not sorry. And you don’t know the future. I’m outpunning you, Jack. The teaching demonstration—it went really well. And I didn’t even steal Volkov’s mother’s milk. I have a chance.” He studies me for a long moment, silent. Then asks again, “Will you be all right?” “Yeah, I just need a second to—” “No, I mean . . . will you be okay? If you lose Greg—because I will tell him about you. And if you don’t get this job. Will you still be . . . fine?” I can’t immediately decipher his tone. Then I do and burst out laughing. He’s worried. He seems genuinely worried about my well-being and state of mind. Which is surprisingly nice and maybe a tad amusing, until I realize why: he’s convinced that I’ll fail. And that makes me feel . . . something. A mix of anger and fear and something else, reminiscent of the carefree joy that comes from dancing on the graves of enemies who dared to underestimate me. “What will you do if I get this job, Jack?” I lean forward. My face is a couple of inches from his. “Pull out your hair? Ask for the manager? Leave the department and become a Zumba instructor?” He doesn’t pull back. Instead he watches me even more intently, like I’m a critter in the palm of his hand, and I contemplate the possible scenarios, the same ones that must be filling his head, too. Jack Smith-Turner and Elsie Hannaway. Esteemed colleagues. Office neighbors. Academic foes. Oh, I could make his life so hard. Spread the rumor that he wraps his entire mouth around the water fountain. Put a nest of killer cicadas in the lowest drawer of his desk. Push him outside bare-eyed during an eclipse. The sky’s the limit, and I want to see him suffer. I want to see him lose. I want to see him sweat it. I want to see him cry, because he lost and I won. But perhaps I won’t. Because: “If you get the job . . .” He leans close. That slice of eye burns bright blue, and his mouth curves. “I’ll make do.” “While crying yourself to sleep because I’m not George?” “Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.” “And why is that?” He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.” “A waste of what?” “Of you.” My heart skips. Stumbles. Restarts with a gallop. What does he even— “Jack! Dr. Hannaway—here you are. My meeting just ended.” Volkov appears in the doorframe. “I’m so sorry for running late.”

Lord of the Flies.txt

time some people knew they've got to keep quiet and leave deciding things to the rest of us." Ralph could no longer ignore his speech. The blood was hot in his cheeks. "You haven't got the conch," he said. "Sit down." Jack's face went so white that the freckles showed as clear, brown flecks. He licked his lips and remained standing. "This is a hunter's job." The rest of the boys watched intently. Piggy, finding himself uncomfortably embroiled, slid the conch to Ralph's knees and sat down. The silence grew oppressive and Piggy held his breath. "This is more than a hunter's job," said Ralph at last, "because you can't track the beast. And don't you want to be rescued?" He turned to the assembly. "Don't you all want to be rescued?" He looked back at Jack. "I said before, the fire is the main thing. Now the fire must be out--" The old exasperation saved him and gave him the energy to attack. "Hasn't anyone got any sense? We've got to relight that fire. You never thought of that, Jack, did you? Or don't any of you want to be rescued?" Yes, they wanted to be rescued, there was no doubt about that; and with a violent swing to Ralph's side, the crisis passed. Piggy let out his breath with a gasp, reached for it again and failed. He lay against a log, his mouth gaping, blue shadows creeping round his lips. Nobody minded him. "Now think, Jack. Is there anywhere on the island you haven't been?" Unwillingly Jack answered. "There's only--but of course! You remember? The tail-end part, where the rocks are all piled up. I've been near there. The rock makes a sort of bridge. There's only one way up." "And the thing might live there." All the assembly talked at once. "Quite! All right. That's where we'll look. If the beast isn't there we'll go up the mountain and look; and light the fire." "Let's go." "We'll eat first. Then go." Ralph paused. "We'd better take spears." After they had eaten, Ralph and the biguns set out along the beach. They left Piggy propped up on the platform. This day promised, like the others, to be a sunbath under a blue dome. The beach stretched away before them in a gentle curve till perspective drew it into one with the forest; for the day was not advanced enough to be obscured by the shifting veils of mirage. Under Ralph's direction, they picked up a careful way along the palm terrace, rather than dare the hot sand down by the water. He let Jack lead the way; and Jack trod with theatrical caution though they could have seen an enemy twenty yards away. Ralph walked in the rear, thankful to have escaped responsibility for a time. Simon, walking in front of Ralph, felt a flicker of incredulity--a beast with claws that scratched, that sat on a mountain-top, that left no tracks and yet was not fast enough to catch Samneric. However Simon thought of the beast, there rose before

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

if it's watery like that, it'll turn to rain." The telephone rang and Atticus left the breakfast table to answer it. "That was Eula May," he said when he returned. "I quote- 'As it has not snowed in Maycomb County since 1885, there will be no school today.'" Eula May was Maycomb's leading telephone operator. She was entrusted with issuing public announcements, wedding invitations, setting off the fire siren, and giving first-aid instructions when Dr. Reynolds was away. When Atticus finally called us to order and bade us look at our plates instead of out the windows, Jem asked, "How do you make a snowman?" "I haven't the slightest idea," said Atticus. "I don't want you all to be disappointed, but I doubt if there'll be enough snow for a snowball, even." Calpurnia came in and said she thought it was sticking. When we ran to the back yard, it was covered with a feeble layer of soggy snow. "We shouldn't walk about in it," said Jem. "Look, every step you take's wasting it." I looked back at my mushy footprints. Jem said if we waited until it snowed some more we could scrape it all up for a snowman. I stuck out my tongue and caught a fat flake. It burned. "Jem, it's hot!" "No it ain't, it's so cold it burns. Now don't eat it, Scout, you're wasting it. Let it come down." "But I want to walk in it." "I know what, we can go walk over at Miss Maudie's." Jem hopped across the front yard. I followed in his tracks. When we were on the sidewalk in front of Miss Maudie's, Mr. Avery accosted us. He had a pink face and a big stomach below his belt. "See what you've done?" he said. "Hasn't snowed in Maycomb since Appomattox. It's bad children like you makes the seasons change." I wondered if Mr. Avery knew how hopefully we had watched last summer for him to repeat his performance, and reflected that if this was our reward, there was something to say for sin. I did not wonder where Mr. Avery gathered his meteorological statistics: they came straight from the Rosetta Stone. "Jem Finch, you Jem Finch!" "Miss Maudie's callin' you, Jem." "You all stay in the middle of the yard. There's some thrift buried under the snow near the porch. Don't step on it!" "Yessum!" called Jem. "It's beautiful, ain't it, Miss Maudie?" "Beautiful my hind foot! If it freezes tonight it'll carry off all my azaleas!" Miss Maudie's old sunhat glistened with snow crystals. She was bending over some small bushes, wrapping them in burlap bags. Jem asked her what she was doing that for. "Keep 'em warm," she said. "How can flowers keep warm? They don't circulate." "I cannot answer that question, Jem Finch. All I know is if it freezes tonight these plants'll freeze, so you cover 'em up. Is that clear?" "Yessum. Miss Maudie?" "What, sir?" "Could Scout and me borrow some of your snow?" "Heavens alive, take it all! There's an old peach basket

The-Silver-Ladies-Do-Lunch.txt

the occasional shift at Odile’s café, although Malia cheerily took on most of the work while Florence relaxed on the sofa, dozing or listening to Natalie repeat that she was better off without a fiancé. Apparently, Brandon had called round again to beg her to accept his pathetic apologies, but she would never have him back as long as she lived. She had other fish to fry. Josie spent a lot of time in the cemetery talking to Harry; it was cool there and afterwards she’d sit under the willow tree, thinking of the good times. Occasionally she’d meet Fergal and he’d persuade her to have a drink in the beer garden of The Sun. Minnie was enjoying life despite the heatwave. She loved every moment from the second she woke in the morning, Jensen’s arm across her body as he slumbered, and she sidled out of bed to take a cup of tea in the garden alone, to their evening together after he came back from the Playhouse. They’d drink beer and sit outside, breathing in night-scented stock and talking about the classics until the stars were high diamonds in the midnight sky. Now they were sitting in the deer park in Magdalen College, surrounded by gold and russet trees. They had wandered through old cloisters, past the quadrangle bursting with the rising voices of new students, and he was excitedly pointing at the roe deer. Minnie smiled indulgently; she had seen it all before, although to her it was much more than a tourist attraction. Oxford was lodged deep in her heart; it had changed her life and she felt bound to it. Jensen took her hand in his, almost speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘The tranquillity, the beauty, Minnie – it’s just breathtaking, the way this place exudes culture and tradition. It’s almost impossible to think that it’s normal for you to live in such an incredible place, and this is your home.’ ‘It is,’ Minnie said. ‘I love it.’ ‘You came to Magdalen as a student?’ Minnie was impressed that he’d pronounced it correctly, Mawdlin. ‘Oh, no – women weren’t allowed here in those days. I was at St Hilda’s. I had a couple of boyfriends who were students here. I won’t tell you their names. One’s quite infamous, in the House of Lords now, I believe.’ Jensen smiled. ‘You’ve lived an incredible life, Minnie.’ ‘I’m still living it…’ Minnie gazed at a deer that had wandered from the group, moving towards them. ‘There’s so much more I want to do…’ ‘There is.’ Jensen’s eyes glowed behind the gold-rimmed glasses. ‘You know, Minnie, I never thought I’d meet anyone I felt this way about.’ ‘After your wife?’ Jensen shook his head. ‘Pamela and I were close, we had the kids, and now she’s gone, I miss her. But you and I are different.’ ‘How different?’ ‘We connect completely.’ Jensen ruffled his white hair. ‘Mind, body and spirit – I mean, look at you. There’s no one like you.’ Minnie gazed down at herself in the floral dress and green

Anne of Green Gables.txt

crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself, `It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed." "Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine?" said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that." "It's nothing to me what that person does," said Anne loftily. "I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana." That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. "Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them," said Matthew proudly. "Yes, she did," admitted Marilla. "She's a bright child, Matthew. And she looked real nice too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of

A Day of Fallen Night.txt

the fire young in the hearth. Glorian entered to find only three of the Dukes Spiritual waiting for her. ‘Your Grace,’ Lady Brangain said quietly. They all dipped their heads. ‘Forgive us for disturbing you at this hour. We thought it right that you heard as soon as possible.’ ‘Where is the Lord Protector?’ Glorian asked her. ‘He rode out with Lord Damud and Lady Gladwin before dawn. They are on their way to instruct the earls and barons of the northern provinces, so they can muster your people to defend our queendom. He should be back before long.’ ‘What is it you need to tell me?’ ‘There is no easy way to say this,’ Lade Edith said softly. ‘Prince Therico of Yscalin is dead.’ The words woke her like a fall through ice. ‘How?’ ‘As I believe you were informed, the wyrms flew south after their attack on the Leas. From what we understand, they fell upon the Yscali port of Tagrida and burned it almost to the ground. Prince Therico was aboard one of the ships docked there.’ It took Glorian a moment to digest the news. He had been just days away from Inys. ‘May he find his place at the Great Table.’ She caved into a chair. ‘Sixteen is no age to die.’ ‘No, Your Grace.’ ‘What is to be done, then?’ Glorian finally asked. ‘You all agreed that I should have an heir as soon as possible.’ ‘There is a way to remedy the situation quickly,’ Lord Randroth said, dabbing his nose. ‘A proposal that Lord Robart wishes us to submit for your consideration.’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Your late mother made arrangements for you to wed Prince Therico, but the contract includes a clause. In the event of his death, the heir to Inys may wed another relative of Queen Rozaria of Yscalin – in the first or second degree, specifically – within the next month.’ ‘Usually the clause is included because one of the parties has some illness, or partakes in dangerous pursuits,’ Lade Edith said. ‘A sensible precaution. Prince Therico had a fragile constitution.’ Lord Randroth set the document in question on the table. ‘Two members of the House of Vetalda who fit the description were, tragically, killed with him. However, there is another, who is free to wed. If you were to accept him, it would mean we could proceed as planned. We would not have to seek other candidates or negotiate favourable terms, which will prove almost impossible in wartime. We would preserve our historic union with Queen Rozaria.’ ‘I thought all her other grandchildren married,’ Glorian said. ‘You had it right, Queen Glorian.’ Lade Edith loosened their collar, looking a little faint. ‘Forgive me. I truly do not believe we should consider this, but the Lord Protector—’ ‘—is in favour,’ Lord Randroth finished. ‘He knows the man well, and vouches for his conduct.’ Glorian nodded. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Prince Guma Vetalda.’ Florell, who had been waiting outside the Council Chamber, now ventured into it. ‘Prince Guma,’ she echoed. ‘Lord Randroth, you can’t possibly be

Casino Royale.txt

soon to see the distant shaft of its headlights. The night was still and clear. Only out at sea there must be a light summer mist for at intervals he could hear the fog-horns lowing like iron cattle down the coast. As he drove, whipping the car faster and faster through the night, with the other half of his mind he cursed Vesper, and M for having sent her on the job. This was just what he had been afraid of. These blithering women who thought they could do a man's work. Why the hell couldn't they stay at home and mind their pots and pans and stick to their frocks and gossip and leave men's work to the men. And now for this to happen to him, just when the job had come off so beautifully. For Vesper to fall for an old trick like that and get herself snatched and probably held to ranson like some bloody heroine in a strip cartoon. The silly bitch. Bond boiled at the thought of the fix he was in. Of course. The idea was a straight swop. The girl against his cheque for forty million. Well, he wouldn't play: wouldn't think of playing. She was in the Service and knew what she was up against. He wouldn't even ask M. This job was more important than her. It was just too bad. She was a fine girl, but he wasn't going to fall for this childish trick. No dice. He would try and catch the Citron and shoot it out with them and if she got shot in the process, that was too bad too. He would have done his stuff - tried to rescue her before they got her off to some hideout - but if he didn't catch up with them he would get back to his hotel and go to sleep and say no more about it. The next morning he would ask Mathis what had happened to her and show him the note. If Le Chiffre put the touch on Bond for the money in exchange for the girl, Bond would do nothing and tell no one. The girl would just have to take it. If the commissionaire came along with the story of what he had seen, Bond would bluff it out by saying he had had a drunken row with the girl. Bond's mind raged furiously on with the problem as he flung the great car down the coast road, automatically taking the curves and watching out for carts or cyclists on their way into Royale. On straight stretches the Amherst Villiers supercharger dug spurs into the Bentley's twenty-five horses and the engine sent a high-pitched scream of pain into the night. Then the revolutions mounted until he was past 110 and on to the 120 mph mark on the speedometer. He knew he must be gaining fast. Loaded as she was the Citron could hardly better eighty even on this road. On an impulse he slowed down to seventy, turned on his fog-lights, and dowsed the

After Death.txt

crazy power, before I dare to do what needs to be done. During that time, for Shelby, I want to know you and John are all right. He was my best friend. I owe him. There’s nothing else I can do for him.” He wants her to sell this house and move somewhere that drive-by shootings are rare, where gangbangers don’t rule the streets. Where she and John can’t be found, where they’ll be safe. A month ago, Aleem Sutter came back into her life. He’s now the boss dog of the Vigs in this county. Having a gang-age son who’s living straight is embarrassing to him and suggests to his homeboys that he bends to the will of a woman. He’s sniffing around the edges of their lives, wary of Nina, but he’s rapidly growing bolder. “I give up my accounting, how do I say I earned this money?” “Stop using a credit card. When you pay cash, your wealth becomes invisible.” “Some things can only be paid by check or such.” “Each month, deposit what cash you need in your account.” “The IRS, they’ll smell out the discrepancy sooner or later.” “You won’t have to deal with the IRS anymore.” “That’s a nice dream.” “I’ve set it up so the IRS’s computerized records will show you paying quarterly and filing annually, but you won’t ever pay again.” “What do I say when they audit me?” “I’ve set it up so they never will.” “You set it up.” “You saw what I can do.” “Yeah, okay, but . . . sweet Jesus.” “I’ve coded your IRS file with an automatic audit reject.” “How does that work?” “A few hundred people in government are so powerful they’ve exempted themselves from audits. I tucked you among them.” “How do they get away with that?” “It’s a tight-held secret. Besides, people who tell them they can’t do something—those people meet with grave misfortune.” “Corruption everywhere.” “We’re playing their game only to bring them to justice.” She stares into her mug. Reflected in the dark brew, her eyes swell and shrink freakishly with the movement of the liquid, as if some force that speaks only through symbol and suggestion is warning her that what she is doing will deform her vision and her soul. Michael says, “Aleem has seen a lawyer.” “What do you mean?” “The GPS record for his Cadillac Escalade is accessible to me. Yesterday, Aleem parked for forty-seven minutes at the building occupied by Bucklin and Aimes, a law firm that vigorously defends gangbangers like them. He’s got another appointment there today.” “This has something to do with me?” “Mr. Bucklin enters notes about meetings on his laptop. In this case, I don’t respect attorney-client privilege. I snooped. Aleem was there to discuss what paternal rights he has regarding John.” Nina’s heart quickens. “Rights? None. He has no rights. What dime did he ever give me? What birthday did he bring John a present? None. He’s never as much as spoken to the boy.” “It’s not that simple. The law doesn’t always

David Copperfield.txt

into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaning more strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenor in the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and he has - in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses, rather than in sacred edifices.' 'But he means well,' said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly. 'I dare say, my love,' rejoined Mr. Micawber, 'that he means particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his meaning, in any given direction whatsoever.' Master Micawber's moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whether he had been born a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird? Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist's shop? Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to something? My aunt mused a little while, and then said: 'Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to emigration.' 'Madam,' returned Mr. Micawber, 'it was the dream of my youth, and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.' I am thoroughly persuaded, by the by, that he had never thought of it in his life. 'Aye?' said my aunt, with a glance at me. 'Why, what a thing it would be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to emigrate now.' 'Capital, madam, capital,' urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily. 'That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' assented his wife. 'Capital?' cried my aunt. 'But you are doing us a great service - have done us a great service, I may say, for surely much will come out of the fire - and what could we do for you, that would be half so good as to find the capital?' 'I could not receive it as a gift,' said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and animation, 'but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five per cent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability - say my notes of hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to allow time for something to turn up -' 'Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,' returned my aunt, 'if you say the word. Think of this now, both of you. Here are some people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If you decide to go, why shouldn't you go in the same ship? You may help each other. Think of this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh it well.' 'There is but one question, my dear ma'am, I could wish to ask,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'The climate, I believe, is healthy?' 'Finest in the world!' said my aunt. 'Just so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'Then my question

After Death.txt

the ass-kisser knows it. “You want a piece of that quiff,” Aleem says, “better catch her soon. Longer it takes, more likely I’ll break her neck ’fore you can strip her down for action.” “I’m up for that,” Kuba says. “Up for that? Up for what?” “Do what you need, then so will I, just so she’s still warm.” “Man, you’re spookier than dead trees.” Grinning, Kuba admits, “I got my ways.” In the passenger seat, John sits at attention, the phone a rectangle of light in his hands. “What’s Michael doing?” “Saving us.” “How can you be so sure?” “You’ll see.” “Nothing’s happening.” “Only been a minute since he answered our post.” “‘The ninth hour.’” “Is it ever.” The vast orchard seems to span a burnt-out world, the black and haggard trees with their tortuous rickrack of branches standing to monument the death of humanity in a last war of all against all, the gangbangers’ SUVs like robotic scourges prowling the aftermath to eradicate remaining survivors. Nina has never been so terrified as she is now. These barren but ordered woods evoke horrors as diverse as scenes in a James Cameron movie and Golgotha falling into midday darkness. Yet in peril, as also in loss and grief, she sees, as she always does, moments of strange beauty. Sweeping light silvers the water streaming down black bark. The air is briefly but richly diamonded with wind-tossed raindrops. For a moment, the twigwork of backlit branches seems to form logograms that float in the air with mystical meaning, like comforting messages in some language that she has known in a previous life and will know again in a life to follow this one. Some might say that it’s a fault—but she thinks it is a gift—to perceive beauty and the hope that it represents in even the ugliest moments of life. Nothing is more desperate, with more potential for horror, than being pursued by Aleem and seven of his cold-eyed barbarians swanked out in their ornamental gold, each with two knives and more lethal surgeries to his credit than a death-camp doctor. If they take John, they will bring to bear their formidable powers of persuasion and intimidation as well as all the temptations of the flesh to turn him, warp him, corrupt him. He’ll resist. He is a good kid. But he is only a kid. And even if he resists to the point where they lose patience with him, he’ll end up in an unmarked grave. Such deranged men mock virtue, but in fact they fear it and won’t long tolerate its presence among them. As a gang boss, Aleem can’t afford for his legions to reach the conclusion that from his seed has sprung a young man of integrity and rectitude. Earlier this very day, he had said, I’ll kill you ’fore I see you brought down from a full man to some pathetic crawlin’ thing that shames me ’fore the world. That had not just been roo-rah. He meant it. Likewise, she entertains no illusions about her own fate

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

out from the broken patio doors, Pupkin held high on one arm. “Kakawewe!” Pupkin cheered in triumph, dancing in the air. The puppet golem turned toward Pupkin, and Pupkin pointed at Louise. It turned back toward her and began to plod across the yard. Louise looked, but there was nowhere to go. Her hole wasn’t deep enough. The thing kept coming. It was at Mark’s pile of lumber now. Her whole life came down to this. Louise grabbed her shovel and slammed it back into the hole, scooping out dirt faster, throwing shovelfuls aside, her shoulders burning, the small of her back aching. When she looked up, the puppet golem had closed half the distance between them. She looked back at the hole. It was barely any deeper. She didn’t have enough time. She had no more choices. She turned to face the golem, gripping the shovel with both hands, holding it in front of her like a spear. It took two more thudding steps forward and Louise felt her sense of perspective warp. It looked like it should be farther away, but it stood taller than her, taller than Mark, at least seven feet high. Something flickered and died behind her breastbone. She couldn’t fight this thing, but even so she braced her legs and adjusted her grip, because she didn’t have a choice. I’m going to fight Mom’s puppets, Louise thought. Four weeks ago I was a product designer with a child and now I am going to fight my mom’s puppets with a shovel and . . . oh, God, Mom and Dad, please help me now. The thing took another step, and she heard something at the edge of her hearing, voices begging, screaming, gabbling in pain inside her head. Thunder rumbled, closer now, but the screaming in her ears sounded both closer and farther away than the thunder, and that’s when she realized it was the puppets; the puppets were screaming. She knew their names, she had seen her mom make every single one of them, she’d used some of them to perform her mom’s shows, and they had been happy for so long, and warm, and safe, and cared for, and now they had lost their creator and grief had twisted them into this deranged thing and she didn’t want to do this. “You’re hurting them,” Louise called to Pupkin, the wind tearing her words away. “This is wrong. What you’re doing is wrong.” The puppet golem took another step and the screaming inside Louise’s head made the left side of her face throb, and now it was in striking distance. It swung an arm at her, slow and clumsy, and she stepped back and felt the wind from it brush past her face, as powerful as a passing car. It was too big. It had too much mass. The second it got its hands on her, she was done. I don’t want to hurt them. She’d tire them out, she thought over the sound of screaming puppets inside her head. She darted to the left,

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

admittedly out of the blue. He taps the textbook. “Passage. Focus.” “Just answer the question.” His mum and mine are unfortunately best friends, so I have been made aware—entirely against my will—that Bradley wants to study law too. And if I’m forced to spend three extra years in his presence while dealing with the pressures of my demanding degree, I’m liable to snap and push him off a bridge. He flicks a dark look at me. “Applications aren’t due for ages.” I should be relieved, because, no, most of them aren’t, but Oxbridge applications are. Except…“Why aren’t you applying to Cambridge?” I don’t want him to, obviously. But he could almost certainly get in, so why wouldn’t he try? Bradley rolls his eyes. The sun is low and the windows in this room are massive, so he looks like the human embodiment of whiskey and woods and an ancient sepia Instagram filter. It’s honestly atrocious. “Why would I?” he asks. “Just to spend another three years being the only Black kid in the room?” I scowl. “Hello, I’m literally sitting right here.” “Hello, it’s a turn of phrase. There are six of us in the entire year. What, do you like that or something?” “I’d like it better if there were five.” The worst thing about being a minority is occasionally needing to back Bradley up in public. Like that time last year when someone from a rival school said something vile to him during a football tournament and I had to throw a bottle of Coke at the guy (as a matter of principle). “Nothing changes if we don’t make it change.” “It’s not my job to change their minds,” he says, which is all right for him. He has a soon-to-be-successful scientist for an older sister, and his little brother, who’s signed to the Forest Academy, will probably end up playing for England at the World Cup or some such rubbish, and both of their parents are useful human beings with a sense of duty and loyalty. Brad can afford to go to a second- or third-rate university and have a second- or third-rate career because he has a perfect family and zero single-parent pressure and no shitty absent father to shame into oblivion. My older sister swears up and down she’s going to be the next Georgia O’Keeffe, but who knows how long that’ll take? Until then, I’m the only one who can prove our worth. I’m the only one who can pay Mum back for years of blood and sweat. (Bangura women don’t do tears.) But all I say is “Hmm,” and then I focus on my textbook. “Hmm?” he repeats. “What’s hmm?” As if I’m about to explain. I needle him instead. “You don’t think you could get in?” He scoffs at the ceiling. “Of course I could get in—” “Well, it’s not exactly of course, is it?” “If you can get in, I can get in,” he says stonily. “We got the same grades last year.” “Almost,” I correct lightly. Like I said, our mums are

A Game of Thrones.txt

Daenerys then, and she gave the filly her head. The silver horse leapt the flames as if she had wings. When she pulled up before Magister Illyrio, she said, "Tell Khal Drogo that he has given me the wind." The fat Pentoshi stroked his yellow beard as he repeated her words in Dothraki, and Dany saw her new husband smile for the first time. The last sliver of sun vanished behind the high walls of Pentos to the west just then. Dany had lost all track of time. Khal Drogo commanded his bloodriders to bring forth his own horse, a lean red stallion. As the khal was saddling the horse, Viserys slid close to Dany on her silver, dug his fingers into her leg, and said, "Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before." The fear came back to her then, with her brother's words. She felt like a child once more, only thirteen and all alone, not ready for what was about to happen to her. They rode out together as the stars came out, leaving the khalasar and the grass palaces behind. Khal Drogo spoke no word to her, but drove his stallion at a hard trot through the gathering dusk. The tiny silver bells in his long braid rang softly as he rode. "I am the blood of the dragon," she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. "I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon." The dragon was never afraid. A GAME OF THRONES 95 Afterward she could not say how far or how long they had ridden, but it was full dark when they stopped at a grassy place beside a small stream. Drogo swung off his horse and lifted her down from hers. She felt as fragile as glass in his hands, her limbs as weak as water. She stood there helpless and trembling in her wedding silks while he secured the horses, and when he turned to look at her, she began to cry. Khal Drogo stared at her tears, his face strangely empty of expression. "No," he said. He lifted his hand and rubbed away the tears roughly with a callused thumb. "You speak the Common Tongue," Dany said in wonder. "No," he said again. Perhaps he had only that word, she thought, but it was one word more than she had known he had, and somehow it made her feel a little better. Drogo touched her hair lightly, sliding the silver-blond strands between his fingers and murmuring softly in Dothraki. Dany did not understand the words, yet there was warmth in the tone, a tenderness she had never expected from this man. He put his finger under her chin and lifted her head, so she was looking up into his eyes. Drogo towered over her as he towered over everyone. Taking her lightly under the arms, he lifted her and seated her on a rounded rock beside the stream. Then he sat

Kate-Alice-Marshall-What-Lies-in-the-Woods.txt

be able to help us, then. Who else?” Ethan asked, squinting in the sunlight. “Cody Benham,” I said reluctantly. “The guy who saved you?” Ethan’s eyebrows raised. “More than once,” I said, half to myself. “He and Oscar used to be friends.” “But not anymore?” “Not anymore,” I confirmed. I could pinpoint the end of that friendship to the minute. The smell of gasoline and asphalt in the air, fingertips bruising my ribs. “Do you have his number?” Ethan asked. “Would he talk to you?” “Yes. To both,” I said. Cody had his job. A pregnant wife. He’d gotten out of Chester in a way few of us ever managed, and I didn’t want to drag him back into this. “You don’t have to do this,” Ethan said, seeing my expression. “You could walk away. Or tell the police what you know, and let them handle it.” I shook my head. I had to finish the work Liv had started. “I’m not going to stop now,” I said. “I’ll call him.” * * * Cody picked up right away. “I was so sorry to hear about Olivia,” he said as soon as I told him who it was. “Are you back in Seattle yet?” “No, I’m staying in Chester for a while,” I said. I sat in my motel room, alone, too conscious of Ethan’s presence two rooms away. “I’ve got to head back to Seattle for the weekend for work, but otherwise I’m planning to stick around. Until the funeral, at least.” “Have they set a date?” “They’re still waiting for the body to be released,” I said. “I see.” He paused. “I didn’t know Olivia very well. She didn’t talk to me like you did.” “I don’t remember talking to you. I remember trying to talk and stammering a lot,” I admitted. He gave a low chuckle. “You were a sweet kid. Too smart for your own good. All three of you, really, each in your own way.” There was an intimacy to talking like this, just Cody’s voice and mine, like the world had narrowed down to the reality we shared. Those brief moments where our lives had intersected, which it seemed like no one else would really understand. I didn’t want to break that sense of shared reality, but I had to. “Cody, I’m hoping you can help me with something.” “Anything you need,” he said immediately. “Did you know a girl named Jessi Walker?” I asked. There was silence on the other end of the line. “I think she was friends with Oscar.” “Yeah,” Cody said finally. “I know Jessi. Knew her, I guess. I haven’t seen her since— God. Must be almost twenty-five years. Why are you asking about Jessi?” “There’s a chance she might have been one of Stahl’s victims,” I said. “Jessi’s not dead,” he said. “Is she?” Uncertainty made his voice crack. “She was reported missing. After she left town no one ever saw her again,” I told him. “My dad said she hung around with Oscar, and I figured if she spent

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

AND WASHING--extra."' `You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; `living at the bottom of the sea.' `I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. `I only took the regular course.' `What was that?' inquired Alice. `Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle replied; `and then the different branches of Arithmetic-- Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.' `I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. `What is it?' The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. `What! Never heard of uglifying!' it exclaimed. `You know what to beautify is, I suppose?' `Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: `it means--to--make--anything-- prettier.' `Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, `if you don't know what to uglify is, you ARE a simpleton.' Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said `What else had you to learn?' `Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, `--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.' `What was THAT like?' said Alice. `Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: `I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.' `Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: `I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, HE was.' `I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: `he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say.' `So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. `And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. `Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: `nine the next, and so on.' `What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice. `That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.' This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. `Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?' `Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle. `And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly. `That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: `tell her something about the games now.' CHAPTER X The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. `Same as if he had a bone in his throat,' said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- `You may not have lived much under the sea--' (`I haven't,' said Alice)--`and perhaps you were never even introduced

Pride And Prejudice.txt

to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had_ _another_ motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than we had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He

The Da Vinci Code.txt

right-hand wall. "Somewhere over... there." He smiled. "Not your first visit to Rosslyn, I see." 292 The code, Langdon thought. He had forgotten that little bit of lore. Among Rosslyn's numerous mysteries was a vaulted archway from which hundreds of stone blocks protruded, jutting down to form a bizarre multifaceted surface. Each block was carved with a symbol, seemingly at random, creating a cipher of unfathomable proportion. Some people believed the code revealed the entrance to the vault beneath the chapel. Others believed it told the true Grail legend. Not that it mattered-cryptographers had been trying for centuries to decipher its meaning. To this day the Rosslyn Trust offered a generous reward to anyone who could unveil the secret meaning, but the code remained a mystery. "I'd be happy to show..." The docent's voice trailed off. My first code, Sophie thought, moving alone, in a trance, toward the encoded archway. Having handed the rosewood box to Langdon, she could feel herself momentarily forgetting all about the Holy Grail, the Priory of Sion, and all the mysteries of the past day. When she arrived beneath the encoded ceiling and saw the symbols above her, the memories came flooding back. She was recalling her first visit here, and strangely, the memories conjured an unexpected sadness. She was a little girl... a year or so after her family's death. Her grandfather had brought her to Scotland on a short vacation. They had come to see Rosslyn Chapel before going back to Paris. It was late evening, and the chapel was closed. But they were still inside. "Can we go home, Grand-pre?" Sophie begged, feeling tired. "Soon, dear, very soon." His voice was melancholy. "I have one last thing I need to do here. How about if you wait in the car?" "You're doing another big person thing?" He nodded. "I'll be fast. I promise." "Can I do the archway code again? That was fun." "I don't know. I have to step outside. You won't be frightened in here alone?" "Of course not!" she said with a huff. "It's not even dark yet!" He smiled. "Very well then." He led her over to the elaborate archway he had shown her earlier. Sophie immediately plopped down on the stone floor, lying on her back and staring up at the collage of puzzle pieces overhead. "I'm going to break this code before you get back!" "It's a race then." He bent over, kissed her forehead, and walked to the nearby side door. "I'll be right outside. I'll leave the door open. If you need me, just call." He exited into the soft evening light. Sophie lay there on the floor, gazing up at the code. Her eyes felt sleepy. After a few minutes, the symbols got fuzzy. And then they disappeared. When Sophie awoke, the floor felt cold. "Grand-pre?" There was no answer. Standing up, she brushed herself off. The side door was still open. The evening was getting darker. She walked outside and could see her grandfather standing on the porch of a nearby stone house directly

Casino Royale.txt

and had given his nerves and card-sense a thorough work-out. He had got the geography of the Casino clear in his mind. Above all, he had been able to observe Le Chiffre at the tables and to note ruefully that he was a faultless and lucky gambler. Bond liked to make a good breakfast. After a cold shower, he sat at the writing-table in front of the window. He looked out at the beautiful day and consumed half a pint of iced orange juice, three scrambled eggs and bacon and a double portion of coffee without sugar. He lit his first cigarette, a Balkan and Turkish mixture made for him by Morlands of Grosvenor Street, and watched the small waves lick the long seashore and the fishing-fleet from Dieppe string out towards the June heat-haze followed by a paper-chase of herring-gulls. He was lost in his thoughts when the telephone rang. It was the concierge announcing that a Director of Radio Stentor was waiting below with the wireless set he had ordered from Paris. 'Of course,' said Bond. 'Send him up.' This was the cover fixed by the Deuxime Bureau for their liaison man with Bond. Bond watched the door, hoping that it would be Mathis. When Mathis came in, a respectable business-man carrying a large square parcel by its leather handle, Bond smiled broadly and would have greeted him with warmth if Mathis had not frowned and held up his free hand after carefully closing the door. 'I have just arrived from Paris, monsieur, and here is the set you asked to have on approval - five valves, superhet, I think you call it in England, and you should be able to get most of the capitals of Europe from Royale. There are no mountains for forty miles in any direction.' 'It sounds all right,' said Bond, lifting his eyebrows at this mystery-making. Mathis paid no attention. He placed the set, which he had unwrapped, on the floor beside the unlit panel electric fire below the mantelpiece. 'It is just past eleven,' he said, 'and I see that the Compagnons de la Chanson should now be on the medium wave from Rome. They are touring Europe. Let us see what the reception is like. It should be a fair test.' He winked. Bond noticed that he had turned the volume on to full and that the red light indicating the long waveband was illuminated, though the set was still silent. Mathis fiddled at the back of the set. Suddenly an appalling roar of static filled the small room. Mathis gazed at the set for a few seconds with benevolence and then turned it off and his voice was full of dismay. 'My dear monsieur - forgive me please - badly tuned,' and he again bent to the dials. After a few adjustments the close harmony of the French came over the air and Mathis walked up and clapped Bond very hard on the back and wrang his hand until Bond's fingers ached. Bond smiled back at him. 'Now, what the hell?'

Riley-Sager-The-Only-One-Left.txt

more than one knife had been used. “What about the weapon?” I say. “They never found it, right?” “Correct.” “Were the police certain only one knife was used?” “As certain as they could be,” Detective Vick says. “No other knife seemed to be missing from the kitchen, and the stab wounds on both Winston and Evangeline Hope were roughly the same width, suggesting only one weapon was used.” “Did they notice anything out of the ordinary about the place? Anything at all?” “Just that Virginia Hope’s room had recently been cleaned. One of the cops smelled floor polish when they brought her upstairs.” I touch my temples, the headache growing. It’s so bad I’m surprised my skull hasn’t fractured yet, forming a crack as big as the one now running across the terrace at Hope’s End. “Since they couldn’t prove—or disprove—that Ricardo did it, and since they couldn’t do the same with Lenora, the case just stalled?” “Correct,” Detective Vick says. “Sound familiar?” Anger flashes through me like lightning. Electric. Searing. “Fuck you,” I tell Detective Vick, which might be illegal. I’m not up to date on laws against swearing at police detectives. If it is a crime, Detective Vick makes no move to do anything about it as I yank open the door to my Escort and slide behind the wheel. “I don’t blame you, you know,” he says before I can slam the door shut. “Your mother was suffering. I understand that. My own parents suffered when their time came. But I didn’t break the law to try to end it.” “Neither did I.” I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t know if it’s from rage or grief or the fact that everything about the past six months has been too damn much. When I got to Hope’s End, I threw myself into learning Lenora’s story because I was desperate to change my own pathetic existence by focusing on someone else’s. But then I found Mary dead, and things have only spiraled since then. “I didn’t make my mother take those pills,” I say, swiping at a tear before it can fall because I’ll be damned if I cry in front of Detective Vick. “She killed herself. Mary didn’t. And someone smarter than you would understand that.” The detective’s nostrils flare. The only sign I’ve gotten to him. Unlike me, he knows how to keep his emotions in check. “Kit, for the last time, Mary Milton wasn’t murdered.” “How can you be so sure of that?” Detective Vick removes a piece of paper from inside his jacket. A photocopy of a page made ragged and faint from water damage. Thrusting it at me, he says, “Because of this.” My hands go numb as I read the single sentence typed across the page. “What is this?” “A copy of Mary Milton’s suicide note,” Detective Vick says. “I told you we found it with her body.” I scan the page a second, third, fourth time, hoping each pass will produce a different meaning. But it all reads the same every

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

supply cabin. He is too close, and I can’t risk staying here. Above me, the moon is just a sliver of silver hanging in the sky, but I’m thankful. I lost my flashlight, and the moon is now the only thing lighting the path in front of me as I push toward the main lodge. The boathouse comes into view. I suck in a chest full of chilly nighttime air and let out a bloodcurdling scream. It carries in the clear, quiet dark. Three people burst from the boathouse. They’re tripping all over one another, and the woman is screaming her face off. The two dudes with her look pretty shaken up. “Help me!” I scream. I limp toward them, panting, clutching my side. “Please help me!” The woman runs up to me and grabs me by the shoulders, digging her nails into my skin. “I gotta get out of here!” she shrieks. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this! I can’t do this.” She has a raised welt on the side of her face, and her bottom lip is split open. “It’s just the three of you left?” I ask as I try to catch my breath. “Yeah,” says one of the other guys. His gaze darts from me to the lake, which is flat calm and looks like a giant black mirror reflecting the silvery sliver of moon in the sky. Somewhere behind me, a branch snaps, like something heavy is crushing it underfoot. My heart slams in my chest. The woman leans over and puts her hands on her knees. She doesn’t appear to have heard the sound. Her back is to the woods when suddenly, he’s there. His dark-blue coveralls are smudged with dirt, making him almost impossible to see against the backdrop of towering pines. His six-foot-eight frame looms in the shadows like a ghost. His mask is horrifying in the dark. It’s a dingy white color, smeared with red and mud. There’s a crack running up the right side. His massive hand grips the handle of a machete, its blade slick with blood. He stalks forward, and the woman doesn’t even see him until it’s too late. He grabs her from behind, lifting her up off the ground. He disappears with her kicking and screaming into the Mason Lodge, a smaller cabin we mostly use for storage. I don’t move. I can’t. One of the guys makes a break for it and bolts toward the camp entrance. The other guy just stands there as a thin film of sweat blankets his forehead. I grab his arm, and he snaps out of whatever terror-induced trance he’s in and starts hollering as loud as he can. “Come on!” I yell. The dirt road that leads to the camp’s main entrance seems too long, and the screams of the terrified woman echo all around us as we race down it. The timbers of the giant sign that flank the entry gate materialize out of the dark. The other man is already there. “Brandon!” he screams. “Get

Confidence_-a-Novel.txt

in the bathroom stalls of bars and clubs and, just once, a department store. Few if any questions were asked. I always offered to pay, which torqued some people off. I should never have offered to pay. People reported that Emily had relocated from her mansion in LA to the Farm, where she and Orson were sharing a “modest home” together. There was a photo of it: an Enner house not unlike any other Enner house, a split-level with a garage and a garret and a bay window in the living room—I’d been in hundreds of them before but had never imagined that Orson and Emily would share one. In the photo, the two of them stood in their driveway, Orson in a black-and-red flannel with a full beard and Emily in leggings and a fleece jacket, her hair a tawny brown—quite possibly her natural color, but there was no way of knowing—her cheeks rouged from the Oswego cold. There were other photos of them too: leaving clubs hand in hand, attending galas, posing with other celebrities. I read the tweets about them: It’s L. Ron Hotboy and Lady Barnum Do they milk cows on the Farm? Or just investors? I think of him as a fancy millennial Koresh Honestly if he looks like that all the time I want in on the hustle I began building the NuLife Centers in Urmau and employed thousands of Urmanese in the manufacture of Bliss-Minis. For every Urmanese NuLife Center I opened, I opened one in the States, until most major U.S. cities had brick-and-mortar places where people could buy their Bliss-Minis and have them repaired. They could take crash courses in Synthesis or be Synthesized by “Superiors” we employed for $50K a year. The Synthesized paid the Synthesizers, who in turned paid us, and all this money trickled back up toward corporate, toward me, sitting in my office in New York losing patches of my vision to the flawed machinery of my eyes. Every time I had an attack—and they became increasingly frequent in 2017—it felt like things got a little dimmer. I couldn’t stop loving him. I funneled money into the Farm, and more and more people gave up their lives to live in Enner houses and take his cure. On her weekly visits to the property, Brianna took videos for the corporate Instagram of Orson Synthesizing people, or of him sitting at the heads of eager circles and instructing people to repeat his words back to him, or of Emily leading people in some kind of obscure dance ritual. There were tents on the property, hundreds, people either visiting for a few weeks or waiting for their Enner houses to be built, people who wanted so badly to be close to Orson that they’d forfeited almost everything for the chance to glimpse him emerging from the farmhouse, dressed in a work shirt and jeans and sandals, his arms spread wide. “Good morning, friends!” he’d bellow. “Who’s ready for a day of healing?” And his devotees would roar with enthusiasm. They cut him

Kalynn-Bayron-Youre-Not-Supposed.txt

understand. We need drastic action.” “You know what happened last time we drew too much attention to this place,” the short man says. “Some kid tried to re-create the ritual and failed miserably. The backlash almost ended our Order. It is the reason we find ourselves in the predicament we are in today. The Grand Owl will not allow something like that to happen again. He will keep this quiet, and he will not take any unnecessary chances.” “He’ll have to find a way to get this land back under his control.” “A mistake we also have that kid to thank for,” grumbles the gray-haired man. “Jesus. Our Order on the brink, the land and the power it holds that has always been ours, all lost because an outsider wanted what we had.” He huffs. “I’d kill him if I could.” “It’s been more than fifty years,” says Alex. “He’s an old man now.” “Still,” the gray-haired man says. “I’d still like to do it.” They both nod, and I stare down at Bezi, who is listening with her hand pressed against her mouth. I crouch and press my mouth to her ear. “They know who killed all those people back in ’71.” Bezi nods her head, and I turn to peer back inside. My elbow knocks against the wood siding under the window. “What was that?” the man called Alex asks. I curse under my breath. A few seconds go by, and when I peer back through the window, Alex is staring me dead in the face. My heart nearly stops, and I barely have time to grab Bezi and yank her up before both men are barreling out of the cabin. “Run!” I scream as we cut through the towering pine trees and stumble onto the path that leads toward the showers. Footfalls pound the ground behind me. Halfway down the path, a chorus of screams echoes through the camp. Despite the terror coursing through me, I stop. Bezi runs into me, nearly knocking me over. The men behind us also stop, raising their gaze to the surrounding woods. “What the hell is that?” the gray-haired man asks. Agonized screams ring through the camp. They echo in the dark, and it takes me a moment to realize Kyle must have cued up the sound effects. The hidden speakers cycle through screams and menacing footsteps. The sounds seem to be coming from every direction. Bezi takes my hand and pulls me toward the showers, and we’re mounting the front steps before the men give chase again. We slam the door shut and wedge a trash can under the handle. With a loud bang, the men collide with the door. The can scrapes across the ground, and the gray-haired man slips his arm through the crack in the door and attempts to move it. I reach in my pocket and pull out the half-empty can of bear spray. I angle it toward the opening in the door and empty the canister directly into the faces of the two men. They immediately start

Dracula.txt

last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter's Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady". CHAPTER 14 MINA HARKER'S JOURNAL 23 September.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things, and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it. 24 September.--I hadn't the heart to write last night, that terrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him, poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought. He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding day he said "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane. . ." There seems to be through it all some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was coming to London. If it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions. . .There may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from it. I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him. LETTER, VAN HELSING TO MRS. HARKER 24 September (Confidence) "Dear Madam, "I pray you to pardon my writing, in that

Ulysses.txt

PRIVATE CARR'S SLEEVE) Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn't want it to die. Damn death. Long live life! EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (LEVITATES OVER HEAPS OF SLAIN, IN THE GARB AND WITH THE HALO OF JOKING JESUS, A WHITE JUJUBE IN HIS PHOSPHORESCENT FACE) My methods are new and are causing surprise. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes. STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! (HE FILLS BACK A PACE) Come somewhere and we'll ... What was that girl saying? ... PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one into Jerry. BLOOM: (TO THE PRIVATES, SOFTLY) He doesn't know what he's saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right. STEPHEN: (NODS, SMILING AND LAUGHING) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. (KEVIN EGAN OF PARIS IN BLACK SPANISH TASSELLED SHIRT AND PEEP-O'-DAY BOY'S HAT SIGNS TO STEPHEN.) KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! BONJOUR! The VIEILLE OGRESSE with the DENTS JAUNES. (PATRICE EGAN PEEPS FROM BEHIND, HIS RABBITFACE NIBBLING A QUINCE LEAF.) PATRICE: SOCIALISTE! DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (IN MEDIEVAL HAUBERK, TWO WILD GEESE VOLANT ON HIS HELM, WITH NOBLE INDIGNATION POINTS A MAILED HAND AGAINST THE PRIVATES) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! BLOOM: (TO STEPHEN) Come home. You'll get into trouble. STEPHEN: (SWAYING) I don't avoid it. He provokes my intelligence. BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage. THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone. THE BAWD: The red's as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King Edward! A ROUGH: (LAUGHS) Ay! Hands up to De Wet. THE CITIZEN: (WITH A HUGE EMERALD MUFFLER AND SHILLELAGH, CALLS) May the God above Send down a dove With teeth as sharp as razors To slit the throats Of the English dogs That hanged our Irish leaders. THE CROPPY BOY: (THE ROPENOOSE ROUND HIS NECK, GRIPES IN HIS ISSUING BOWELS WITH BOTH HANDS) I bear no hate to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the king. RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (ACCOMPANIED BY TWO BLACKMASKED ASSISTANTS, ADVANCES WITH GLADSTONE BAG WHICH HE OPENS) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the cellar, the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows. (HE JERKS THE ROPE. THE ASSISTANTS LEAP AT THE VICTIM'S LEGS AND DRAG HIM DOWNWARD, GRUNTING THE CROPPY BOY'S TONGUE PROTRUDES VIOLENTLY.) THE CROPPY BOY: Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.

Oliver Twist.txt

doctor, laying Oliver gently down again. 'It was all done for the--for the best, sir,' answered Giles. 'I am sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.' 'Thought it was what boy?' inquired the senior officer. 'The housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles. 'They--they certainly had a boy.' 'Well? Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers. 'Think what, now?' replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner. 'Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoined Blathers, impatiently. 'I don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles, with a rueful countenance. 'I couldn't swear to him.' 'What do you think?' asked Mr. Blathers. 'I don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles. 'I don't think it is the boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't. You know it can't be.' 'Has this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquired Blathers, turning to the doctor. 'What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!' said Duff, addressing Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt. Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them. Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he begain to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty. Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow pistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which made a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next morning. With the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under suspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves,

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

County in his time." "Dead shot..." echoed Jem. "That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition." "He never said anything about that," Jem muttered. "Never said anything about it, did he?" "No ma'am." "Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said. "Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anything, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent- oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today." "Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said. "People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. "Don't yawl come over here for a while," he called. When we went home I told Jem we'd really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. "Don't say anything about it, Scout," he said. "What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County." Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us." "Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said. "Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything- I wouldn't care if he couldn't do a blessed thing." Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!" 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without passing her house unless we wished to walk a mile out of the way. Previous minor encounters with her left me with no desire for more, but Jem said I had to grow up some time. Mrs. Dubose lived alone except for a Negro girl in constant attendance, two doors up the street from us in a house with steep front steps and a dog-trot hall. She was very old; she spent most of each day in bed and

Frankenstein.txt

wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles. "When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch." I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?" And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her. Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of

Fiona-Davis-The-Spectacular.txt

ends of the line trucked along as fast as they could, all while maintaining the illusion of soldierlike rigidity. Marion breathed a sigh of relief when all the dancers managed to keep their rotating line perfectly straight without any wobbles and her helmet stayed put during the long fall, which felt like it took ages. As they headed offstage Marion glanced over to the section where she knew her sister was seated. The expression on Judy’s face matched that of the young girl to her left—wide-eyed and smiling—and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. She had fallen under the spell of the Christmas Spectacular just as Marion had hoped she would. The seat to Judy’s right was empty, and next to that was a man in a trench coat. Marion wouldn’t have noticed him except that he reached down and lifted something bulky into his lap that gave off a brief flash of reflected light. In the wings, Marion did a quick costume change for the nativity scene, pleased that Judy seemed to be letting down her guard. Their conversation on the roof had been eye-opening but also wonderful in its honesty. Maybe now they could enter a new stage in their relationship. It couldn’t have been easy for Judy, growing up in a house with two large personalities when her own was more subdued, and Marion was glad she’d confided in her about the terrible incident with the math kid. Now they could move on from their messy teenaged years and grow together into women. That was what their mother would have wanted, to be sure. One of the camels tried to eat the hay during the nativity scene, and a sheep erupted in a series of baas, but it worked well enough. Marion glanced into the audience again as the lights went down, thrilled to see Judy still staring happily up at the stage. Both seats to her right were now empty; the man had probably headed to the men’s lounge for a smoke. The Rockettes entered for the final number, dressed in green-and-red sequined leotards. A riser lifted them slowly up into the air as they kicked and pranced, every movement of their limbs tight and sharp, exactly the way Russell had choreographed. Marion’s kicks were perfectly eye height, her smile unforced. For the first time she wasn’t faking it or worried about getting something wrong. She knew these moves in her bones, and the controlled freedom and pure joy of standing in a long line of dancers doing exactly the same thing sent a zing through her body. This was her best show yet, perfectly timed for impressing one of the most important people in her life. The audience clapped and cheered wildly in response. But then a strange thundering—like a firecracker but deeper and much louder—erupted out of nowhere, almost bursting her eardrums. In her confusion, she wondered if the fake cannon they used for the Wooden Soldiers number had been replaced with a real one and a stagehand had accidentally set it off

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. 'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then, now--it is closing.' 'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake-- for MY sake.' 'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well- I hope it is so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.' Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even when he had bestowed them on herself. They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town

Quietly-Hostile.txt

a shirt (color: evergreen) to prove to us that the shirt has the 4 percent spandex it claims to on the label. She explains the difference between pima cotton and the garbage regular cotton you’re used to with the help of a high-tech CGI graphic presentation in which an empty white T-shirt (with boobs) morphs into two disparate piles of cotton that then morph into two different types of woven fibers. Jackie says, in her very compelling British accent, that the way this cotton is knit makes it “extra durable and buttery, luxuriously soft.” Hmm, I’m sorry, but if I heard her describe a literal piece of human stool in this way, in this accent, I would buy it. Glamorous Jackie goes on to call this top “an essential piece that forms the basis of your wardrobe…. These easy pieces that you throw on when you’re running out the door automatically look pulled together and polished and are the answer to everything you need.” And you know what? I believe her! My life simply does not require ever “running out the door” or “looking pulled together”—AND YET. I want a shirt that makes me feel like that. I want to make a plan, lie down in the dark with the sound machine blasting until one minute before I need to leave, then run around in a panic looking for my wallet and keys before snatching one of these shirts out of the dryer, where it’s been sitting for three days, and tossing it on so I can look GREAT. Imagine my stupid-ass friends when I walk into a restaurant that doesn’t seat incomplete parties late after fucking up the reservation, and instead of scorn and revulsion they embrace me like, “Wow! That semifitted, not-too-clingy top with a gorgeous side vent that follows the lines of your body with so much added wearing ease looks amazing on you! Not to mention, it gives you so much aging-neck coverage!!!” *Adds to cart* WHAT IT COST ME: Five Easy Payments of $7.64 The pandemic hit and the first thing to collapse—before our collective sanity and physical virility came tumbling down in rapid succession shortly afterward—was my shitty internet. We had whatever country-ass internet you get when you choose to put an enormous satellite dish in the middle of your overgrown backyard, and that shit was not going to support three people trying to conduct very important jobs and online classes and one loser who has a blog. One day a cable salesman knocked on the door, and we were still in the beginning Contagion-style stages of quarantine, when you’d threaten to kill anyone who stood at your door for longer than ten seconds. I stood behind the closed door and shouted, “WHAT DO YOU WANT, SIR?” while looking for something to hit this salesman on the head with if it came to that. The only items we kept next to our front door were mittens and hats, so what was I gonna do, snuggle him to death? He said he was selling “lightning-fast internet,” which

Dune.txt

toward the ceiling. "No reply yet, m'Lord." Paul sighed, resting against the back of his chair. Presently, he said: "Bring me a captive Sardaukar. We must send a message to our Emperor, It's time to discuss terms." "Yes, m'Lord." Gurney turned away, dropped a hand signal to one of the Fedaykin who took up close-guard position beside Paul. "Gurney," Paul whispered. "Since we've been rejoined I've yet to hear you produce the proper quotation for the event." He turned, saw Gurney swallow, saw the sudden grim hardening of the man's jaw. "As you wish, m'Lord," Gurney said. He cleared his throat, rasped: " 'And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son.' " Paul closed his eyes, forcing grief out of his mind, letting it wait as he had once waited to mourn his father. Now, he gave his thoughts over to this day's accumulated discoveries -- the mixed futures and the hidden presence of Alia within his awareness. Of all the uses of time-vision, this was the strangest. "I have breasted the future to place my words where only you can hear them," Alia had said. "Even you cannot do that, my brother. I find it an interesting play. And . . . oh, yes -- I've killed our grandfather, the demented old Baron. He had very little pain." Silence. His time sense had seen her withdrawal. "Muad'Dib." Paul opened his eyes to see Stilgar's black-bearded visage above him, the dark eyes glaring with battle light. "You've found the body of the old Baron," Paul said. A hush of the person settled over Stilgar. "How could you know?" he whispered. "We just found the body in that great pile of metal the Emperor built." Paul ignored the question, seeing Gurney return accompanied by two Fremen who supported a captive Sardaukar. "Here's one of them, m'Lord," Gurney said. He signed to the guard to hold the captive five paces in front of Paul. The Sardaukar's eyes, Paul noted, carried a glazed expression of shock. A blue bruise stretched from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth. He was of the blond, chisel-featured caste, the look that seemed synonymous with rank among the Sardaukar, yet there were no insignia on his torn uniform except the gold buttons with the Imperial crest and the tattered braid of his trousers. "I think this one's an officer, m'Lord," Gurney said. Paul nodded, said: "I am the Duke Paul Atreides. Do you understand that, man?" The Sardaukar stared at him unmoving. "Speak up," Paul said, "or your Emperor may die." The man blinked, swallowed. "Who am I?" Paul demanded. "You are the Duke Paul Atreides," the man husked. He seemed too submissive to Paul, but then the Sardaukar had never been prepared for such happenings as this day. They'd never known anything but victory which, Paul realized, could be a weakness in itself. He put that thought aside for later consideration in his own