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We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

car. It’s been years: Bailey clearly means him no harm and has managed to be discreet enough that Nick’s queerness isn’t the talk of the Chronicle. But Bailey’s presence sets Nick’s teeth on edge and somehow it’s worse because Bailey is trying to be decent. A week after that awful meeting at the baths, he cornered Nick in the cafeteria and gave him a business card for a lawyer with another phone number inked in at the bottom. “Memorize both of these numbers if you ever have trouble,” Bailey had said. Nick had been annoyed at the presumption but also grateful, because, yes, the phone number of a queer-friendly lawyer was a good thing to have, goddammit. “I’ve been reading that series you’re writing,” Bailey says now. “It’s funny. You’re wasted on the news.” “Funny?” Nick repeats, outraged. “Wasted?” “Those were compliments.” “Like hell they were.” “You’re a good prose stylist.” “I’m a what?” Nick knows what those words mean separately and even together but not when applied to himself. “Compliment, kid. You’re good at what you do.” “But not at reporting news?” “Didn’t say that. Just meant that you’d be better at writing something else. Did you read that book I sent you?” “No,” Nick says with feeling. Bailey takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Nick, who shakes his head. “You should read it. I think you’d like it.” “That’s what you always say.” A couple times a year, Nick finds a tale of gay misery and woe on his desk, because apparently Bailey has taken it upon himself to be Nick’s personal sad gay librarian. “You have shitty taste in books. Would it kill you to read something that isn’t totally dismal?” “I’m paid for my taste in books,” Bailey says easily. “And I don’t mind dismal things. I’m trying to be your friend, aren’t I?” Nick leaves before the conversation can get any weirder. * * * When Andy comes back from the afternoon editorial meeting, his face is drawn, his jaw clenched. That’s how he always looks when he’s been in a meeting, and these days he’s spending less and less time in the newsroom, and more and more time in meetings. “What happened?” Nick asks. “The usual.” Andy passes his own desk and comes to sit on the edge of Nick’s. “Circulation’s down and department stores don’t want to pay enough to advertise girdles.” It’s a truism in the news business that the entire fourth estate is propped up by dry goods manufacturers advertising underwear. “The fact is that fewer and fewer people get news from the newspaper, and every news editor in the room thinks the solution is to print more news and everyone in the marketing department thinks the solution is to decrease the news hole and run more ads. Every meeting we go over the same ground.” Nick tips back in his seat to look Andy in the eye. “What does your father say?” “He wants to keep doing things more or less the way we have been. Not because

Cold People.txt

– not hatred or revenge, but how to save as many lives as possible. Since the tanker had been empty when it had been seized, they didn’t need to dump three million barrels of crude oil into the ocean, avoiding the discovery of whether such an environmentally destructive act would have provoked a response from the alien occupation force, the new owners of this planet. Entering the cavernous belly of the ship, Bedri had marvelled at the scale, the largest manmade space he’d ever encountered, twenty metres high, sixteen metres wide, three hundred metres deep. With cotton scarves wrapped around their mouths to limit their intake of toxic fumes, he and his crew considered the challenge of converting this to a habitable space. The first step had been to wash out the tanks with seawater until no oil remained. Then they set about trying to improve the ventilation, cutting a system of airholes up to the main deck. There were only two tall narrow service ladders down into the tank and no living facilities of any kind. Thousands of plastic buckets, sourced from the mainland, would suffice as toilets, needing to be hoisted up to deck by a pulley system of ropes and the contents tossed overboard. Many of his loyal crew believed Bedri had done enough – they’d created transportation for some two hundred thousand people, people who’d been abandoned by their government and left to fend for themselves by the international community. Saving a million lives was an unachievable goal, they said. He’d become angered by this attitude, refusing to accept defeat. He wasn’t thinking big because of some personal vanity or youthful ego – this was about the survival of entire villages, families and generations. Exasperated, his closest friend had exclaimed: ‘What more can we do?’ Bedri had looked up, pointing at the empty space above the base of the tank. ‘Look at all this empty space!’ His crew, who were devoted to him, didn’t understand – they didn’t have time to build new decks. Bedri shook his head. ‘We can make hammocks. We’ll tie them from side to side. Fifteen floors of hammocks, one meter between each line, from side to side, from one end to the other, like washing lines, line after line of hammocks.’ He’d run across the width of the tank, calculating. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven – eleven hammocks on each line.’ ‘Who’d be in them?’ ‘People strong enough to climb along the rope.’ ‘How would we do it?’ ‘Rope! We need rope! We need miles and miles of rope. If there’s not enough rope, we use cloth, flags, anything. But we’re not done yet. Each hammock is a life.’ From all over the country the crew had sought out rope, cloth, fabric, anything strong enough to knit together, woven by an industry of people on the top deck. And by the fifteenth day, as if a giant spider had been busy, the inside of the oil tanker was spun with a lattice of hammocks bolted to the

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

there is no longer refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes as transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen fibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and bone, Kemp, flesh, hair, nails and nerves, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a man except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all made up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make us visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living creature are no more opaque than water." "Great Heavens!" cried Kemp. "Of course, of course! I was thinking only last night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish!" "Now you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I left London--six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work under frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was a scientific bounder, a journalist by instinct, a thief of ideas,--he was always prying! And you know the knavish system of the scientific world. I simply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on working. I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment, a reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon the world with crushing effect,--to become famous at a blow. I took up the question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by design but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology." "Yes?" "You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made white--colourless--and remain with all the functions it has now!" Kemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement. The Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study. "You may well exclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night, --in the daytime one was bothered with the gaping, silly students,-- and I worked then sometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete into my mind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights burning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been alone. 'One could make an animal--a tissue-- transparent! One could make it invisible! All except the pigments. I could be invisible!' I said, suddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge. It was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and stared out of the great window at the stars. 'I could be invisible!' I repeated. "To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man,--the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become--this. I ask you, Kemp, if you--Any one, I tell you, would have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years, and every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another

Fahrenheit 451.txt

FAHRENHEIT 451 This one, with gratitude, is for DON CONGDON. FAHRENHEIT 451: The temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns PART I IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN IT was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning. Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame. He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that. smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered. He hung up his black-beetle-coloured helmet and shined it, he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; he showered luxuriously, and then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of the fire station and fell down the hole. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he pulled his hands from his pockets and broke his fall by grasping the golden pole. He slid to a squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs. He walked out of the fire station and along the midnight street toward the subway where the silent, air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out with a great puff of warm air an to the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb. Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. He walked toward the comer, thinking little at all about nothing in particular. Before he reached the corner, however, he slowed as if a wind had sprung up from nowhere, as if someone had called his name. The last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment before his making the turn, someone had been there. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone had waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, simply turned to a shadow

Cold People.txt

life, a brilliant and complex life. Her thoughts felt slow and heavy. She was not innocent anymore. Atto and Liza ran forward, hugging her, holding her tight. Liza whispered into Echo’s ear: ‘She would’ve killed you. She would’ve killed us.’ ‘I feel something I’ve never felt before…’ Her sentence drifted into silence, searching for the word. ‘I feel shame.’ With the body of Cho across his back, Eitan approached, his colony behind him. It was not an attack but a funeral march. Echo stepped forward, in front of her family, ready to defend them yet at the same time sharing in the grief of those opposing her, realizing that she remained connected to their thoughts, catching fragments of their pain. Eitan’s voice was different, no longer brassy and unbreakable. ‘Your people have until the first day of winter to leave this place. After the sun sets, we will kill anyone who remains.’ Echo said: ‘I didn’t intend to kill her.’ ‘You could’ve been one of us. Now you belong with them.’ With that said, the colony of cold creatures turned in unison, heading in procession out of the ruins of the city, towards the mountains and glaciers they called home. EPILOGUE TWO MONTHS LATER TRANS-ANTARCTICA FREEWAY 15 MARCH 2044 AHEAD OF THE APPROACHING WINTER a second Exodus was underway – a 1,800-mile trek across the continent, a perilous journey made famous by daring explorers seeking a place in the record books. What was once adventure was now necessity. The people of McMurdo were abandoning their capital city; for the children born there it was the only home they’d ever known. Across the ice shelf a caravan of a million McMurdo City refugees snaked across the snow, like a hairline crack in a white porcelain plate. Having made an extraordinary journey to this continent, another journey was being demanded of them, this time to the Peninsula, trying to complete the journey before winter arrived. Many of McMurdo’s leaders drowned during the sinking of the flagship and a new leadership had taken charge, made up of former generals and admirals from armies around the world. Under their stewardship, the evacuation of McMurdo City had been well-organized and calm, unloading all the supplies from the ships, barely enough to see them through the journey let alone the long dark winter ahead. Many of the snow vehicles had been destroyed in the fire. As for the packs of once devoted huskies, all of them had joined the colony of cold creatures, including Yotam’s dog Copper. Not a single dog remained, as if they understood that this continent had new masters now. As the last refugees set off from the scorched remains of McMurdo City, they fired a hundred flares into a clear blue sky, representing the end of this base where people had lived for one hundred years. The three Survivor Towns responded to the news of the uprising with resilience and generosity, promising to welcome the new arrivals with the same love and compassion as if they were family. But there was no hiding from

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

doing honest upstanding American capitalist things that definitely had nothing to do with any of the waterfront gangs that ran half the city in those days. Somewhere around the turn of the century he met an enterprising young reporter named Cecilia Marks, who was making a name for herself by getting thrown into prisons in order to interview murderers, stowing away on steamships, chaining herself to various legislative buildings, and in general making herself irresistible to the likes of Andrew Fleming I, who had never met a danger he didn’t want to embrace with both arms. When the paper that employed Miss Marks threatened to fold, Andrew did the only sensible thing a man could do in that situation and bought the paper. Suitably wooed, Miss Marks became Mrs. Fleming, even though in the newspaper she retained her old byline. The paper succeeded; more papers were acquired; a son was produced, staid and responsible in a way that shocked the sensibilities of both of his parents. Young Andrew went off to fight a war, survived it, returned home to find that his father hadn’t, and took over the Chronicle. In the twenties, the Chronicle’s circulation exceeded half a million, which was none too shabby in a city that already had a couple dozen daily papers, not counting the weeklies, not counting the Black papers or those in other languages. The Chronicle’s success carried on through the thirties and right on through the war, not stumbling in the least when Fleming, again following in his father’s footsteps, married his star reporter. He divorced her almost immediately—but not before fathering a child. The circumstances that precipitated Andrew Fleming and Margaret Kelly’s divorce were well documented, having occurred in the newsroom of a major newspaper, surrounded by journalists with steel-trap memories and a penchant for gossip. Andy’s mother wanted to go to Germany to see what in hell was the matter over there. The Chronicle had always been progressive, and had only become more so under the stewardship of Andrew Fleming II, and while the staff might take their quarrels with one another about Stalin to the pages of the paper with unfortunate frequency, everyone agreed that Hitler was just a dirty fascist. But Andrew Fleming insisted that sloping off to fascist countries was not something that the mother of a newborn did; his wife accused him of being a fascist sympathizer. She went to Reno for a quickie divorce and then directly to the Herald Tribune, a betrayal that smarted much more than when she subsequently took up with her photographer in Berlin. This left Andrew Fleming with an infant and a paper to run. Only one of those required his personal attention and it wasn’t the baby. When Margaret Kelly returned to the States, she scooped the child up and deposited him in an apartment on the Upper East Side with a succession of housekeepers. She then went back to Berlin, and then to Prague and London and Paris. She was there for the liberation of Dachau. As a woman, she didn’t have

The Turn of the Screw.txt

many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone; the autumn had dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance-- all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable impressions of the KIND of ministering moment, that brought back to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which, too, at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the portents--I recognized the moment, the spot. But they remained unaccompanied and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. I had said in my talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene of Flora's by the lake--and had perplexed her by so saying--that it would from that moment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. I had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that, whether the children really saw or not--since, that is, it was not yet definitely proved--I greatly preferred, as a safeguard, the fullness of my own exposure. I was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. What I had then had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs were most opened. Well, my eyes WERE sealed, it appeared, at present-- a consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank God. There was, alas, a difficulty about that: I would have thanked him with all my soul had I not had in a proportionate measure this conviction of the secret of my pupils. How can I retrace today the strange steps of my obsession? There were times of our being together when I would have been ready to swear that, literally, in my presence, but with my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors who were known and were welcome. Then it was that, had I not been deterred by the very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the injury to be averted, my exultation would have broken out. "They're here, they're here, you little wretches," I would have cried, "and you can't deny it now!" The little wretches denied it with all the added volume of their sociability and their tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which-- like the flash of a fish in a stream--the mockery of their advantage peeped up. The shock, in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than I knew

The Da Vinci Code.txt

that no matter how long it took, these documents must be recovered from the rubble beneath the temple and protected forever, so the truth would never die. In order to retrieve the documents from within the ruins, the Priory created a military arm-a group of nine knights called the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon." Langdon paused. "More commonly known as the Knights Templar." Sophie glanced up with a surprised look of recognition. Langdon had lectured often enough on the Knights Templar to know that almost everyone on earth had heard of them, at least abstractedly. For academics, the Templars' history was a precarious world where fact, lore, and misinformation had become so intertwined that extracting a pristine truth was almost impossible. Nowadays, Langdon hesitated even to mention the Knights Templar while lecturing because it invariably led to a barrage of convoluted inquiries into assorted conspiracy theories. 108 Sophie already looked troubled. "You're saying the Knights Templar were founded by the Priory of Sion to retrieve a collection of secret documents? I thought the Templars were created to protect the Holy Land." "A common misconception. The idea of protection of pilgrims was the guise under which the Templars ran their mission. Their true goal in the Holy Land was to retrieve the documents from beneath the ruins of the temple." "And did they find them?" Langdon grinned. "Nobody knows for sure, but the one thing on which all academics agree is this: The Knights discovered something down there in the ruins... something that made them wealthy and powerful beyond anyone's wildest imagination." Langdon quickly gave Sophie the standard academic sketch of the accepted Knights Templar history, explaining how the Knights were in the Holy Land during the Second Crusade and told King Baldwin II that they were there to protect Christian pilgrims on the roadways. Although unpaid and sworn to poverty, the Knights told the king they required basic shelter and requested his permission to take up residence in the stables under the ruins of the temple. King Baldwin granted the soldiers' request, and the Knights took up their meager residence inside the devastated shrine. The odd choice of lodging, Langdon explained, had been anything but random. The Knights believed the documents the Priory sought were buried deep under the ruins- beneath the Holy of Holies, a sacred chamber where God Himself was believed to reside. Literally, the very center of the Jewish faith. For almost a decade, the nine Knights lived in the ruins, excavating in total secrecy through solid rock. Sophie looked over. "And you said they discovered something?" "They certainly did," Langdon said, explaining how it had taken nine years, but the Knights had finally found what they had been searching for. They took the treasure from the temple and traveled to Europe, where their influence seemed to solidify overnight. Nobody was certain whether the Knights had blackmailed the Vatican or whether the Church simply tried to buy the Knights' silence, but Pope Innocent II immediately issued an unprecedented papal bull that afforded

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" "Stop!" murmured Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [15] They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it? Lord Henry watched him, with his sad smile. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was! Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. "Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling

1984.txt

the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (19 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word 'Shakespeare' on his lips. The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed--naked, for a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600--and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching. 'Thirty to forty group!' yapped a piercing female voice. 'Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!' Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already appeared. 'Arms bending and stretching!' she rapped out. 'Take your time by me. ONE, two, three, four! ONE, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two, three four! ONE two, three, four!...' The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston's mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its

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

and manner? I turned a fierce scowl inward. The Sultana’s nonsense about lovers had clearly scrambled my senses. Arin was attractive—it was as obvious and indisputable as the sun. But I had spent nearly twenty-one years capable of acknowledging attractiveness without being attracted myself. I had never wanted anyone, never yearned for the physical relationships Marek chased. I finally empathized with the girls in the keep. Especially Gana. The fanciful ward used to dress in Raya’s finest gowns every week, sing warbling ballads while dabbing fragrances on her wrists and behind her ear. “There is power in conquering the unconquerable,” Gana had said one year, after rejecting yet another fellow’s advances. The keep had gone to Zeila’s for celebratory tea and ahwa after a successful market. Zeila laid reed rugs on the floor, and we sat on beaded cushions, a wooden table wobbling at our feet. I’d been a few cushions down with Sefa and Marek, sipping my bitter ahwa from a chipped cup. Gana’s conversation with Daleel had reached my ears. “Men don’t see women, dear Daleel. They see power. Which one of us has more of it, and how easily they can drain it out of her.” Apparently, this wasn’t a trait reserved for men, because a dark thrill raced through me at the thought of conquering the Nizahl Heir. Stealing a piece of Arin’s power in the surrender. The breeze ruffled Arin’s hair. He chuckled, drawing me back to the present. “No attendants are permitted in my quarters. Vaida has long resigned herself to my eccentricities.” Disturbed at the ghoulish direction of my thoughts, I moved away from him. “I should get ready for the banquet.” Without looking back, I walked through the shadow of a Ruby Hound protruding from the buttress and hurried into the palace. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Without the necessary exhaustion, my body rebelled against sleep in a strange place. I circled my room, opening drawers and laying out my gown for the Banquet. The night grew deeper, and still, sleep evaded me. I exchanged my bedgown for loose linen pants and a neat tunic. If I wanted any hope of sleeping tonight, I needed to walk. Ren startled when I pulled open the door. He looked over my clothing and frowned. “No.” “I need the washroom,” I said. “I will accompany you.” “That hardly seems appropriate.” Bending Ren to my will was easier than I anticipated. His antipathy for me was the boring kind—not as powerful as Vaun’s, nor as malleable as Wes’s. After a few minutes of arguing how insulting Vaida would find it if I felt unsafe enough to take a guard to the bathroom, Ren stepped aside, his unhappiness clear in the rigid lines of his shoulders. “Make haste.” In the hush of darkness, the eyes of the Ivory Palace followed me as I walked across the hall. Usr Jasad had also been large, with separate wings and plenty of unexplored rooms to tantalize a bored child. But it had always been a home first, a palace second. Menace and magnificence beat as

The Turn of the Screw.txt

a revelation of my motive, I should throw across the rest of the mystery the long halter of my boldness? This thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause again. I preternaturally listened; I figured to myself what might portentously be; I wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch. It was a deep, soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. He was quiet; he might be innocent; the risk was hideous; I turned away. There was a figure in the grounds--a figure prowling for a sight, the visitor with whom Flora was engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my boy. I hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only for a few seconds; then I had made my choice. There were empty rooms at Bly, and it was only a question of choosing the right one. The right one suddenly presented itself to me as the lower one-- though high above the gardens--in the solid corner of the house that I have spoken of as the old tower. This was a large, square chamber, arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by Mrs. Grose in exemplary order, been occupied. I had often admired it and I knew my way about in it; I had only, after just faltering at the first chill gloom of its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as I could one of the shutters. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that I commanded the right direction. Then I saw something more. The moon made the night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished by distance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where I had appeared--looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. There was clearly another person above me--there was a person on the tower; but the presence on the lawn was not in the least what I had conceived and had confidently hurried to meet. The presence on the lawn--I felt sick as I made it out-- was poor little Miles himself. XI It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose; the rigor with which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately, and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking--on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the children--any suspicion of a secret flurry or that of a discussion of mysteries. I drew a great security in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. There was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. She believed me, I was sure, absolutely:

Emma.txt

from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!-- The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole." "This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them." "Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it." "I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday." "I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read." "I never read one more to the purpose, certainly." "It is as long again as almost all we have had before." "I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too short." Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. "It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this." Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose. "Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?" "Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me." "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good." "Leave out

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

the strings went taut, and Sticks lifted his head. Most marionettes are fussy and clattery. This one felt alive. Sticks hesitated, turned his head to the side, raised his blind face, and sniffed the air. Then he climbed to his feet and stood on the porch between us. Clark turned invisible. I no longer saw Sticks’s strings. He didn’t hang like a marionette with his feet barely skimming the ground. Sticks stood solidly on the porch, his center of gravity not in the strings but rooted in his belly. Sticks rubbed his face thoughtfully with one hand, then seemed to catch a scent and turned his blind face toward me. He regarded me and I felt seen, not by Clark but by whatever creature stood on this porch with us. Sadie’s leg lay between the two of us, and Sticks gestured and she drew it back, then Sticks walked across the floor and stopped when he reached me, leaned over, and sniffed my jeans. I remember thinking very clearly, He’s getting used to my scent, even though he wasn’t anything but a bunch of blocks of wood tied to strings. He reached out his small wooden hand and laid it on my leg. It wasn’t Clark manipulating a string to poke me with a piece of wood, Sticks laid his hand on my leg. I stopped breathing. He turned his blind face up to me, and even though I could see the chisel marks that indicated his eyes, somehow he made eye contact. Sticks trembled between us, vibrating with life, and he placed another hand on my leg, then his foot, then he carefully brought his other foot around and now he was standing on my calf, one hand balancing himself on my knee. He weighed less than a cricket. And I heard Clark say, “A puppet is a possession that possesses the possessor.” Then Sticks flew into the air and the life went out of him and all the tension drained from the porch and there were only the four of us again. Clark hovered Sticks over the paper bag and dropped him in. They all watched to see my reaction. “Can you teach me how to do that?” I asked. Clark smiled, and I knew I’d asked the right question. I overslept and missed Monday’s Scene Study class, and Derrick chewed me out for not showing proper respect to my fellow actors, so I decided to skip Thursday’s class. In fact, I decided to never go back to his class again. Instead, I went to the library and read everything I could find about puppets. I read about Bread and Puppet in Vermont and their antiwar puppet shows that ended with the entire audience breaking homemade bread together. I read about Little Angel’s Wild Night of the Witches, and Handspan Theatre, and Charles Ludlam’s The Ventriloquist’s Wife, and Javanese holy shadow puppet plays, and how puppet shows used to be so dangerous that in sixteenth-century England some cities banned them while other cities paid puppeteers to stay away. By the

Pineapple Street.txt

they fought in his office and he hit her head on a poster on his wall, that he choked her and threw her in the water and left her for dead. He recanted his confession less than twenty-four hours later, saying it was coerced. Omar appeared on-screen in a forest green jumpsuit, head shaved, his last name written on a piece of medical tape on his chest. His face had thickened along with the rest of his body, but he had the same broad chin and sharp eyes. He said, “They came up with a story, they wrote the story in their own words, and they made it sound like if I just said this stuff, they’d put it down to an accident, like that was my best shot.” When I first saw this, I’d firmly believed he was lying here. I’d stared hard at my TV, trying to see his tells. This time, all I saw was resignation, exhaustion, a lingering bewilderment. “Jesus,” Alder said. “This is why you always wait for a lawyer. You think it’ll make you look guilty, but dude. You have to.” The kids’ talking drowned out the rest of the show: Omar’s conviction and appeal, Thalia’s family fighting to keep him in prison, Lester Holt straining hard at the end for Camelot parallels, something about “no happy-ever-afters.” 42 The slow, slow wheel of my brain finally turned. There was alcohol in Thalia’s stomach, but it wasn’t in her bloodstream yet. If I was right that she’d drunk from that flask backstage, she died very soon after Camelot ended. If she died soon after the show ended, she died while Omar was on the phone. Oh. I did the math again. Jesus. But who would remember, after all this time, if she sipped something backstage that particular night? Who could ever testify to that? 43 “Can we listen to music?” Jamila asked, so we did. It seemed we were waiting for midnight. These kids were young enough that the stroke of twelve still connoted mischief, parties, ghosts, rather than work deadlines and colicky babies and red-eye flights. I had not yet mentioned the flask, the timing. I wanted to think about it, clearheaded, in the morning. I wanted to triple-check my math. “We should turn the lamps off,” Alder said at 11:58. “We should sit totally silent and send out welcoming vibes. And we should record again!” Jamila said she’d fall asleep—she was already lounging on the floor—but Alder’s motion passed. Let’s say that instead of Britt and Alder giggling uncontrollably, shushing each other, instead of Lola shrieking when Alyssa tickled their neck, instead of the hush that finally settled over us, let’s say that Thalia showed up, that her face glowed in the window. Say she had a flask in her hand. I’d been thrown back, that week, to a mental state in which I could remember the sound of her voice. The way, for instance, she said “How random!” The way she’d get hiccups when she laughed. The way she’d sing choir music as she

Maame.txt

like this, I’ve never been handed a glass of wine specifically selected for the night, and the last person to cook for me was my mother. “So how old are you?” Ben asks. “I’m twenty-five.” “Oh, great,” he says. “Would you mind stirring this for just a second?” “Sure.” I put down my wine and lean over to take the wooden spoon for the risotto. “Thanks.” He then cradles his face with his hands. “Fuck.” I laugh but keep stirring. “Too young?” He takes the spoon back, and I can see his cheeks are pink. “Nine years’ difference is … You’re very young and potentially have more wild oats to sow.” I never considered this. Ben is my first proper date in my adult life; do I expect many more to follow him? How many men is too many men when you factor in my mother, God’s wrath, and my reluctance to contract an STI? “How old did you think I was when we met?” “I knew you were young,” he answers, “but I couldn’t help myself when I saw you, so I’d hoped to push at twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight.” I blink. “You couldn’t help yourself?” He considers me. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those women who are obviously beautiful but pretend not to be.” I drop my head. Obviously beautiful. No one has ever called me “obviously beautiful.” Does he mean it? How can I be so beautiful he had to stop and talk to me? I’ve been silent for so long that Ben uses his finger to lift my chin. I wish I could look him in the eye, maybe shrug, and say, “I’ve heard it a few times,” but that would be a lie. “Has no one said that to you before?” he asks quietly. “I find that hard to believe.” He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I finally look at him. I’m breathing heavily and my chest makes it visible. He smiles slowly and takes my face with both hands and the warmth of his skin makes me close my eyes. His lips are soft on mine and my skin tingles. He inhales as I lean deeper in. When we pull away, I tell him, “That was nice, Ben.” “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.” He squeezes my thigh. “Let’s have dinner.” * * * At the table, he tops up my wine and pours me a glass of water before putting our starters on top of what I already thought was my plate. (I later google it to find it’s what’s called a “charger” plate, intended to “add to the visual effect of your table.” Again, fancy.) The tabbouleh tastes like rice but lighter and fresher. “Ben, this is delicious!” He smiles. “You think so?” I pile on another forkful. “I really do.” Slow down, Maddie. Try not to go from smooth kiss to grains falling out of your mouth. “I haven’t had anything like it.” “Do you cook much?” “When I lived at home with my dad, I’d batch cook on

THE SCARLET LETTER.txt

platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.% It was an obscure night in early May. An unwearied pall of cloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark grey of the midnight. But the town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night air would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's Thesaurus catarrh: (n) cold, rheum, redness, defrauding: (n) defraudment, theft. otalgia, neuralgia, earache, inflammation, Qatar, ptyalism, pose, pall: (v) cloy, tire, jade, fatigue; (n) cephalalgia, odontalgia, sciatica. murr, salivation. curtain, coffin, shroud, cloak, somnambulism: (n) noctambulism, clog: (n, v) block, bar, glut; (v) choke, cerement, mantle; (adj, v) disgust. sleepwalking, noctambulation, obstruct, foul, hinder, encumber, redden: (adj, v) flush; (v) color, somnambulation, sleep walking, back up; (n) obstruction, patten. crimson, glow, go red, encrimson, sleeping. ANTONYMS: (v) free, clear, open, rubify, rubricate, rose; (adj) mantle, unwearied: (adj) indefatigable, unblock. color up. ANTONYMS: (v) blench, untiring, tireless, untired, dank: (adj) damp, wet, moist, humid, blanch. indomitable, unflagging, industrious, sticky, soggy, sultry, muggy, juicy, rheumatism: (n) arthritis, atrophic tolerant, persistent, persevering, rheumy, musty. ANTONYMS: (adj) arthritis, juvenile rheumatoid laborious. ANTONYM: (adj) arid, parched, bright. arthritis; (v) lumbago, podagra, impatient. 140 The Scarlet Letter prayer and sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but the mockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering laughter! He had been driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.% And thus,

David Copperfield.txt

of delivering himself, new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in every feature it presented. 'According to our reckoning,' he proceeded, 'Mas'r Davy's here, and mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course to London. We believe - Mas'r Davy, me, and all of us - that you are as innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child. You've spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew she was! I knew she always was, to all. You're thankful to her, and you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heaven reward you!' She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she were doubtful of what he had said. 'Will you trust me?' she asked, in a low voice of astonishment. 'Full and free!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have any shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, come to you, and bring you to her?' she asked hurriedly. We both replied together, 'Yes!' She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devote herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would never waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, while there was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might the object she now had in life, which bound her to something devoid of evil, in its passing away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despairing, if that were possible, than she had been upon the river's brink that night; and then might all help, human and Divine, renounce her evermore! She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at the gloomy water. We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I recounted at length. She listened with great attention, and with a face that often changed, but had the same purpose in all its varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet. She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated with, if occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore out and gave to her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she lived herself. She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better not to know. Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already occurred to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail upon her to accept any money, nor could I exact any promise from her that she would do so at another time. I represented to her that

The Foxglove King.txt

necessarily.” Harder than that, apparently. Bastian pulled her to the center of the floor, through courtiers that parted like a jewel-toned wave. He raised a hand and gestured to the band in the corner. Abruptly, the music changed, moving to something slow and measured. “But I’ve decided I’m over the katairos.” Bastian grinned, placing one hand on her waist. A beat, and he swept her into something Lore thought was a waltz. Hopefully, her guise as a country cousin would be ample cover for her lack of grace. “So the Kirythean music was just for Gabriel’s benefit, then?” Lore cocked her head, smile still in place, though there was a hint of venom behind the question. The Mort was stuffy and overimportant and built like he could take care of himself, but their odd circumstances made her feel almost protective of him. “It wasn’t for Gabe’s benefit at all.” Bastian spun her out, then pulled her back in, close to his black-clad chest. He was shorter than Gabriel, but only just, and Lore’s forehead would’ve knocked into his chin if he didn’t lean gracefully away, making it look like part of the dance. “The Kirythean music was because I like it.” “I’m sure that thrills your father.” His eyes sparked behind his mask, the slight smile on his mouth going sharp. “Nothing I do thrills my father. He’s decided I’m worthless, and I don’t particularly care enough to try and change his mind.” Another spin, under his arm this time, his hand staying on the small of her back to guide her through. “And just so we’re clear,” he murmured as she passed close again, “I wouldn’t taunt Gabe about his family. I know he thinks I’m awful, and he has his reasons, but even I’m not that heartless.” Lore hoped her laugh didn’t sound as false as it felt. “But you’d make sure he doesn’t have a mask, so that everyone here can see his face.” “I wanted the court to know he was here. To give him an opportunity to see what he’s missing, maybe decide to stay instead of slink back to the Presque Mort.” Bastian’s voice was pleasant, but the ridge of his jaw could carve stone. “My uncle has been half mad since his accident, even if everyone wants to pretend like it’s something holy, and he’s controlled Gabe’s life for fourteen years. I saw an opportunity to set him free, at least for a few weeks, and I took it. He should thank me.” Lore wondered what Bastian would think if he knew that Gabe was only in the court because of Anton. That his uncle’s control was still ironclad. “How exactly would making sure the court sees him here make him want to stay?” she asked. Bastian waved a hand at the party. “Stick a man in a den of iniquity after he’s been cloistered for over a decade, and it’s likely he’ll fall into sin. If it was public enough, Anton might not let him come back into the monkish fold. That was the

treasure island.txt

to grumble. John Trelawney The next morning he and I set out on foot for the Admi- Postscript—I did not tell you that Blandly, who, by the ral Benbow, and there I found my mother in good health and way, is to send a consort after us if we don’t turn up by the spirits. The captain, who had so long been a cause of so much end of August, had found an admirable fellow for sailing discomfort, was gone where the wicked cease from troubling. Contents master—a stiff man, which I regret, but in all other respects a The squire had had everything repaired, and the public rooms treasure. Long John Silver unearthed a very competent man and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture—above Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 60 61 all a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar. He had found stage, for when I was awakened at last it was by a punch in her a boy as an apprentice also so that she should not want the ribs, and I opened my eyes to find that we were standing help while I was gone. still before a large building in a city street and that the day It was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first had already broken a long time. time, my situation. I had thought up to that moment of the “Where are we?” I asked. adventures before me, not at all of the home that I was leav- “Bristol,” said Tom. “Get down.” ing; and now, at sight of this clumsy stranger, who was to stay Mr. Trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far here in my place beside my mother, I had my first attack of down the docks to superintend the work upon the schooner. tears. I am afraid I led that boy a dog’s life, for as he was new Thither we had now to walk, and our way, to my great de- to the work, I had a hundred opportunities of setting him light, lay along the quays and beside the great multitude of right and putting him down, and I was not slow to profit by ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one, sailors were them. singing at their work, in another there were men aloft, high The night passed, and the next day, after dinner, Redruth over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than and I were afoot again and on the road. I said good-bye to a spider’s. Though I had lived by the shore all my life, I Mother and the cove where I had lived since I was born, and seemed never to have been near the sea till then. The smell of the dear old Admiral Benbow—since he was repainted, no tar and salt was something new. I saw the most wonderful longer quite so dear. One of my last thoughts was of the figureheads, that had all been far over the ocean. I saw, be- captain, who had

Things Fall Apart.txt

mounted in the village as the seventh week approached since the impudent missionaries built their church in the Evil Forest. The villagers were so certain about the doom that awaited these men that one or two converts thought it wise to suspend their allegiance to the new faith. At last the day came by which all the missionaries should have died. But they were still alive, building a new red-earth and thatch house for their teacher, Mr. Kiaga. That week they won a handful more converts. And for the first time they had a woman. Her name was Nneka, the wife of Amadi, who was a prosperous farmer. She was very heavy with child. Nneka had had four previous pregnancies and child-births. But each time she had borne twins, and they had been immediately thrown away. Her husband and his family were already becoming highly critical of such a woman and were not unduly perturbed when they found she had fled to join the Christians. It was a good riddance. One morning Okonkwo's cousin, Amikwu, was passing by the church on his way from the neighbouring village, when he saw Nwoye among the Christians. He was greatly surprised, and when he got home he went straight to Okonkwo's hut and told him what he had seen. The women began to talk excitedly, but Okonkwo sat unmoved. It was late afternoon before Nwoye returned. He went into the obi and saluted his father, but he did not answer. Nwoye turned round to walk into the inner compound when his father, suddenly overcome with fury, sprang to his feet and gripped him by the neck. "Where have you been?" he stammered. Nwoye struggled to free himself from the choking grip. "Answer me," roared Okonkwo, "before I kill you!" He seized a heavy stick that lay on the dwarf wall and hit him two or three savage blows. "Answer me!" he roared again. Nwoye stood looking at him and did not say a word. The women were screaming outside, afraid to go in. "Leave that boy at once!" said a voice in the outer compound. It was Okonkwo's uncle, Uchendu. "Are you mad?" Okonkwo did not answer. But he left hold of Nwoye, who walked away and never returned. He went back to the church and told Mr. Kiaga that he had decided to go to Umuofia where the white missionary had set up a school to teach young Christians to read and write. Mr. Kiaga's joy was very great. "Blessed is he who forsakes his father and his mother for my sake," he intoned. "Those that hear my words are my father and my mother." Nwoye did not fully understand. But he was happy to leave his father. He would return later to his mother and his brothers and sisters and convert them to the new faith. As Okonkwo sat in his hut that night, gazing into a log fire, he thought over the matter. A sudden fury rose within him and he felt a strong desire to take up his machete, go to

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

fragile peace Arin and I had fostered disappeared. To my consternation, his gamble paid off. Now that he knew my magic reacted to threats against Sefa or Marek, he found creative ways to ensure I felt genuine fear for them every session. He had Vaun take them for a walk to Essam, and my magic hurled a spade into the board. Another session, he described exactly how a tribunal would condemn Sefa for assaulting the High Counselor, and the methods they might choose to put her to death. I managed to levitate one of the war chests. Only for a second, while magic burned my cuffs and fear for Sefa tightened my gut. Today, the war chest flew across the room, cracking against the image of Niyar. It flickered, revealing the white wall behind the animated painting, before re-forming. Instead of rejoicing in this development, Arin seemed to grow grimmer. “Are you eating?” I was thrown. “Yes?” Though the quality of food had improved from the milky wheat nonsense of the first week, the guards’ talent for cooking had not improved with it. I had used Wes’s bread as a weapon the other day. “Jasadi magic is a well that replenishes at unpredictable speeds. If you reach the bottom of your well too quickly, you might be left powerless until it refills. You are scraping stone.” “I’m moving the chests.” The rest was irrelevant. I had been weak and weary before. I could work through it. I thought of Marek’s body strung across the Citadel’s gates. The pulse at my wrists didn’t sting this time. The weapons Arin arranged on top of the chest hovered in the air for a millisecond, then flew into the wall on the far side of the center with deadly accuracy. The perimeters of my vision blurred. When I opened my eyes, the fake sky greeted me. Arin’s head moved over the sun. He glowered at me. “I’ll need a moment,” I said casually. “You need more than a moment.” He reached down, and the room spun again as I was hauled upright. My traitorous legs buckled. Arin caught me with an arm around my waist, his frown deepening. Plastered to his side and weightless, I opened my mouth to shriek obscenities directly into his ear, then reconsidered. Why bother? I didn’t have the energy for a respectable tantrum. His body was a solid line against my own. This was the closest I’d been to a man I wasn’t trying to stab. The closest I had been to anyone not actively trying to kill me, actually. How depressing. I waited for the swell of panic to hit at his touch. I had chalked up its absence the last time he touched me as a fluke. I was too distracted wondering if he would snap my neck to consider panicking. But he was touching me now and—nothing. No panic. Still plenty of discomfort, though. The moment we were near enough, I wriggled away, stumbling toward my bed. Arin did not prevaricate. “Wes and Jeru will accompany you to

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

throw it away. I slid my thumb under the flap. The envelope tore. I fumbled the letter out. It was a single lined page, folded into thirds, the handwriting sloppy. Ms. Shaw or Cunningham or whatever your name is now— I have thought a lot about what I would say to you if I got the chance, but now that I’m actually doing it I have trouble finding the words. You turned my whole reality upside down. I lost all my friends, my house, my life. My dad. The man I thought he was turned out not to be real at all. He wasn’t my loving father, he was a monster. But the thing is, you lied. My father didn’t attack you. You lied on the stand and sent the wrong man to jail. What I want to know is: Why? Were you protecting someone? Are they still out there? Have they hurt other little girls because you covered for them? I am trying to understand. I have been trying for years to put together the pieces of my childhood in a way that makes them make sense, to comprehend what happened to the father I loved. I can’t comprehend your part in it. If you’re ready to tell the truth, I’d like to hear it. —AJ I could barely read the words, my hands were trembling so much. AJ. Alan Stahl, Jr. I’d almost forgotten that Stahl had a son. He’d never been in court. The only image I could summon up was a snapshot, a gangly kid in a striped shirt with Stahl’s arm around him. I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it. He knows. A wave of nausea rolled over me. I threw the letter aside, wrenched open the door, and staggered out onto the road. A cold wind sliced past me. Alan Michael Stahl was an evil man. Liv and Cass had seen him. It was him. Or had they seen someone who looked enough like him that the police could push traumatized children into identifying the wrong person? The forest stood dark and deep before me. Persephone was in there, somewhere. Because she was why we’d been out there that day, because Stahl was one secret and she was the other, they’d tangled together in my mind. My monster and my goddess, their fingers always catching at my hair, trying to drag me back to that day. I’d always fought that pull. There was a flashlight in the trunk. I’d gotten it out before I quite knew what I was doing. I stood a moment, flashlight in one hand, bottle in the other, and waited for my better judgment to arrive. There was only the wind, and the distant calling of an owl. I crossed the road, hopped over the small ditch, and walked straight in among the trees. I wondered what my therapist would think of me thrashing through the underbrush. Probably not the version of “reintegrating my past selves” that she’d imagined. I should probably call her. That would probably be the smart thing to

The Foxglove King.txt

both use a nap, I think.” It wasn’t a lie. Between Bastian’s party and waking up at the first snap of dawn, she was tired, too. Gabe turned, brow arched. His one blue eye dipped to the book she held, then widened. “That’s the one you’re taking?” The gilt cover glinted up as she turned the book around to study it for the first time. More erotic poetry. The painting on the front depicted a randy satyr chasing a nymph wearing nothing but lots of long blond hair. Her smile grew wicked edges. “What’s the matter with it, Mort?” “Nothing at all.” He strode toward the door, stiff-legged. “Maybe you could read it, too. Learn something. Since you’ve been celibate your whole life—” “You’re so sure I’ve never broken my vows, then?” She tilted her head curiously. “Have you?” Gabe gave her a cool glance over his shoulder, chin lifted. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” The door opened as Gabe was reaching for it, letting in a rather harriedlooking Malcolm dressed head-to-toe in Presque Mort black. He straightened, clearly ready to bring down the force of a holy stare onto flighty nobles, then started when he recognized them, his flinty expression dissolving into a smile. “Good afternoon, Lore. And Your Grace.” “Spare me,” Gabe muttered, but he clapped the other man companionably on the back. “Didn’t expect to see you two here without your royal charge.” Malcolm held a pile of books in his hands; he passed them to enter the library and headed to one of the small staircases that led to the upper floors. “Anton made it sound like he wants Lore sewed to the Sun Prince’s ass.” “I’m actually on my way to find him now,” Lore said quickly. Gabe and Malcolm were obviously friends, and she liked the man from the little time she’d spent with him, but she assumed he was just as conditioned to report everything to Anton as Gabe was. “Gabe thought Bastian might be here, but it appears he’s spending his leisure hours elsewhere.” Like in the stables, trying to feed apples to a dead horse. Malcolm looked down from the second story, leaning over the gilded railing just long enough to see the cover of Lore’s book. His dark eyes widened as he snorted a laugh. “Taking get close to Bastian very seriously, I see.” “I always follow orders,” Lore replied. Gabe grimaced, but was too preoccupied with what Malcolm was doing to make a snide comment. “Is Anton moving more books out of the Church library?” “Not quite.” Malcolm set his book pile down on the floor, then hefted one of them into an empty space in the shelf. The thing was thick, and Malcolm’s muscles strained as he pushed it into place. Truly, it was a waste how goodlooking all the Presque Mort were. “He asked for these to be brought to him for study. Newer editions of the Compendium, some translated from other languages and then back into Auverrani.” Another over-thick book was pushed into its space. “No idea why,

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments deposited there. On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and weep over them. The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our children!' The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor family completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them completely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left. While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared: his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and,

The Silmarillion.txt

had most studied the devices of Sauron of old. Galadriel indeed had wished that Mithrandir should be the Lead of the Council, and Saruman begrudged them that, for his pride and desire of mastery was grown great; but Mithrandir refused the office, since he would have no ties and no allegiance, save to those who sent him, and he would abide in no place nor be subject to any summons. But Saruman now began to study the lore of the Rings of Power, their making and their history. Now the Shadow grew ever greater, and the hearts of Elrond and Mithrandir darkened. Therefore on a time Mithrandir at great peril went again to Dol Guldur and the pits of the Sorcerer, and he discovered the truth of his fears, and escaped. And returning to Elrond he said: 'True, alas, is our guess. This is not one of the lairi, as many have long supposed. It is Sauron himself who has taken shape again and now grows apace; and he is gathering again all the Rings to his hand; and he seeks ever for news of the One, and of the Heirs of Isildur, if they live still on earth.' And Elrond answered: 'In the hour that Isildur took the Ring and would not surrender it, this doom was wrought, that Sauron should return.' 'Yet the One was lost,' said Mithrandir, 'and while it still lies hid, we can master the Enemy, if we gather our strength and tarry not too long.' Then the White Council was summoned; and Mithrandir urged them to swift deeds, but Curunr spoke against him, and counselled them to wait yet and to watch. 'For I believe not,' said he, 'that the One will ever be found again in Middle-earth. Into Anduin it fell, and long ago, I deem, it was rolled to the Sea. There it shall lie until the end, when all this world is broken and the deeps are removed.' Therefore naught was done at that time, though Elrond's heart misgave him, and he said to Mithrandir: 'Nonetheless I forbode that the One will yet be found, and then war will arise again, and in that war this Age will be ended. Indeed in a second darkness it will end, unless some strange chance deliver us that my eyes cannot see.' 'Many are the strange chances of fee world,' said Mithrandir, 'and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.' Thus the Wise were troubled, but none as yet perceived that Curunr had turned to dark thoughts and was already a traitor in heart: for he desired that he and no other should find the Great Ring, so that he might wield it himself and order all the world to his will. Too long he had studied the ways of. Sauron in hope to defeat him, and now he envied him as a rival rather than hated his works. And he deemed that the Ring, which was Sauron's, would seek for its master as he became manifest once more;

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

he wets a cloth and begins gently dabbing at the worst of the cuts. “Why’d he do it?” Andy knows as soon as he’s spoken that it’s the wrong question. There’s no good answer, and it sounds like he’s asking the kid what he did to deserve a beating. Sal snatches the cloth from Andy’s hand and begins wiping his face himself. “Oh, the usual. I’m a f—” He breaks off. “The usual things. Don’t tell Uncle Nick.” Andy can fill in the blank perfectly well. “Nick can keep a secret.” Sal scowls. “I mean don’t tell him that anyone calls me that. I’m not—Jesus. People just say those things when they don’t like you. What are you, new?” Obviously, Andy knows all this. He’s heard that word and all the rest of them. But this is the first time since he could reasonably apply them to himself that he’s thought about them as generic insults. He tries not to look like he’s reeling. “Do your parents know where you are?” “I ran away, genius. No, they don’t know.” Andy is in over his head. “I’m going to call Nick.” He goes over to the phone and dials the Chronicle switchboard and a minute later learns that Nick isn’t in the office anymore. He isn’t surprised—Nick had planned to go to City Hall. “Right,” Andy said. “We need to call your parents.” Sal gets to his feet and heads for the door. “Hear me out,” Andy says. “I’m afraid that your father is going to send some of his cop buddies over here and get your uncle in trouble for, I don’t know, kidnapping you or something.” “And telling my dad exactly where I am will prevent that how?” He sounds ticked off, but his eyes are suspiciously shiny. Andy has the sense that one wrong word will send him either into tears or back out onto the street. Andy has no answer for Sal, though. All he knows is that under no circumstances should any cop enter this apartment. The sheets alone would get them arrested. Andy’s things are scattered all over Nick’s bedroom. Jesus. Okay. He has to think. “We’re going to go next door and say hi to my girlfriend and then all three of us are going out to get pizza.” He figures Linda ought to at least get a slice or two out of this. “Why don’t you wash your face and take a couple of aspirin while I see if she’s home.” He knocks on Linda’s door, sending up a silent prayer to any nearby deities that she’s home. She answers the door in her usual state: hair piled on top of her head, overalls paint-spattered. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he gushes. “Which is great because you’re my girlfriend now.” “Oh boy. This’ll be good.” Inside, he explains. “But what I need now,” he concludes, “is for you to have Sal over for ten minutes while I clear Nick’s apartment of, uh, incriminating evidence.” Linda blinks, apparently unfazed. “Send him over.” Sal grudgingly goes

Of Human Bondage.txt

culture. They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a pleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the heart. Hayward talked of _Richard Feverel_ and _Madame Bovary_, of Verlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward repeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they reached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic admiration. They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip learned presently something of Hayward's circumstances. He was the son of a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three hundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he went to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped nose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley's treatment of Harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were reproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In course of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under the influence of Newman's _Apologia_; the picturesqueness of the Roman Catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the feat of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read Macaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he only got a pass degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous; so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at King's. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had been often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram: "_They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead_." And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote

The-Housekeepers.txt

a dark red crest. Her heart started beating faster. Papa had always taught her the art of patience. Of suppressing one’s whims, curtailing one’s deepest desires. I would make a fine ascetic, she thought dryly. I would make a splendid nun. “William,” she said. “You must tell me. Was there something between you and Mrs. King?” The air tilted. His expression became guarded. People said that William was very beautiful. They praised her for it, as if she had something to do with it, as if she’d won him at an auction. Perhaps she had. But his eyes had no effect on her. “I only ask,” she said, “for the sake of the household. I am accountable for its reputation.” He stood there, trussed up in cream silk and his afternoon livery, groomed and manicured. He flushed. “Do you mind, Madam, if I keep my counsel on that matter?” “Yes,” she said lightly, “I do.” She stretched, reaching for the post tray. “You were spotted with Mrs. King in the garden the other day. Not a very sensible thing to do, given your recent indiscretions.” His voice was tight. “Spotted by whom, Madam?” She flipped the envelopes over, picked up the smallest one first, the most uninteresting. “That’s not a denial.” He said nothing. She glanced up. “By me, if you must know.” She took out the card: So pleased to accept, Yours &c, Captain and Mrs. C. Fox-Willoughby. “I’m forever looking out of the window and seeing things I oughtn’t.” His eyes became blank, indecipherable. Good, she thought. He’s rattled. “Will that be all, Madam?” “No, I don’t think so.” Next envelope. She smiled. “I have a proposition for you.” He said nothing. She approved of that, too. It was best to remain composed in the face of disagreeable things. “I may soon find myself,” she said, “in need of a new household. You take my meaning?” William’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “I did hear that Lord Ashley is coming tonight, Madam.” “Too clever of you. Yes, he is. And it has come to my attention that Lord Ashley does not keep a butler on Brook Street. Rather a deficiency, to my mind. One I’d take care to correct.” He didn’t say the obvious thing. He didn’t ask, What about Shepherd? He had clearly guessed the answer. Shepherd belonged to her father, and the world was ticking on. It needed new people. New energy. “I suppose I’d better think about it, Madam,” he said. She shook her head. “No, you’d better tell me this instant.” His face darkened. She saw it: his pride, wounded. It pleased her immensely. Men were like that: so easy to prick. “What’s the matter?” she said softly. “Have you made other plans?” Footsteps. The door opened. One of the under-footmen peered in. “Madam,” he said. “Lady Montagu has just arrived.” Miss de Vries felt a jolt. “So early?” “Yes’m.” “Very well.” She rose. “That’ll be all, William.” He gave her another long look, pressed his lips together, as if making up his mind about something.

The-One.txt

they waited. “Subtle car,” Jonah says as a tall man with slicked-back hair steps out of the Ferrari. The attorney smooths his suit before striding toward the house. Ethan folds a stick of gum into his mouth before climbing out of the car. The same housekeeper opens the door after Carr’s attorney rings the bell. This time, she holds the door open for Ethan and Jonah to follow. Ethan eyes the security camera above the front entry before going inside, thinking of Sloane’s visit after her award gala. The detectives move behind the attorney through the mansion’s main level, following in a trail of his strong cologne. While Jonah appears to take in the home’s opulent surroundings, Ethan’s thoughts are consumed with Sloane, envisioning her in this house—with Carr. An image of Sloane laughing in Carr’s arms before they stripped off each other’s clothes inundates his mind when Ethan enters a formal dining room with views of Lake Washington. Carr stands from the table and shakes hands with his attorney. Ethan stares at the app founder. He’s dressed in a button-down shirt with his brown wavy hair neatly combed back. Despite his wife dying yesterday, the billionaire’s eyes look fresh—more well-rested than Ethan’s. Jonah extends his hand. “I’m Detective Nolan from Seattle Homicide.” Carr accepts his handshake. “Brody Carr.” He swings his hand toward Ethan. Ethan clears his throat and encloses his grip around the billionaire app founder’s, wanting to throw a punch at his jaw. “And I’m Detective Marks.” Carr sits beside his attorney at the twelve-seat dining table. If he’s aware of Ethan being Sloane’s husband, his face shows no recognition of it. Ethan and Jonah sit opposite. Carr is bigger than he looked in his online photos. His muscular chest and arms protrude beneath his fitted shirt. Ethan pictures them wrapped around Sloane before forcing the image from his mind. “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Jonah starts. Ethan eyes Carr’s broad shoulders. It would have been easy for him to overpower his wife beneath the water, no matter how strong a swimmer she was. Carr nods. “Thank you.” Beyond the bay windows at the end of the table, Ethan spots a float plane beside a huge yacht on Brody’s dock. Was it Carr’s money Sloane was drawn too? But he knows that’s not it. Sloane is the most fiercely independent person he’s ever known and despises how her mother was always financially dependent on men. Ethan returns his attention to Carr across the table. Knowing Sloane wasn’t wooed by his wealth only makes him feel worse. It means there was something deeper between them. “We’re here because we’re opening an investigation into your wife’s death,” Jonah says. Carr glances at his attorney. “Why is that?” “How was your relationship with your wife? You were separated, correct?” Carr waits for his lawyer to give him a nod of approval. “Yes, we’ve been separated for two months. But we were working things out.” By sleeping with my wife. Ethan feels the urge to flip the table over and take Carr’s

Emma.txt

to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. "I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!-- I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes." Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, "You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!" It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken

Costanza-Casati-Clytemnestra.txt

Every man’s honor, every woman’s life belongs to him. Yes, I was powerful. Yes, I ruled with your father, but I wasn’t free. None of us are.” “What about my honor?” Clytemnestra snarls. “You can’t begin to contemplate the things I have endured because of the king’s wishes. There is no honor in being raped, no honor in being beaten. If you think there is, you are a fool.” Leda draws a deep breath. Cold air seeps into their bones, and Clytemnestra waits for her mother to ask for forgiveness, even though she knows it wouldn’t be enough. But Leda says, “I never told you how I came to marry your father.” I do not care, Clytemnestra wants to say. It is too late for your stories. But her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, like a stone. “You remember when I told you about Hippocoon and how he overthrew your father? Before Heracles helped him retake the throne, Tyndareus ran away with Icarius. They begged many kings for hospitality until they were welcomed by your grandfather Thestius, my father. Thestius fed and treated Tyndareus as if he were his own, but he asked for something in return.” “A marriage,” Clytemnestra says. “Yes, a marriage. I was young, disobedient, and my father’s favorite. I thought myself hard to love, but Thestius liked that I was rebellious. When he came to me to propose the marriage, I said yes. I thought it my chance to make him proud and happy. “Our winter festival came, when the girls had to dance for the goddess Rhea. It was my favorite moment of the year—we wore dresses and masks of feathers and ran in the forest where the spirits hide. We sang to the stars, asking for warmth in the winter and rains in the summer. Your father watched me. His skin was dark and warm, and I thought that was a taste of the sunny land he came from. I let him touch the feathers of my dress, and he said I was the most beautiful bird he had ever seen. The forest heard him, because soon nightingales were singing. I followed the sound, leading Tyndareus away from the torches into the thick part of the forest where long branches make everything a secret. The morning after, he asked me to marry him.” Leda doesn’t look at her as she talks. Her eyes are fixed outside the window, on the woods in the distance, the trees swaying with the wind. Clytemnestra looks at her hands. “Your marriage was the result of a political alliance, but that doesn’t mean you know how I felt.” “That is true.” Her hand grabs Clytemnestra’s wrist and she feels the strength her mother once had, the boldness. “If I could go back, I would change everything. I would stand beside you and defy your father.” Her eyes brim with sadness. “But if you are truly like me and you find it hard to forgive, I hope you will come to understand that it has been hard for me too.” The

Titanium-Noir.txt

and I let him have it. “Mr. Nugent, I may or may not know where that item you are looking for is, but I will tell you up-front that I do know why you want it. I know what it means.” Silence. “Your friend Mr. Zoegar, he was of the opinion that you and I could not trust one another. I took that to mean you would never trust me, but now it seems you sought to have me do something with consequences far beyond what you led me to believe. That is not the act of a friend, sir. Now, this situation we are all in is complex and delicate, and right now I feel a broad disaffection with almost all parties to the negotiation. We can proceed on that basis into the next stage, or you and I can step together a little more. I’m right here offering you the opportunity to restore the goodwill between us. What do you say?” “Mr. Zoegar would use the word ‘consilience’ to describe what you propose, Mr. Sounder. A jumping together of destinies.” “Well, for the next half hour, I won’t make any firm decisions about which way my destiny is going to jump. After that, I’ll figure I’m on my own, and things could get untidy.” There’s a pause during which I assume Lyman Nugent considers the state of my affairs before they become untidy: a scientist murdered under an alias, a cage match, a gunshot wound, a dead lounge singer, a dead police officer, an exploded police station, stolen internal organs containing encrypted nuclear grade kompromat, and now my would-be murderer, my ex-girlfriend’s cousin and by definition one of the most powerful men in the world, mutilated, bleeding and pissed off on my office carpet. Figure Nugent likes all that even less than I do. “I shall be delighted to accept your kind invitation, Mr. Sounder. See you in twenty minutes or so.” “See you then.” He hangs up, and I turn and look down at Maurice Tonfamecasca. “Fuck you, Sounder.” “Maurice, you came to my house. Now you’ve got nineteen minutes to persuade me we can forge an eternal friendship. After that it’s out of my hands.” Maurice smack-talks me for eighteen straight minutes and ten seconds. When Zoegar and a few friends arrive with a stretcher and carry him down the stairs, he smack talks them, too. When he sees Lyman Nugent in the backseat of the car, for a moment I think he’s not going to react at all, and then he looks at me, at Nugent, at me again, then he stares at Nugent and he starts to make a weird noise, like a bull choking. I figure that is the sound of a man who is used to counting his lifespan in centuries remembering what it feels like to be ephemeral. There’s no room for Maurice in the car, and in any case the lowing noise he’s making doesn’t sit well with Doublewide, so they put Maurice in a trailerbox, and Zoegar offers me the front

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

Mason shouts. “Brad’s having sex!” Great: my brother has arrived, right on schedule, to ruin my life. I jerk away from Celine, stomp over to the slightly ajar door (that absolute pervert freak), and shove it wide open. Mason’s already running downstairs. I turn around. Celine’s eyes are wide and unfocused, her chest is heaving, and for a second, I forget to be pissed because I’m very pleased with myself. “Hey,” I murmur. She blinks hard, presses her lips together, and stands up. “Crap. We should…go downstairs.” “Probably.” I’m going to creep into Mason’s room tonight and smother him while he sleeps. As we head out onto the landing, our elbows touch. Something zips up my stomach. Cel slides me a scandalized sideways look and rubs her arm like I just bit her. My own arm tingles. “I really like you.” “Shhh.” She widens her eyes meaningfully at me and leads the way downstairs. “I don’t want your dad to hear!” Aw. She’s so easily embarrassed but trust me; Dad’s going to love this. Celine is one of his favorite people. Still, I keep my mouth shut because she’s spooked, and I know feelings aren’t her thing. We just had a moment and now she needs space. (God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.) We reach the kitchen in adult silence and find Dad chopping spring onions at the island while staring at us with raised eyebrows (which is very poor kitchen safety; eyes on the knife, Dad). “Hi,” I say. His eyebrows somehow get higher. “Obviously,” I announce, “Mason is a liar.” Mason, who is eating a rice cake over the sink, says, “Mo am mot.” Crumbs spray across the front of his red Notts Forest shirt. I eye him in disgust. “How are we related?” He flips black curls out of his narrowed eyes. “You’re afopded.” Dad sighs heavily. “Mason, don’t talk with your mouth full, stop tormenting your brother, and go upstairs.” Mason snorts and heads for the door. “By the way,” Dad calls after him, “you’re not going to no party tonight.” Mason whirls around. “What?” “Remember our discussion,” Dad reminds him, “about what good men do and do not say about ladies?” Aha! Yes! I remember this! He is so screwed. “I wasn’t talking about Celine!” Mason wails. “I was talking about Brad!” “But you were talking about Celine,” I say solemnly. “You were violating her bodily autonomy with misogynistic lies for your own ends, Mason. You were treating her as collateral damage in a war between brothers. Mum is going to be so disappointed in you when she gets home.” Mason sputters. Celine looks very much like she is biting her tongue bloody, trying not to laugh. Dad seems amused, but he rolls his eyes and says, “That’s enough, thank you, Bradley. Mason, go upstairs.” Mason huffs and stomps away. “Now,” Dad says seriously, doing that I Am Being Parental thing he does with his face. “You two. What’s going on?” He’s asking a direct question and meeting my eyes. I try

Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

know how,” Lilja said, and I went red and began to sputter, to hear it all spelled out so bluntly. “Oh! Don’t be silly,” Aslaug said simply, and gave me a hug. “We are as good as family now.” Then she went back to bustling about as if nothing had changed. As if it was nothing, what she’d said. Lilja smiled and squeezed my arm. “Some cake?” I nodded dumbly. Lilja pushed me into a chair and passed me a plate of cake, and I ate it. It was very good. The bottle of wine was polished off by Mord, who had spent most of the evening quietly beaming at everyone, particularly when they asked after his son, and telling the same story over and over, about how Ari had taken to putting unexpected objects into his mouth, including the tail of their longsuffering cat. No one seemed to mind. By the time all the hvitkag was gone, I was quite weary, and the clamour of so much company was not helping matters. To my relief, Wendell chose that moment to begin herding everyone out of the cottage, and one by one they went, donning cloaks and boots and wading out cheerfully into the blowy weather, curls of snowflakes spinning through the cottage in their wakes. Wendell glared at the snow and pressed the door closed with a grimace. “One more,” he said grimly, and I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Though I was not as relieved to be leaving Ljosland as he was—what I felt was a complicated tangle of things, topmost of which was melancholy. I would miss Lilja and Margret and the others. When had that ever happened before? I was beginning to wonder if the faerie king had changed me somehow. “Wendell,” I said as he neurotically adjusted the doormat, “I believe I know why the king’s spell—why it took when it did.” He raised his eyebrows. It was interesting—he was not exactly unattractive in this form, when you actually stopped to parse his appearance. It was mostly that he was muted, yet this did nothing to affect his natural grace, or indeed his ego. “Well.” I fumbled the words as I thought back to that night. “I was going to— After you asked me about—well—” “After I asked you to marry me,” he said in a tone I thought louder than necessary. “Yes,” I said, trying my hardest to keep my voice ordinary, as if we were talking about our research. I felt ridiculous. Any sane person would have already turned down his proposal. If there is one thing about which the stories, regardless of origin, agree, it is that marrying the Folk is a very bad idea. Romance generally is a bad idea where they are concerned; it hardly ever ends well. And what about my scientific objectivity? It is looking very tattered of late. “I—that night—I was thinking about it. And I suppose that’s my answer. That I would like to—well, continue thinking about it.” He gazed at me with an unreadable expression.

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a gird that Zaphod had picked up recently whilst visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito. She was slim, darkish, humanoid, with long waves of black hair, a full mouth, an odd little nob of a nose and ridiculously brown eyes. With her red head scarf knotted in that particular way and her long flowing silky brown dress she looked vaguely Arabic. Not that anyone there had ever heard of an Arab of course. The Arabs had very recently ceased to exist, and even when they had existed they were five hundred thousand light years from Damogran. Trillian wasn't anybody in particular, or so Zaphod claimed. She just went around with him rather a lot and told him what she thought of him. "Hi honey," he said to her. She flashed him a quick tight smile and looked away. Then she looked back for a moment and smiled more warmly - but by this time he was looking at something else. "Hi," he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes. He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote. The next thing he said though was not a lot of use to them. One of the officials of the party had irritably decided that the President was clearly not in a mood to read the deliciously turned speech that had been written for him, and had flipped the switch on the remote control device in his pocket. Away in front of them a huge white dome that bulged against the sky cracked down in the middle, split, and slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they had built it that way. Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named - The Heart of Gold. "Wow", said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn't much else he could say. He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press. "Wow." The crowd turned their faces back towards him expectantly. He winked at Trillian who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible showoff. "That is really amazing," he said. "That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I'd like to steal it." A marvellous Presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the

The-Last-Sinner.txt

mean.” She was nodding, a smile playing upon her lips. “I have a cute story about her. . . .” Kristi managed a nod and a smile though she couldn’t give two cents about any of the felines this woman found so fascinating. Fortunately, before Dana could launch into more oh-so-fascinating anecdotes about her cats, the producer’s assistant returned. Flushed faced, she apologized. “I know this is highly irregular,” she said, then cast a disparaging glance through the door to the maze of hallways beyond. “But Mrs. Cooke, though she agreed to do the segment, is refusing to wait here in the green room, so we’ve shuffled things around and Dr. and Mrs. Cooke will be interviewed in the first segment.” She glanced from a clipboard to Kristi. “You’re next—as planned—and then, if Mr. Bigelow doesn’t arrive, there will be a segment that’s been prerecorded about the renovations to the riverboats and the final segment will be you.” She nodded at Dana Metcalf. “For the cat expo this weekend. We’ll wrap up with that.” She glanced up. “Renee-Claire and my producer have already approved the changes and we’re set to roll. Okay with you all?” “Yes, of course,” Cat Woman said. “But if you need anyone to fill in more time, I’ve got three lovely cats—one of them a prizewinner in the SFC—Southland Feline Competition—available. They’re all in the car with my husband. He could bring them in. I thought the viewers would like—” “This one’s fine,” the assistant said, pointing with her pen at Mr. Precious. “One cat.” “I know, but—” “Just one. Her.” Dana said quickly, “Mr. Precious is a he.” “Fine. Him then. I’ll be back to take you to the set at the breaks.” Jen glanced at the clock on the wall. “God, where is Tom Bigelow?” She was texting furiously on her phone again as she exited, the door shutting behind her. “Well.” Dana let out a little huff and pursed her lips. “Okay, I guess,” then to Kristi, “Mr. Precious can’t handle all this stress. He’s a real professional, though I have to be careful with him, you know.” Kristi didn’t. Nor did she care. The cat hadn’t moved an inch on his pillow and seemed content to stare at Kristi with wide green eyes. “He’s a champion breeder—oh, my God—so good. The queens? The female cats? They adore him. He’s very popular.” She was nodding and ran a finger along the fringe of the satin pillow. “And this? We call it his throne.” She actually tittered. “It’s chilled.” Nodding, she added, “Uh-huh. To protect his, you know, privates, to keep him in good shape. For the ladies.” Okay. TMI. Why were they even having this conversation? Kristi wondered if the woman was putting her on or just a bona fide kook. Either way, she wasn’t interested in Mr. Precious’s love life and quickly turned her attention to her phone to end the conversation. Like right now! Get me out of here, she thought just as the assistant brought in Tom Bigelow, the missing jazz musician

David Copperfield.txt

beset by a desire to refer to her brother Francis, struck in again: 'If Dora's mama,' she said, 'when she married our brother Francis, had at once said that there was not room for the family at the dinner-table, it would have been better for the happiness of all parties.' 'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia. 'Perhaps we needn't mind that now.' 'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, 'it belongs to the subject. With your branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent to speak, I should not think of interfering. On this branch of the subject I have a voice and an opinion. It would have been better for the happiness of all parties, if Dora's mama, when she married our brother Francis, had mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should then have known what we had to expect. We should have said "Pray do not invite us, at any time"; and all possibility of misunderstanding would have been avoided.' When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia resumed: again referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both had little bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds' eyes. They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp, brisk, sudden manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like canaries. Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed: 'You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr. Copperfield, to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece.' 'If our brother Francis,' said Miss Clarissa, breaking out again, if I may call anything so calm a breaking out, 'wished to surround himself with an atmosphere of Doctors' Commons, and of Doctors' Commons only, what right or desire had we to object? None, I am sure. We have ever been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves on anyone. But why not say so? Let our brother Francis and his wife have their society. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our society. We can find it for ourselves, I hope.' As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me, both Traddles and I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think I observed, myself, that it was highly creditable to all concerned. I don't in the least know what I meant. 'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved her mind, 'you can go on, my dear.' Miss Lavinia proceeded: 'Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very careful indeed in considering this letter; and we have not considered it without finally showing it to our niece, and discussing it with our niece. We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.' 'Think, ma'am,' I rapturously began, 'oh! -' But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon. 'Affection,' said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every clause, 'mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express itself. Its

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

her adorable belly follow me into the kitchen, where I’ve just pulled open my nightmare of a junk drawer to find a safety pin for the broken zipper pull. I spot the shiny foil corner of a sealed condom and pull it out from beneath an avalanche of paper clips and broken pencils. This moment feels like a perfect metaphor. “You keep condoms in your junk drawer?” “Ask that again,” I say, “and realize how funny it sounds.” She snorts behind me, and I feel a wave of protectiveness. Alice’s life has never been out of whack for even one second. When she was fifteen, she made a milestone list, complete with goals, ages, sometimes even locations: … Begin Stanford at eighteen, graduate at twenty-two, medical school at Johns Hopkins, residency in San Diego, marriage at thirty, first baby born at thirty-five… So far she hasn’t missed a single one except for maid of honor at Fizzy’s wedding at twenty-eight. (She dutifully crossed that one out with a thick black marker a few years ago and we celebrated my book hitting the New York Times list instead.) But pregnancy hasn’t been her favorite experience, and I wonder if she’s feeling even a tiny bit of what I do right now, like she’s facing a future with unknown complexity, wicked blind curves, scary blank spaces. “Have you ever felt like you’ve lost track of yourself?” She points to her big, pregnant belly. “This kid isn’t even here yet and I don’t remember who I was six months ago. Did I really used to run every morning? For fun?” “I’ve been so aimless lately,” I admit, and I’m sure it’s weird for her to hear. “I feel like this show might be a way to get back to myself. Even if it’s a colossal failure, at least it’s something different.” “I get that,” she says wistfully. “I’ve been having skydiving dreams lately.” “You?” She nods. “Sometimes I’m skydiving into an ocean of Oreos. Last night it was beer.” This makes me laugh, and I turn to wrap my arms around her middle. “Tell me I’m not making a huge mistake doing this.” “You’re not. In fact, I wrote it on my list, don’t you know? ‘Fizzy does a crazy romance reality show when she’s thirty-seven and has the time of her life.’ ” eleven FIZZY An unexpected upside to bringing a Hot DILF to my first signing in months is that readers are much less concerned with when my next book will be published and much more interested in who the giant man lingering in the background is. There were a few murmurs and glances during the Q and A portion of the event, but by the time the signing starts, every person in line is trying to figure out who the six-foot-five piece of ass over there talking to my dad is. I know this because they’re all breaking their necks trying to keep track of him as the line weaves around bookshelves. Several have come right out and asked me. My answers

Jane Eyre.txt

of free action I should, under similar circumstances, have accorded them. I left Moor House at three o'clock P. M., and soon after four I stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amid the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home. It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields, and low pastoral hills (how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern north-midland moors of Morton!), met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne. "How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the hostler. "Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields." "My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a box I had into the hostler's charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going; the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters," The Rochester Arms." My heart leaped up; I was already on my master's very lands. It fell again; the thought struck it: "Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know; and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, toward which you hasten, who besides him is there? His lunatic wife; and you have nothing to do with him; you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your labor you had better go no further," urged the monitor. "Ask information of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek; they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home." The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star. There was the stile before me the very fields through which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted, with a

After Death.txt

You the man, Aleem. I respect you, but shit. This here’s another weird idea, bro, like your explodin’ salt.” They proceed a few steps into the upstairs hall, something crunching underfoot, before Aleem stops and slowly brooms the light from baseboard to baseboard. All is dry here. The stain is worn off the tongue-in-grove hardwood, and the planks are cupped. Hundreds of dead beetles lay in regiments like a vast defeated army under a thin shroud of gray dust. No one could pass this way without leaving a trail of disturbed dust and scattered bugs. Leading the way down the stairs to the swamp, Aleem says, “I know you heard of the Bible.” “Heard about the ’cyclopedia, too. So what?” “An apple off the tree of knowledge, it’s a Bible story.” “Since when you read the Bible?” “Never done. But when I was little, Grandma Verna she told me some Bible stories.” “Your same Grandma Verna she runs upper-class whores on the Westside?” “Who has two Grandma Vernas?” Aleem says as he steps into the dismal waters on the ground floor. “That mean old woman, got them implant teeth could crack a walnut, wears more diamonds than Tiffany ever sold, why she poundin’ a Bible?” “She don’t pound it. She just finds it entertainin’. Like Goliath the giant.” “The seven-foot wrestler, tattoo of a snake comin’ out his belly button.” “I’m talkin’ the first Goliath. Check it out, man. He was ten feet tall.” As they slosh through the party debris where once commerce was conducted and busy workers supported families by supplying something real and nourishing, Kuba says, “This Goliath, he live in a castle between the tree of knowledge and the tree of salt?” Speedo Hickam is waiting for them just outside the front door. In his long black raincoat and hood, he reminds Aleem of a nun, too soft to endure hard weather like a man. “We found somethin’.” “What somethin’?” “You gotta see. Over at Whole Fruit.” As the three head toward the largest building in the complex, Kuba says, “Another thing, with all respect, nobody ever been ten feet tall.” Aleem says, “Speedo, you know about Goliath?” “He a wrestler, bites the heads off baby chicks?” “That’s him,” Kuba confirms. “Ain’t real chicks,” Speedo says. “They’s marshmallow chicks like them at Easter.” “Real as real can be,” Kuba insists. “You want to think so, that’s cool with me,” Speedo says. “Grandma Verna she say the way it happened, this shrimp David figures he can jack up Goliath, bring him down. Goliath he picks up little Davey, loads him in a fuckin’ big slingshot, and splatters him all over the side of the temple.” “What temple?” Speedo asks. “Don’t matter what temple. Important thing is David been taught a moral lesson.” At Whole Fruit, Jason, Hakeem, and Carlisle are waiting just outside the big opening that once was filled by a roll-up door. When Jason directs his light at what they found beyond the threshold, Kuba declares, “No tooth fairy left it. Bitch is here somewhere.” Aleem can

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

and how they saw anyone beneath them as worthless. “They don’t bother with the working class like us,” he had said more than once, though Lucy had never considered herself on the same level as him. He was a merchant like his brother and quite wealthy, but he had no land to grant him the status of gentleman and therefore disliked anyone who held that title or beyond. Lord Calloway didn’t seem to fit that prejudicial mold, though Lucy wondered if he would treat her the same way as Mr. Granger claimed if he knew she was merely a governess. Even without all her lies, was he a good enough man that he would help someone so far beneath him when she needed him most? That question terrified her, and she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to put it to the test. Not yet. For now, she wanted to play along with his teasing. Her father had always teased her, and she knew it was love that had fueled his jests. It had made their home a happy one, even if it was small, and she had been missing that in her life. “Well, Lord Nothing-at-All,” Lucy said, and she grinned when Lord Calloway scowled at the ridiculous moniker. “I would imagine Olivia is quite fast, though she has the benefit of a quick horse, so she says. Without knowing firsthand how either of you rides, it is simply impossible to make a comparison.” “Then, I suppose I will have to take you riding to allow you adequate information to pass judgment.” Lucy knew that would be a terrible idea; spending time alone with any of the family would inevitably lead to her spilling her secret too soon if put under pressure. With the whole family around, she could hide behind their conversations and hope to only skim the surface of their chats. She couldn’t fathom why he would want to ride with her in the first place, and she knew it would be best to avoid as much interaction as she could. She needed him to like her, and she doubted he would appreciate her true, lying self. But though she told herself to skirt around the invitation—for it surely was an invitation, if his smile were to be believed—the words that came from her mouth were, “I suppose you are right.” “Of course I am,” he replied. “I am always right.” Goodness, that smile of his brightened the whole room. And despite his outward display of confidence, Lucy was positive it was a charade. Simon Calloway didn’t seem arrogant in the least, and she very much liked that about him. “Well,” Lord Calloway said, pushing himself slowly to his feet, “shall we?” Lucy frowned. “Shall we what?” They couldn’t very well go riding now when that was what Olivia was planning to do. Lifting a dark eyebrow, Lord Calloway looked at her like she should know. “See to William,” he said. “But we were there this morning.” “Olivia doesn’t know that. Unless you want her to know about your

Frankenstein.txt

life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation. Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. "Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." "I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief,

I-Have-Some-Questions-for-You.txt

up, we’d send them both to Granby and they could be Homecoming dates. I would never in a million years send my kids to Granby. Among other things, while fourteen had seemed a reasonable age for me to leave home, it seemed unfathomably young for Leo, who was only three years from fourteen and still slept with his bed full of LEGOs. She started saying something about Ava’s dance teacher, and then she was waving over my shoulder and the film skipped and Mike Stiles loomed above us, grinning down. He’d apparently been here and gone outside and come back. This was his half-drunk beer in front of me. I was too shocked to be self-conscious. We hugged like old friends, because we were. You don’t have to have been friends with someone to be old friends with them later. “He’s not even testifying!” Sakina announced, which I already knew. Mike didn’t remember seeing Thalia drink backstage. If we were lucky enough to get a retrial, he’d be a great witness, though. He had come around fully, and publicly, to the idea of Omar’s investigation and original trial being botched; he’d written about the case on his academic blog. Mike sat on the other side of me. I pulled my stool back from the bar, putting us into a triangle. He had the wild eyebrows of an aging man, long gray strands emerging from the dark ones in a way that oddly suited him. His brow ridge, the one Fran used to call Neanderthal, was now marked by a deep skin crease. But he looked somehow cheesy overall, too handsome to take seriously. At some point in my twenties, I’d outgrown my attraction to symmetry. I decided that Mike was more attractive for being older, but less attractive for being, still, someone out of a tooth-whitening ad. He said, “My nephew’s a freshman now. Lola’s little brother. So I’m partly up visiting him, but also Serenho’s getting in tomorrow, and he’ll need distracting.” Sakina said, “He’s testifying? For the defense?” I wanted to shush her. I glanced back toward the dining room. “I guess he’s on the list.” Mike looked somber, as if he were speaking at his friend’s funeral. “They’re gonna get him up there and make him look like a suspect. What it is, he did that interview where he said Thalia wasn’t on drugs, and they mostly want him to repeat that, because the drug thing was part of the state’s whole theory. But you know what’ll happen once he’s on the stand.” The interview hadn’t happened on Britt and Alder’s podcast but an episode of a much sleeker, more long-standing one, one that was able to pay him substantially for his appearance. He talked for only five minutes, and mostly said bland, predictable things, but he stated emphatically that Thalia had never done drugs, not even pot. “I don’t know where that idea came from,” he said, and my stomach went on a short roller-coaster ride. If he’d paid attention to our podcast, he’d have heard me blaming

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt

was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct. "When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding." "I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived." "Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a line to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves

Robyn-Harding-The-Drowning-Woman.txt

Then I delete the recording and the app. I have already ensured my files don’t sync to the cloud. The police don’t need to know that I ever thought about killing myself. No one does. Because now I want to live! If Benjamin goes to jail, I will be a free woman. I can be happy! I can have my life back! Putting the vodka-filled bottle of cleaner back under the sink, I shove the sleeping pills into the drawer and turn off the taps. I look at myself in the mirror, wan and shaky, but safe. For the moment at least. I must remain calm. I must protect my secrets. With my phone in hand, I exit the bathroom. Officer Deane is leaning casually against the opposite wall when I emerge, but he rights himself quickly. “Here it is,” I say, handing the phone to him. I notice the plastic gloves he is wearing, the plastic bag he drops it into. It’s all so official, and I feel vulnerable again. “You can get dressed,” he says, “and we’ll take you down to the station.” “Why do I need to go to the station?” “Your perspective is important. It’s standard procedure.” “But I have nothing to say. I had no idea my husband was planning to kill me!” The words sound like a foreign language in my ears. “It’s our job to build a case for the prosecutor. If we don’t do it thoroughly, your husband could get off.” Fear sends a tremor through me, rattles my bones. If Benjamin gets released after this, he will be lethal. The officer sees my angst and presses on. “As the intended victim, you might know something useful.” The intended victim. But I have so much to hide. “Of course,” I say. “But can’t we just talk here? I’m really not feeling well.” “Detective French would like you to come to the station.” I could crack under a harsh interrogation, spill all my secrets, my own deadly plans. But if I refuse to go, it will look bad. I will look guilty. And so, I give him an obliging nod. “Give me a few minutes.” 51 THE POLICE STATION IS LOUD, frenetic, rank with testosterone. I keep my eyes forward, alert only for Benjamin. He is somewhere in this building, and I am still terrified, even here. Detective French leads me to an interrogation room that is much smaller—and beiger—than the ones I’ve seen on TV. After ushering me to a wooden chair, she offers me water, soda, or a sandwich. She is being kind to me; she has clearly been trained on how to handle victims of a crime. But she is not my friend. I must not forget that. She slides a couple of sheets of paper across the table toward me. “Here’s some information on crime victim programs that you can access. And a list of victims’ rights attorneys.” “Thanks.” “If you need a break at any time, just let me know.” The police are under increased scrutiny of late, their actions

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt

no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't -- bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, be- cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says: "Mighty few -- an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign

A Day of Fallen Night.txt

softly. ‘I cling to faith as flame clings to a wick already curled and black.’ ‘The Mother will see us through this, Esbar.’ ‘The Priory, perhaps. What of you and I?’ Tunuva had never thought she would feel truly cold again, until Esbar uqNāra asked her that question. ‘That decision must be yours.’ Her throat constricted as she spoke. ‘Nothing has changed for me.’ Esbar sank deeper into the chair. ‘All these years I have watched you grieve,’ she said, ‘and when you had hope, I failed to fan it. I was only afraid it was false hope, Tuva.’ ‘You thought you were doing the right thing. Desperation made me foolish.’ ‘We can all be foolish when it comes to love.’ Esbar breathed out. ‘Armul – Wulfert – is welcome here. I must confess, I am curious to see him. And glad to have a little more of you.’ All at once, her eyes were brimming. Esbar had not wept in so long. Tunuva reached across the table and took her by the hand, interlocking their fingers. ‘Is it enough?’ Esbar asked her in a strained voice. ‘Is our life enough for you now, Tuva?’ ‘It was always enough. I just wanted the truth.’ Esbar tightened her grasp. ‘I would not live another day without you by my side,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Be with me. Forgive me, and I will give you the same grace. Let us do what we were born to do.’ Tunuva leaned across to her, setting their brows together. There they sat, for a long time: breathing, staying. 82 East The sun rose cold and grim above Mount Ipyeda. Each day, more smoke was darkening the sky. ‘So you have all but declared war on the Kuposa,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘Well, granddaughter, I suppose that was one way to handle them. I expect the River Lord – the regent – will retaliate.’ She sat with Dumai and Unora in her quarters, just as they had all sat on the night Dumai learned who she was. Two years later, they were almost back to where they had begun. ‘He has what he wants. A meek child on the throne, and the regency. There is no reason for him to attack me,’ Dumai said. ‘The River Lord may be concerned with his own power, but even he must see now that the wyrms and the sickness are more important. I have seen the destruction they have already wreaked in the rest of the East. Even in the North.’ ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he will now see you as the only real threat to his dominion. After all, a Noziken has never defied him so openly, nor established a rival court.’ The Grand Empress gazed towards the window. ‘Unora, what do you say to all this?’ ‘I am no child of the rainbow, Manai.’ ‘You bore one, and she will need you. Dumai has no knowledge of the provinces. You do,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘You know how to survive in times of scarcity. That will be useful.’ Dumai

Quietly-Hostile.txt

wandering, Julia says, “It’s like a cleanser and moisturizer all in one!” I love multitasking. *Adds to cart* WHAT IT COST ME: Three Easy Payments of $13 Truly, the best part of any of these shows are the hosts, those who have to have so many factoids and adjectives crammed into their brains that it boggles my regular-person mind. Look around you, grab the nearest object, and try to describe it in a way that might make someone else want to buy it. I’ll go first. “Here we have a small Vornado fan—a personal fan that is compact and can sit on your desk or in a small area of your home and keep you cool. It has two speeds, which are controlled by a little gear under the fan. It’s black. It has five blades (is that what you call them?), and the cord is long but not so long that it would be annoying. I once dropped a Diet Coke on it and it didn’t break! Ummm…it’s kind of loud, but not disruptive, unless you’re sensitive to noise. It creates a lot of wind, like don’t try to read a book in front of it or you will scream. I can’t remember how much I paid for it, but it was pretty cheap? I think I got it at Big Lots. Anyway, it’s a quality fan. I don’t know that it would circulate air around a large room, but you could certainly try. Uhh, what else, what else? It’s good; it does a fan’s job. You should get one! If you want to buy mine, I’ll throw in the layer of dust for free.” That’s absolutely terrible! Now multiply that by twelve commercial-free minutes and add hand gestures and product numbers and organizing your brain to remember that “cornflower” and “cerulean” are two different shades of blue. Do you know how much skill it takes to feign enthusiasm for something called a “foldable pet pool” for twenty minutes? I watched Carolyn do it, and she was magnificent. Did I ever think I’d be in the market for an “indoor restroom for pets?” I mean, I’m still not, but there’s one in one of my many open tabs right now just waiting for me to get stoned and click SPEED BUY at 2:00 a.m. “Why?” you ask. Well, because a gorgeous MILF with medium-length square French-tip acrylics and a wedding-engagement ring combo the size of a megalith just told me not only does my dog need one but also there are only two hundred remaining for purchase and the clearance price is only good until the end of the day. Yes, two hundred sounds like a lot of useless doggy pools nobody actually needs, but when you think about how many stoners with credit cards are awake in the middle of the night ready to buy impractical shit for their pets…? This might become an emergency. Anyway, I would let any of these expertly coiffed, multitalented hosts with gleaming, fluorescent white teeth give me career advice, tell me what to eat

The-Lost-Bookshop.txt

soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear. ‘I’m sorry.’ I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’, but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it. When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse. The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Brontë sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Brontë family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Brontë novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further. It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go. I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As I glanced out into the

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

determined to remember it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?" He pointed at the three balls left inside the box. "I'll show you now," said Wood. "Take this." He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat. "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do," Wood said. "These two are the Bludgers." He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box. "Stand back," Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the Bludgers. At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air -- it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground. "See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two Beaters on each team -- the Weasley twins are ours -- it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So -- think you've got all that?" "Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off. "Very good," said Wood. "Er -- have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand. "Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers -- " " -- unless they crack my head open." "Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers -- I mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves." Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings. "This," said Wood, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of the lot. It's very hard to catch because it's so fast and difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch it. You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages -- I think the record is three months,

Hell Bent.txt

had told her if she played her cards right, they’d prescribe her something good, and also because it was better than getting sent somewhere to be scared straight again. Guys in fatigues could shout at her and make her do push-ups and clean bathrooms, but she’d been scared her whole fucking life and she just kept getting more crooked. Alex had actually liked the doctor she’d met with that day at Wellways. Marcy Golder. She’d been younger than the others, funny. She had a pretty tattoo of a rose vine around her wrist. She’d offered Alex a cigarette, and they’d sat together, looking out at the distant ocean. Marcy had said, “I can’t pretend I understand everything in this world. It would be arrogant to say that. We think we understand and then boom! Galileo. Bam! Einstein. We have to stay open.” So Alex had told her the things she saw, just a little about the Quiet Ones who were always with her, who only disappeared in a cloud of kush. Not everything, just a little, a test. But it had still been too much. And she’d known it right away. She’d seen the understanding in Marcy’s eyes, the studied warmth, and, beneath it, the excitement that she couldn’t hide. Alex had shut up quick, but the damage was done. Marcy Golder wanted to keep her at Wellways for a six-week program of electroshock treatment combined with talk therapy and hydrotherapy. Thankfully it had been out of Mira’s budget, and her mother had been too much of a hippie to say yes to clapping electrodes on her daughter’s skull. Now Alex knew none of it would have worked for her because the Grays were real. No amount of medication or electricity could erase the dead. But at the time, she’d wondered. Yale New Haven was at least trying to keep itself human. Plants in the corners. A big skylight above and pops of blue on the walls. “You okay?” Turner asked as the elevator rose. Alex nodded. “What’s bothering you about this guy?” “I’m not sure. He confessed. He has details of the crimes, and the forensics all line up. But…” “But?” “Something’s off.” “The prickle,” she said and Turner startled, then rubbed his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.” The prickle had never led Turner astray. He trusted his gut, and maybe he trusted her now too. A doctor came out to meet them, middle-aged, with highlighted blond hair cut into fashionable bangs. “Dr. Tarkenian is going to observe,” said Turner. “Alex knows Andy’s father.” “You were one of his students?” the shrink asked. Alex nodded and wished Turner had prepped her better. “Andy and Ed were very close,” the doctor said. “Ed Lambton’s wife passed a little over two years ago. Andy came out for the funeral and encouraged his father to move out to Arizona with him.” “Lambton wasn’t interested?” Turner asked. “His lab is here,” said Dr. Tarkenian. “I can understand that choice.” “He should have taken his son up on the offer. By all accounts, his doctoral

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

disappeared around a bend in the road with the huddle of rescue workers and without her husband in view, everything inside her screamed to throw herself out of the truck and sprint after him. But she would not distract him in a dangerous scenario like this. Absolutely not. If he made a mistake and got hurt or killed because of her, she would never forgive herself. She was staying in the damn truck. But there was no one around to stop the truck from creeping forward a little. Just so she could keep tabs on any developments. August had left the motor running, so she put the truck into drive and inched slowly around the police vehicles and their flashing lights, stopping when the very top of the rushing water came into view below. And her blood ran cold. The van was halfway submerged in turbulent water. Teri Frasier, Zelnick Cellar’s one and only customer, and her triplets were holding on to one another for dear life on the roof of the van. For the first time, she noticed a man on the scene with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, wearing what looked to be a sodden suit. His hysterical tone reached through the rain and windshield and though the voice was muffled, Natalie somehow knew it was Teri’s husband. Helpless, watching the water slowly rise around his family. “Oh no. Oh no.” A chill rent through Natalie, making her shiver even harder than before. Her rickety breaths were causing the windshield to fog up so she turned on the defroster, retreating into the seat and pulling up her knees to her chest. “Please, please, please, August. Get them. Get them and be okay. Please.” A few minutes later, a yellow raft approached from upstream and there was August, steering it, two officers behind him. They’d put August in a helmet, but the life vest was obviously too small for his king-sized body, so it just hung on him loosely, flapping open in the wind. He shouted something at Teri, smiled, and she nodded. “I love you,” Natalie whispered. “I love you. Come on. Please.” The timing was barbaric. Why did she have to realize she loved the big lug right before he was about to do something life threatening? It couldn’t have happened while he was cooking eggs or trying to reason with the cat? Natalie was never more positive that she hadn’t loved Morrison, because this big, wild, terrifying feeling had happened only once in her life. Right now. For August. She understood now. Love turned the heart into a liability. If something happened to him, she’d never get the damn thing to beat properly again. It seemed to be beating for him now. Time seemed to freeze when August reached the side of the submerged road. From his backpack, he pulled out what looked like . . . a grappling hook? He raised it high and buried it in the dirt and rock formation that ran along the road, twisting and screwing it into the earth. One of

Dracula.txt

woman under the circumstances, but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said, "Ah, you don't comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, `May I come in?' is not true laughter. No! He is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person, he choose no time of suitability. He say, `I am here.' Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl. I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn. I give my time, my skill, my sleep. I let my other sufferers want that she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave, laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say `Thud, thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy, that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. "There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man, not even you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son, yet even at such a moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,`Here I am! Here I am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come, and like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again, and we bear to go

David Copperfield.txt

might suppose, and that I sent 'em all my love - especially to little Em'ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?' The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection - I patted it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had been her honest face - and parted. From that night there grew up in my breast a feeling for Peggotty which I cannot very well define. She did not replace my mother; no one could do that; but she came into a vacancy in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt towards her something I have never felt for any other human being. It was a sort of comical affection, too; and yet if she had died, I cannot think what I should have done, or how I should have acted out the tragedy it would have been to me. In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me I was going to school; which was not altogether such news to me as she supposed. She also informed me that when I was dressed, I was to come downstairs into the parlour, and have my breakfast. There, I found my mother, very pale and with red eyes: into whose arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my suffering soul. 'Oh, Davy!' she said. 'That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to be better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad passions in your heart.' They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and she was more sorry for that than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I tried to eat my parting breakfast, but my tears dropped upon my bread- and-butter, and trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then glance at the watchful Miss Murdstone, and than look down, or look away. 'Master Copperfield's box there!' said Miss Murdstone, when wheels were heard at the gate. I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she; neither she nor Mr. Murdstone appeared. My former acquaintance, the carrier, was at the door. the box was taken out to his cart, and lifted in. 'Clara!' said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note. 'Ready, my dear Jane,' returned my mother. 'Good-bye, Davy. You are going for your own good. Good-bye, my child. You will come home in the holidays, and be a better boy.' 'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated. 'Certainly, my dear Jane,' replied my mother, who was holding me. 'I forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you!' 'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated. Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, and to say on the way that she hoped I would repent, before I came to a bad end; and then I got into the cart, and the lazy horse walked off with it. CHAPTER 5 I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-handkerchief

Great Expectations.txt

then struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time come to myself so far, as to consider that I could not go back to the inn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach and be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as tire myself out. It was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow intricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the Middlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was close by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till to-morrow, but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could get to bed myself without disturbing him. As it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the Temple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it ill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held the gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I mentioned my name. "I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here's a note, sir. The messenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my lantern?" Much surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to Philip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the words, "PLEASE READ THIS, HERE." I opened it, the watchman holding up his light, and read inside, in Wemmick's writing: "DON'T GO HOME." Chapter 45 Turning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made the best of my way to Fleet-street, and there got a late hackney chariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed was always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the chamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next in order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in order on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the back, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling over the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the fire-place and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched little washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner. As I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in, before he left me, the good old constitutional rush-light of those virtuous days - an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which instantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever be lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the bottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a staringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and lay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could

Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

story of Wall-Street) > Digitalizzazione a cura di Yorikarus @ forum.tntvillage.scambioetico.org < I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has ever been written:—I mean the law-copyists or scriveners. I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. I believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography of this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel. Ere introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I make some mention of myself, my employees, my business, my chambers, and general surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to an adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented. Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men’s bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me, consider me an eminently safe man. The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in pronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor’s good opinion. Some time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my avocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very

Casino Royale.txt

with a croupier to rake in the cards and call the amount of each bank and a chef de partie to umpire the game generally. I shall be sitting as near dead opposite Le Chiffre as I can get. In front of him he has a shoe containing six packs of cards, well shuffled. There's absolutely no chance of tampering with the shoe. The cards are shuffled by the croupier and cut by one of the players and put into the shoe in full view of the table. We've checked on the staff and they're all okay. It would be useful, but almost impossible, to mark all the cards, and it would mean the connivance at least of the croupier. Anyway, we shall be watching for that too.' Bond drank some champagne and continued. 'Now what happens at the game is this. The banker announces an opening bank of five hundred thousand francs, of five hundred pounds as it is now. Each seat is numbered from the right of the banker and the player next to the banker, or Number 1, can accept this bet and push his money out on to the table, or pass it, if it is too much for him or he doesn't want to take it. Then Number 2 has the right to take it, and if he refuses, then Number 3, and so on round the table. If no single player takes it all, the bet is offered to the table as a whole and everyone chips in, including sometimes the spectators round the table, until the five hundred thousand is made up. 'That is a small bet which would immediately be met, but when it gets to a million or two it's often difficult to find a taker or even, if the bank seems to be in luck, a group of takers to cover the bet. At the moment I shall always try and step in and accept the bet - in fact, I shall attack Le Chiffre's bank whenever I get a chance until either I've bust his bank or he's bust me. It may take some time, but in the end one of us is bound to break the other, irrespective of the other players at the table, although they can, of course, make him richer or poorer in the meantime. 'Being the banker, he's got a slight advantage in the play, but knowing that I'm making a dead set at him and not knowing, I hope, my capital, is bound to play on his nerves a bit, so I'm hoping that we start about equal.' He paused while the strawberries came and the avocado pear. For a while they ate in silence, then they talked of other things while the coffee was served. They smoked. Neither of them drank brandy or a liqueur. Finally, Bond felt it was time to explain the actual mechanics of the game. 'It's a simple affair,' he said, 'and you'll understand it at once if you've ever played vingt-et-un, where the object is to get cards from

Blowback.txt

from worries about biological weapons to whispers of nuclear dirty bombs. A gas mask was hidden under every seat in the U.S. House. But fear gave way to cooperation, as members of Congress crossed the aisle to compromise on sweeping legislation. The master class in bipartisanship culminated, for me, in President George W. Bush’s 2005 State of the Union Address. Despite having just come off of a contentious presidential campaign, he entered the chamber’s arched doorway to applause and handshakes from Republicans and Democrats. “We have known times of sorrow and hours of uncertainty and days of victory,” he declared, as I stood by the page desk in the back. “In all this history, even when we have disagreed, we have seen threads of purpose that unite us.” The room applauded in agreement. I had found my tribe. Roaming the musty marble passageways of Congress, I grew surer of my views as a Republican. I was a “compassionate conservative,” the kind George W. Bush spoke about when he called for a government that used the free market to eliminate poverty, that openly welcomed immigrants who sought to join our country, and that championed freedom and human dignity around the globe. Joining the GOP tribe also seemed like the best way to defend the country; Republicans, after all, portrayed themselves as the party that was ready to stand up against enemies to our democracy. What was meant to be a year turned into a whirlwind decade. I could hardly stay in school, although I was obsessed with good grades. From elementary to graduate school, I was a straight-A psychopath (except for a lonely B+ on my seventh-grade report card). Valedictorian. Indiana State Debate Champion. Full ride at Indiana University as an undergrad. Full ride at Oxford University as a grad student. But I was bored. I dropped out of school multiple times to take jobs in Washington because I was more interested in sitting in secure briefing rooms, digging into intelligence gathered overseas by U.S. spies, than sitting in classrooms. I trained my strengths—and anxieties—toward supporting national leaders, from preparing research memos at the White House and Pentagon to briefing CIA directors and Homeland Security secretaries. The stainless boy from a Midwest flyover state was awestruck at having a top-secret security clearance. I grew up fast and learned to stay in the background safeguarding information, knowing that lives were in the balance and that I was responsible for protecting the “sources and methods” of our spy agencies. Just as the kid inside me had yearned, I was working alongside the good guys to fight the bad ones, or so I thought. Washington changed in the years after 9/11. After spending time in the executive branch, the private sector, and grad school, I returned to Capitol Hill in my late twenties and found a very different place. Some of the people I looked up to had turned out to be not-so-good guys (including House Speaker Dennis Hastert, who’d been arrested, charged, and later convicted in a hush-money scheme related to sexual misconduct with minors).

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

"You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.--Good-by, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." "Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry goes I shall go too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it." "Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." "But what about my man at the Orleans?" Hallward laughed. "I don't think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry.--And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the exception of myself." Dorian stepped up on the dais, with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Hallward. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?" "There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral,--immoral from the scientific point of view." "Why?" "Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly,--that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's [14] self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,--these are the two things that govern us. And yet--" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said Hallward, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

at mealtimes. He went out for football, but was too slender and too young yet to do anything but carry the team water buckets. This he did with enthusiasm; most afternoons he was seldom home before dark. The Radley Place had ceased to terrify me, but it was no less gloomy, no less chilly under its great oaks, and no less uninviting. Mr. Nathan Radley could still be seen on a clear day, walking to and from town; we knew Boo was there, for the same old reason- nobody'd seen him carried out yet. I sometimes felt a twinge of remorse, when passing by the old place, at ever having taken part in what must have been sheer torment to Arthur Radley- what reasonable recluse wants children peeping through his shutters, delivering greetings on the end of a fishing-pole, wandering in his collards at night? And yet I remembered. Two Indian-head pennies, chewing gum, soap dolls, a rusty medal, a broken watch and chain. Jem must have put them away somewhere. I stopped and looked at the tree one afternoon: the trunk was swelling around its cement patch. The patch itself was turning yellow. We had almost seen him a couple of times, a good enough score for anybody. But I still looked for him each time I went by. Maybe someday we would see him. I imagined how it would be: when it happened, he'd just be sitting in the swing when I came along. "Hidy do, Mr. Arthur," I would say, as if I had said it every afternoon of my life. "Evening, Jean Louise," he would say, as if he had said it every afternoon of my life, "right pretty spell we're having, isn't it?" "Yes sir, right pretty," I would say, and go on. It was only a fantasy. We would never see him. He probably did go out when the moon was down and gaze upon Miss Stephanie Crawford. I'd have picked somebody else to look at, but that was his business. He would never gaze at us. "You aren't starting that again, are you?" said Atticus one night, when I expressed a stray desire just to have one good look at Boo Radley before I died. "If you are, I'll tell you right now: stop it. I'm too old to go chasing you off the Radley property. Besides, it's dangerous. You might get shot. You know Mr. Nathan shoots at every shadow he sees, even shadows that leave size-four bare footprints. You were lucky not to be killed." I hushed then and there. At the same time I marveled at Atticus. This was the first he had let us know he knew a lot more about something than we thought he knew. And it had happened years ago. No, only last summer- no, summer before last, when... time was playing tricks on me. I must remember to ask Jem. So many things had happened to us, Boo Radley was the least of our fears. Atticus said he didn't see how anything else could happen, that things

Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while something from within me upbraided me. I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth. “Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of. Established in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door locked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned to my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold for an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these fears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me. I thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited me, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms at No.—Wall-street. Full of forebodings, I replied that I was. “Then sir,” said the stranger, who proved a lawyer, “you are responsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises.” “I am very sorry, sir,” said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward tremor, “but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me—he is no relation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for him.” “In mercy’s name, who is he?” “I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I employed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some time past.” “I shall settle him then,—good morning, sir.” Several days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt a charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet a certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld me.

Hedge.txt

said. “You’d better get it out of her backpack tonight or she’ll forget.” “I’m doing amazingly well, wouldn’t you say?” Although he said it lightly, Maud heard the supplication in his voice. He’d understood what she meant about changing schools. “You’re doing great,” she said. He still thinks there’s hope, she thought, after they’d hung up. She had told Peter clearly that she didn’t see this summer as a trial or a test—she saw it as a transition. But Peter had his own stubborn optimism. He believed that he was proving to her that he could change, that he would pitch in more around the house and be more present with the girls when she returned. And yet, he was also proving that he could take care of Ella and Louise on his own. At seven, having read an article about the origins of the gravel she and Gabriel had found in the garden, she dropped a sundress over her head and brushed out her hair, letting it fall on her shoulders instead of its usual loose ponytail. Chopsticks or fork? Gabriel texted. Chopsticks! she texted back. I’m dying to know your idea for the beds. I’ll give you a clue: Light. That doesn’t help. Pls run. Coming! She fetched a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and the chipped coffee mugs they used as glasses. Outside, Gabriel was already at their meeting place—a wrought-iron table near the orchard—with a manila folder, two plates, and a bag of Chinese food. “Finally,” he said when she sat down across from him in one of the four rusty chairs flanking the table. “That was two minutes. Patience is not your virtue.” He held up the folder. “I won’t show you these lab results until you tell me.” “Fine,” she said. As she uncorked the bottle of wine, she explained her idea about the headlights. “That works?” Gabriel said. “I saw it work once. Could you help with your truck?” “Are you kidding? You think I’d miss that?” She filled their mugs with wine. Over Gabriel’s shoulder, swifts swam through the orchard, rustling glossy plum leaves. Plum blossoms in Chinese poetry. The nineteenth-century crossbreeding experimentations that resulted in the plumcot. The cyanide in the stone. Maud’s mind had awakened, new facts and anecdotes always cropping up. And so had her body, she thought, as she and Gabriel clinked mugs. In his presence, each gesture—as small as taking the manila folder he pushed across the table—felt heightened, unconsciously orchestrated. And she gathered his gestures too, like clues: the way he threw back his head as he laughed at her description of forgetting her shoes earlier, the way he caught his lower lip in his teeth as the two of them looked over the laboratory results. “High carbon,” she said. “The conservatory fire?” “Probably.” They were talking about work, but another conversation ran under the surface. She’d had workplace crushes before, most recently on a literary historian in Sussex whom she’d met at a pub for passionate discussions about the flowers in William Wordsworth’s poems until he

Ulysses.txt

hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night. Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About six hundred per cent profit. --He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. He cried above the clatter of the wheels: --I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely. He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins. Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German too. --Are we late? Mr Power asked. --Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch. Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she's a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too. Life, life. The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying. --Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said. --He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do you follow me? He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs. --What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs? --Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: --Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin? --It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. Mr Dedalus

David Copperfield.txt

hand, my trusty frere', we all joined hands round the table; and when we declared we would 'take a right gude Willie Waught', and hadn't the least idea what it meant, we were really affected. In a word, I never saw anybody so thoroughly jovial as Mr. Micawber was, down to the very last moment of the evening, when I took a hearty farewell of himself and his amiable wife. Consequently, I was not prepared, at seven o'clock next morning, to receive the following communication, dated half past nine in the evening; a quarter of an hour after I had left him: - 'My DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, 'The die is cast - all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this evening, that there is no hope of the remittance! Under these circumstances, alike humiliating to endure, humiliating to contemplate, and humiliating to relate, I have discharged the pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment, by giving a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, at my residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will not be taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is impending, and the tree must fall. 'Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear Copperfield, be a beacon to you through life. He writes with that intention, and in that hope. If he could think himself of so much use, one gleam of day might, by possibility, penetrate into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining existence - though his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it), extremely problematical. 'This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, you will ever receive 'From 'The 'Beggared Outcast, 'WILKINS MICAWBER.' I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending letter, that I ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention of taking it on my way to Doctor Strong's, and trying to soothe Mr. Micawber with a word of comfort. But, half-way there, I met the London coach with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber up behind; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of tranquil enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micawber's conversation, eating walnuts out of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking out of his breast pocket. As they did not see me, I thought it best, all things considered, not to see them. So, with a great weight taken off my mind, I turned into a by-street that was the nearest way to school, and felt, upon the whole, relieved that they were gone; though I still liked them very much, nevertheless. CHAPTER 18 A RETROSPECT My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence - the unseen, unfelt progress of my life - from childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can remember how it ran. A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where we all went together, every Sunday morning,

Little Women.txt

swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still countrylike, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo. who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of `going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and

Little Women.txt

loved, she put both arms round his neck and kissed him. If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his own little grand daughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was. When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, "Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end. -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.7 Amy's Valley of Humiliation "That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed. "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend. "I didn't day anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding." "Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude, it's only a `lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder. "I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month." "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober. "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop." "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls." And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important. "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself. `I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,' the Duchess said after a pause: `the reason is, that I'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?' `HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to have the experiment tried. `Very true,' said the Duchess: `flamingoes and mustard both bite. And the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."' `Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked. `Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: `what a clear way you have of putting things!' `It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice. `Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Alice said; `there's a large mustard-mine near here. And the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours."' `Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark, `it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is.' `I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; `and the moral of that is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put more simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."' `I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very politely, `if I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it.' `That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess replied, in a pleased tone. `Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,' said Alice. `Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. `I make you a present of everything I've said as yet.' `A cheap sort of present!' thought Alice. `I'm glad they don't give birthday presents like that!' But she did not venture to say it out loud. `Thinking again?' the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin. `I've a right to think,' said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried. `Just about as much right,'

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.' 'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,' said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate. They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at the moment, in any thing besides. After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the

The Call of the Wild.txt

all the while whining and yelping and crying with grief and pain. The half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he paid no heed to the stinging lash, and the man had not the heart to strike harder. Dave refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where the going was easy, but continued to flounder alongside in the soft snow, where the going was most difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell, and lay where he fell, howling lugubriously as the long train of sleds churned by. With the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along behind till the train made another stop, when he floundered past the sleds to his own, where he stood alongside Sol-leks. His driver lingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then he returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with remarkable lack of exertion, turned their heads uneasily, and stopped in surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled had not moved. He called his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both of Sol-leks's traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in his proper place. He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs. But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching movement, when he would advance his fore legs and hitch ahead again for a few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates saw of him he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could hear him mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt of river timber. Here the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his steps to the camp they had left. The men ceased talking. A revolver-shot rang out. The man came back hurriedly. The whips

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt

any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do." Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face. "Is Toller still drunk?" he asked. "Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him." "That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?" "Yes." "Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?" "Yes, the wine-cellar." "You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman." "I will try. What is it?" "We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely." "I will do it." "Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the color of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of hers--possibly her fiance--and no doubt, as you wore the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavoring to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is

Confidence_-a-Novel.txt

the direction of the Daroqol, who must have filed out of the wine cellar at the sound of the gunshot, and I either mouthed or screamed “Come on!” to Brianna and Dexter, whose traumatized faces were angled toward mine. Genial said something that was too muffled by my tinnitus to understand, but he was smiling perversely, like he’d just won a colossal game of king of the hill. We were out the door and he was behind us, still saying muffled things, the Daroqol brandishing their AK-47s, and because I couldn’t hear and could barely see I had no idea the UNA were upon us until they were, shooting at those of the Daroqol who weren’t flanking us. I climbed into the Jeep, Brianna after me, Dexter after her, his sneakers nearly falling off in his haste, and we watched as the Daroqol and UNA fell to the ground behind us. Genial was still grinning, clearly proud of himself, still talking as he hoisted himself into the Jeep, talking and talking until his eyes unfocused and he fell from the Jeep’s door and blood began to pool around his head on the ground. The driver reached back to shut the door and we sped across the lawn, away from the house. I turned to look out the side window: three UNA soldiers were upon Genial—what used to be Genial—and his body was twitching as they loaded it with bullets. There was a liquid pop in my ears and I could hear Brianna crying next to me. Dexter was looking at me like I’d betrayed him. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, sounding distant. “A coup,” I replied. “A coup that went very badly.” ELEVEN IT SEEMS NOW LIKE EVERYTHING I’ve done in my life I’ve done because of love, a useless, gutting love that left me devoured from the inside. The failed coup, Genial’s death, Brianna and Dexter’s terror: I felt these things pressing in on me from all sides. But what felt the worst was the thought of the money we’d lost and what that would mean for Orson. It didn’t seem to matter to Karl that I’d left him in Urmau in the middle of a coup. He was back in New York within days, texting me that he wanted me, that I needed to stop playing with him. I told him I would when he dropped the short. He told me that was impossible, that he had too much evidence against us. He sent me pictures of his trunk-like cock, which I deleted. His desire was thick, dizzying, distracting. But it wasn’t enough. Orson was still in his and Emily’s bedroom in the Enner house, claiming that he would spend the next two months in isolation in order to achieve his next “awakening.” Many NuLifers were doing the same thing, dispatching one unworthy member of each Enner house to do the cleaning and get the groceries while the rest tried to think in step with Orson, to predict what he would do next. I went up to the

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

the same shape, but then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry's did. Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection. "Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?" They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry's knobbly knees -- Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life. The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness. How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He couldn't stay here, he had to find his way back to bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother's face, whispered, "I'll come back," and hurried from the room. *** "You could have woken me up," said Ron, crossly. "You can come tonight, I'm going back. I want to show you the mirror." "I'd like to see your mom and dad," Ron said eagerly. "And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you'll be able to show me your other brothers and everyone." "You can see them any old time," said Ron. "Just come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why aren't you eating anything?" Harry couldn't eat. He had seen his parents and would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost forgotten about Flamel. It didn't seem very important anymore. Who cared what the three headed dog was guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really? "Are you all right?" said Ron. "You look odd." *** What Harry feared most was that he might not be able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly the next night. They tried retracing Harry's route from the library, wandering around the dark passageways for nearly an hour. "I'm freezing," said Ron. "Let's forget it and go back." "No!" Harry hissed. "I know it's here somewhere." They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else, just as Ron started moaning that his feet were dead with cold, Harry spotted the suit of armor. "It's here -- just here -- yes!" They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with. Hence a phrase which has passed into hitch hiking slang, as in "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is." (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.) Nestling quietly on top of the towel in Ford Prefect's satchel, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly. Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out. At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea. "You got a towel with you?" said Ford Prefect suddenly to Arthur. Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him. "Why? What, no ... should I have?" He had given up being surprised, there didn't seem to be any point any longer. Ford clicked his tongue in irritation. "Drink up," he urged. At that moment the dull sound of a rumbling crash from outside filtered through the low murmur of the pub, through the sound of the jukebox, through the sound of the man next to Ford hiccupping over the whisky Ford had eventually bought him. Arthur choked on his beer, leapt to his feet. "What's that?" he yelped. "Don't worry," said Ford, "they haven't started yet." "Thank God for that," said Arthur and relaxed. "It's probably just your house being knocked down," said Ford, drowning his last pint. "What?" shouted Arthur. Suddenly Ford's spell was broken. Arthur looked wildly around him and ran to the window. "My God they are! They're knocking my house down. What the hell am I doing in the pub, Ford?" "It hardly makes any difference at this stage," said Ford, "let them have their fun." "Fun?" yelped Arthur. "Fun!" He quickly checked out of the window again that they were talking about the same thing. "Damn their fun!" he hooted and ran out of the pub furiously waving a nearly empty beer glass. He made no friends at all in the pub that lunchtime. "Stop, you vandals! You home wreckers!" bawled Arthur. "You half crazed Visigoths, stop will you!" Ford would have to go after him. Turning quickly to the barman he asked for four packets of peanuts. "There you are sir," said the barman, slapping the packets on the bar, "twenty-eight pence if you'd be so kind." Ford was very kind - he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford. He suddenly shivered: he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn't understand because no one on Earth had ever experienced it before. In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny sublimal signal. This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth. On Earth it is never possible to be further than sixteen thousand miles

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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.

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

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

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.

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

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,

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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