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The-One.txt

dead in their home, and it made international news. But his coworkers hardly look or speak to him at all, if they can avoid it. It is way worse than when news went around the department about him and Rachel. He doubts things will ever be the same. Even with Jonah, who’s already re-engrossed in his computer screen. Seeing the bags beneath his partner’s eyes, Ethan feels guilty he didn’t get to work earlier, though it’s just after seven. In the three weeks he’d been put on administrative leave, Jonah had been handling both of their caseloads. “What’s this?” Ethan points to the case file sitting atop his laptop after draping his coat over the back of his chair. Jonah lifts his coffee mug toward his mouth. “McKinnon assigned you to an assault case that happened overnight.” “Another one?” While getting the occasional assault case on top of their homicide caseload had become routine in the last couple of years, getting one every day was not. “I guess Christmas came early.” Jonah shrugs, not bothering to look in Ethan’s direction. Ethan reaches for the folder containing the new assault case. “Hey, Marks.” Ethan turns to the sound of his sergeant’s voice. “We just got another assault, a stabbing in the Fremont area, along Aurora.” McKinnon strides into their cubicle with a folder in his outstretched hand, matching the one on Ethan’s desk. “Sorry, I had to assign it to you. Adams and Stevenson worked a new homicide all night, and Richards and Suarez just got called to a double shooting.” “That’s all right.” Ethan takes the folder from McKinnon’s hand. “Thanks.” McKinnon pauses before returning to his office. “How are you doing?” “I’m good. Thanks, Sarge.” “Glad to hear it.” McKinnon turns from the cubicle. His sergeant, at least, is more understanding than most. Ethan opens the case file that had been waiting on his desk that morning first. A photo of a woman with a black eye and a laceration on her left temple is clipped to the first page of the report. Her long, wavy blonde hair reminds him of Chelsea Carr’s. While Chelsea’s manner of death remains undetermined by the medical examiner, Jonah had at least been able to give her parents some peace of mind in knowing Carr confessed to Sloane that he killed their daughter. His confession alone to Sloane, however, wasn’t enough evidence to charge him posthumously with her murder. As he flips through the case file, his thoughts drift to the image of Sloane, smiling at him in their bed that morning. He wants to trust her again. He’ll never forget the terror that ripped through his body when he thought Brody was going to shoot her. But even with the evidence from the investigation backing up her claims, there’s still something in it all that doesn’t sit right with him. Having watched her so easily lie about their affair and be so quick to fake her resuscitation efforts after he shot Carr gives him a gnawing feeling that he can’t shake. He returns his

Romantic-Comedy.txt

said. Nodding toward the writer next to me, he said, “Patrick?” As Patrick started with an idea about Trump melting down his gold toilet to make teeth fillings, I watched Noah Brewster’s cheesily handsome surfer face watching Patrick, and I continued to watch Noah’s face, off and on, for almost three hours because that was how long pitch meetings lasted. Before Nigel released us, he asked Noah, as he asked all hosts, if he had any sketch ideas of his own. By this point, I had come to the conclusion that Noah was not, in fact, a ding-dong. He smiled and laughed often but didn’t seem to be trying too hard, as some hosts did, to prove that he was funny. And his requests for clarification had come to seem confident in a way that, in spite of my lingering annoyance about his response to my Danny Horst Rule pitch, I respected. Once again looking around the room, Noah said, “Hearing all this has made me even more excited about the week ahead. A little terrified, but mostly excited. I’m psyched to roll with your ideas and I don’t have a big agenda. I’ll admit there’s an idea I’ve been noodling over, kind of trying to write it myself, and I’ll have to decide before the table read if it should or shouldn’t see the light of day, but, in terms of your sketches, I’m down for any of it.” You mean any of it other than pretending to date a woman less attractive than you, I thought. I was wondering if his aversion was somehow tied to having dated so many models in real life when I heard a long, low belch and immediately became aware of an unpleasant odor, a noxious version of a breakfast burrito. I snapped my head in the direction of Danny, and he pursed his lips and widened his eyes in a ridiculous way—as if to say, Oops!—and I scowled. Burping was part of life, yes, but could he not have held it in for the last thirty seconds of a three-hour meeting? Patrick, who was the writer sitting between Danny and me, leaned toward me. He murmured, “That was you, right?” Monday, 4:47 p.m. I was responding to emails when Danny entered our office carrying a can of Red Bull. “Yo, Chuckles,” he said as he sat backwards on his desk chair and rolled toward me. The room was narrow enough that the only way to fit a couch was for both of our desks to be against the same wall. Gesturing at my computer screen, he said, “How’s the great American screenplay coming along?” “I wish,” I said. “I’m telling my agent I don’t want to write a”—I held up my fingers in air quotes—“ ‘humorous animated short for an organic douche company.’ ” “How much does it pay? Because maybe I want to write a humorous animated short for an organic douche company.” “Ten thousand, but also douching is bad, and I assume the organic part is bullshit. Your vagina is a self-cleaning

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

In this case, studying what other things that audience does in their free time.” She stifles a smirk and I lean back in my chair, inhaling deeply, getting my bearings. “Ask what you really want to ask me, Fizzy.” “I don’t want to sign up to do this if your only research here is reading Nielsen reports. The documentaries you’ve made help convince me that your heart is in the right place, but why you? Why this? Why you for this?” “It seems the company is taking a new direction.” I shrug, choosing transparency: “We’re small. There are only a few of us. That’s probably why me.” “Have you read anything I’ve written, or did you ask me because your ex-wife had some of my books on her shelf?” “I’m finishing Base Paired right now. It’s funny, sexy, creative, and…” I trail off, searching for the word that eludes me. I began reading per Nat’s instructions, looking for what it is about romance she loves so much, trying to find that kernel that has built such a huge following for Fizzy. If I can understand it, I think, I’ll be able to unlock what we need to make this show a success. “And?” Fizzy prompts sardonically, like she’s expecting an insult to wrap up my list. “Joyful.” It comes out in a burst. “There’s a lot of joy in your writing.” I can see I’ve hit something important. She leans forward, happier now. “Yes. Now we’re getting somewhere. Romance is joyful. What brings you joy?” “My daughter. My work, historically speaking.” I dig around for something that makes me sound more dimensional, but sitting here with this bestselling author talking about joy and connection makes my life feel like a lather, rinse, repeat of arid routine. “Watching footie. Mountain biking. Exercise.” As I speak, I see her point: none of this really qualifies me to speak specifically to this audience. It’s true that, other than my time with Stevie, nothing in my life brings me outright joy anymore. Most of it, I realize, is a way to pass time when I’m alone, and none of it is about seeking connection. I think about the chapter in her book I read last night. It was a love scene where, afterward, the heroine admitted that she was afraid of how fast things were moving. It wasn’t that this type of conflict felt groundbreaking, but the way it was written with such vulnerability and self-awareness after the most scorching sex scene I’d ever read left me feeling pensive all night. Fizzy is the playful, wisecracking alter ego, but I’m beginning to see that Felicity Chen is smart—brilliant, clearly—and I must give her more than just a confident smile and measured responses. She reads people expertly, and right now she needs to be convinced she won’t be stuck with a two-dimensional Hollywood stereotype. “I sound like a boring git.” I laugh. “There’s something about reading your book that has made me hyperaware of the sterile banality of my current life. I am,” I admit, sifting through

Happy Place.txt

for his hot friends.” Wyn kisses the top of my head. Michael and Lou exchange a look I can’t read. Maybe they’ve seen this before, I think. Maybe he’s always like this with his girlfriends. But I don’t really believe it. I am in that phase of love where you’re sure no two people have ever felt this way before. And over those four days, I fall in love again. With Wyn’s family, with all the new pieces of him. I want to stay up late, digging through his old closet, where his mom stored his homemade stormtrooper costume. I want to sit for five hours in the woodshop, sawdust drifting in the air, while he recounts the fights he got into with Lou’s middle school bullies. I want to know where every single little white scar and divot carved into his permanently sunned skin came from. The one from when he braked too hard on his bike and went skidding down the road. The white specks on his elbow from the agitated horse that threw him on his grandfather’s now-defunct ranch. The thin line where he split his lip on the corner of the fireplace as a toddler. I want to stockpile these pieces of him: the quilt his grandmother made him before he was born, his embarrassing preteen journals, his horrifying childhood drawings, the dent in his mom’s truck from when he hit a patch of ice and slid into a split rail at sixteen. He takes me to see it, the stretch where the beams are less dingy, having been replaced after his accident. He and Hank had done it themselves without being asked. Wyn ran wild here, and this place carved him into the man I love. With my hand on the wooden post he’d worked into the ground all those years ago, I ask, “Why’d you leave?” “It’s hard to explain,” he says, grimacing. “Can you try?” I ask. “You seem so happy here.” He lets out a breath and searches the horizon for an answer. “They had money from selling my dad’s family’s land. And they always wanted my sisters to go to college, because Mom and Dad didn’t get to.” “Your sisters?” I say. “But not you?” His mouth quirks into a crooked half smile. “Told you, they’re little geniuses, like you. Big dreams. I guess my parents assumed I’d want to stay. Keep working with my dad.” “Because you love this place,” I say. He runs his hand over his jaw. “I do. But I don’t know. I was watching all these people with dreams and goals leaving, going other places. And I didn’t know what I wanted. I got scouted by Mattingly’s soccer coach, and it seemed like a sign, I guess.” “But you didn’t stick with the soccer team.” “I never loved it,” he says. “And I couldn’t keep up with it and school at the same time. It was all harder than I expected. The schoolwork, the social stuff.” “Everyone loved you, Wyn,” I say. He looks at me through his

Romantic-Comedy.txt

about to arrive. Remember Bobby, the one I don’t have three-hour workouts with? I’ll shower after that, then I thought we could hike or go have a picnic lunch at the beach if that sounds fun to you? Or we could hang out and swim.” He smiled and I felt a fizzy sort of scrambling, like the tide gathering itself to go back out: how attracted to him I was, how much I liked him, and how confusing it was to find myself at his house. “We can play it by ear today, but I’m really happy that you’re here.” Would a person who wasn’t anxious and uncomfortable sit up and kiss him? But I hadn’t brushed my teeth since the gas station bathroom! Instead, I said, “Me, too.” Noah’s hand remained on my calf, and he squeezed it. “Just text me if you need anything in the next hour. I’ll be in the yard by the studio.” Then he leaned in and kissed me on the mouth, and the kiss was so quick that it probably didn’t matter if I had scummy lips or not. * * * — Good news I successfully pooped, I texted Viv. Also we had sex last night X 3 and it was great Bad news is I have no idea what I’m doing here It’s like 13 hours until bedtime Seriously how do you get through a day with another person? In the folded jeans on the chair, I’d found my phone in one front pocket and my underwear in the other, which was cringe-inducing but not as bad as if the underwear was still at large. Viv didn’t respond immediately, so I opened the door that Noah had closed when he’d left, peered out, saw no one, and pulled in my suitcase, backpack, purse, and the cardboard box with its two remaining protein bars, both of which I ate. I located and used my toothbrush then showered. After I emerged from the bathroom, a text from Viv was waiting: Day sex Then: OK can we back up a second and savor SEX THREE TIMES WITH NOAH BREWSTER AND THAT IT WAS GREAT THAT’S THE ONLY GOOD THING THAT’S HAPPENED IN 2020 You can’t talk now can you? I called her right away. “He’s outside with his trainer.” In a singsong, Viv said, “Sally Milz got laid last night, doo dah, doo dah.” “I’m kind of freaking out,” I said. “Why?” The answer was both so all-encompassing and so self-evident that it was oddly hard to articulate. After a few seconds, I said, “What if we run out of things to say? What if I fart in front of him?” “If this is a real relationship, then those things will for sure happen. And then if you get pregnant, you’ll fart in front of him so much that both of you will only notice the rare moments when you’re not farting in front of him.” “How many breakfasts and lunches have you eaten today?” “I ordered kung pao shrimp for lunch, then I got horrible

The-Housekeepers.txt

There was no evidence of a wedding. But of course they could have used false names. Indeed it was almost certain they would have done. The O’Flynns must have disapproved of Mother. They were a family who formed strategic alliances with greengrocers and pawnbrokers and ironmongers. They didn’t marry loose-screwed, weak-brained girls—and that’s how they would have seen Mother. Even Mrs. Bone never hinted, never suggested for a second that Danny had made a true marriage. She would have torn him down from his glorious perch in a heartbeat, if she had. Lucky for Danny O’Flynn. So easy to vanish, remold himself just the way he pleased. Mrs. King pictured him assessing his options, shuffling them idly like a deck of cards. She wished she didn’t recognize the trait. Two days later, she heard his bell ringing. A summons for Madam. The master wanted to speak to his daughter. Whatever passed between them Mrs. King never knew. Miss de Vries came downstairs, went to her own rooms, without saying a word to anyone. She didn’t send for any supper; she gave no orders at all. Mrs. King sat in her own small sitting room, waiting. She could feel something coiled in the house, a storm about to break. Their father died that night. A sudden deterioration, entirely expected in a consumptive case like this one, said the physician later. The news broke like a river forcing its way through a dam. Mrs. King felt it rolling downstairs, floor by floor, the electroliers seething and spitting, the servants turning pale as they received the intelligence. The dinner service was suspended, the under-footmen stood about with their mouths open. Cook took to her bed. You could even hear the horses growing agitated in the yard. Mr. Lockwood and the other lawyers descended upon the house, papers out, pens aloft, issuing memoranda. The nurse cleared away all the pillboxes and bowls and towels, her trolley rattling all the way down the passage of the bedroom floor. Everyone heard Mr. Shepherd moaning, keening, from the butler’s pantry. Miss de Vries remained in her room. Mrs. King counted out the black armbands, one by one. This is it, she thought, blood thrumming. Truthfully, she didn’t know what it was. It felt too enormous, too unimaginable to piece together. Possession of this house, of all it contained, whistled through her mind. The wording in the will was precise. It caused no comment. “I leave everything, my whole estate, to my true and legitimate daughter.” Clever, thought Mrs. King, when she heard, anger rushing through her veins. Clever, clever, a lovely trick, a lovely game. Of course the lawyers didn’t remark upon such straightforward phraseology. Madam didn’t question it; nobody said a word at all. They felt they understood the natural order of things. It was up to Mrs. King to correct them. She gave herself an order. Strip the house. Take every box, every drawer: shake them, search them, root it out. Find that letter. Once Alice was in post, once Winnie was in on the job, she

Things Fall Apart.txt

of his rattling staff into the earth. And it began to shake and rattle, like something agitating with a metallic life. He took the first of the empty stools and the eight other egwugwu began to sit in order of seniority after him. Okonkwo's wives, and perhaps other women as well, might have noticed that the second egwugwu had the springy walk of Okonkwo. And they might also have noticed that Okonkwo was not among the titled men and elders who sat behind the row of egwugwu. But if they thought these things they kept them within themselves. The egwugwu with the springy walk was one of the dead fathers of the clan. He looked terrible with the smoked raffia "body, a huge wooden face painted white except for the round hollow eyes and the charred teeth that were as big as a man's fingers. On his head were two powerful horns. When all the egwugwu had sat down and the sound of the many tiny bells and rattles on their bodies had subsided, Evil Forest addressed the two groups of people facing them. "Uzowulu's body, I salute you," he said. Spirits always addressed humans as "bodies." Uzowulu bent down and touched the earth with his right hand as a sign of submission. "Our father, my hand has touched the ground," he said. "Uzowulu's body, do you know me?" asked the spirit. "How can I know you, father? You are beyond our knowledge." Evil Forest then turned to the other group and addressed the eldest of the three brothers. "The body of Odukwe, I greet you," he said, and Odukwe bent down and touched the earth. The hearing then began. Uzowulu stepped forward and presented his case. "That woman standing there is my wife, Mgbafo. I married her with my money and my yams. I do not owe my in-laws anything. I owe them no yams. I owe them no coco-yams. One morning three of them came to my house, beat me up and took my wife and children away. This happened in the rainy season. I have waited in vain for my wife to return. At last I went to my in-laws and said to them, 'You have taken back your sister. I did not send her away. You yourselves took her. The law of the clan is that you should return her bride-price.' But my wife's brothers said they had nothing to tell me. So I have brought the matter to the fathers of the clan. My case is finished. I salute you." "Your words are good," said the leader of the ecjwucjwu. "Let us hear Odukwe. His words may also be good." Odukwe was short and thickset. He stepped forward, saluted the spirits and began his story. "My in-law has told you that we went to his house, beat him up and took our sister and her children away. All that is true. He told you that he came to take back her bride-price and we refused to give it him. That also is true. My in-law, Uzowulu, is

Moby Dick; Or, The Whale.txt

the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh. Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say --here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here. In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that .. <p 36 > they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings. But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope. It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me, Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems -- aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling --a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that

To Kill a Mockingbird.txt

his handiwork. With one phrase he had turned happy picknickers into a sulky, tense, murmuring crowd, being slowly hypnotized by gavel taps lessening in intensity until the only sound in the courtroom was a dim pink-pink-pink: the judge might have been rapping the bench with a pencil. In possession of his court once more, Judge Taylor leaned back in his chair. He looked suddenly weary; his age was showing, and I thought about what Atticus had said- he and Mrs. Taylor didn't kiss much- he must have been nearly seventy. "There has been a request," Judge Taylor said, "that this courtroom be cleared of spectators, or at least of women and children, a request that will be denied for the time being. People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for, and they have the right to subject their children to it, but I can assure you of one thing: you will receive what you see and hear in silence or you will leave this courtroom, but you won't leave it until the whole boiling of you come before me on contempt charges. Mr. Ewell, you will keep your testimony within the confines of Christian English usage, if that is possible. Proceed, Mr. Gilmer." Mr. Ewell reminded me of a deaf-mute. I was sure he had never heard the words Judge Taylor directed at him- his mouth struggled silently with them- but their import registered on his face. Smugness faded from it, replaced by a dogged earnestness that fooled Judge Taylor not at all: as long as Mr. Ewell was on the stand, the judge kept his eyes on him, as if daring him to make a false move. Mr. Gilmer and Atticus exchanged glances. Atticus was sitting down again, his fist rested on his cheek and we could not see his face. Mr. Gilmer looked rather desperate. A question from Judge Taylor made him relax: "Mr. Ewell, did you see the defendant having sexual intercourse with your daughter?" "Yes, I did." The spectators were quiet, but the defendant said something. Atticus whispered to him, and Tom Robinson was silent. "You say you were at the window?" asked Mr. Gilmer. "Yes sir." "How far is it from the ground?" "'bout three foot." "Did you have a clear view of the room?" "Yes sir." "How did the room look?" "Well, it was all slung about, like there was a fight." "What did you do when you saw the defendant?" "Well, I run around the house to get in, but he run out the front door just ahead of me. I sawed who he was, all right. I was too distracted about Mayella to run after'im. I run in the house and she was lyin' on the floor squallin'-" "Then what did you do?" "Why, I run for Tate quick as I could. I knowed who it was, all right, lived down yonder in that nigger-nest, passed the house every day. Jedge, I've asked this county for fifteen years to clean out that nest down yonder, they're dangerous to live

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

Little Women.txt

and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?" They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm so glad you came before we began!" "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly. "I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. "Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

the rage that existed deep in her gut. It was far too easy to get lost in it. She forced her mind to come back to the room. Miss de Vries was gathering her skirts, her costume shimmering darkly. She sent her voice down the hall so that all the servants would hear her. “Don’t ever touch my things,” she said. * * * Hephzibah didn’t enjoy parties. Never had. They gave her the willies. But she knew she’d never be at a ball like this again. She held on to her wig with one hand. Her skirts ballooned around her, taking up space, sweeping the floor. People stared. “I know,” she said, raising her glass. “I look marvelous.” Naturally she had business to take care of. Once the ball was underway, she’d begun surreptitiously gathering her actresses, sending them circling around the ballroom, knocking over drinks, upsetting supper plates, causing confusion. “Movement,” Winnie had said when they were going over the program for the evening. “We must have constant and immediate movement. We need people away from the windows, eyes on the entertainment. We’ve got ropes going up the eastern side of the house. We can’t have anyone spotting that.” “I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.” There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that. I might join in, Hephzibah thought, a splendid fog descending over her vision. She saw her men leading women to the ballroom floor, music swelling. They looked like sea anemones, billowing into each other’s arms, pulsing. It was a waltz, a fast one. It made the blood start pumping in the veins. I need more champagne, she decided. And more jelly. She spied a boy gawking at her from the corner of the room. A lamp-trimmer, she assumed, or an urchin kept for running errands. He had a pointed, weaselly face, and he was keeping himself carefully out of view from the other servants. In the normal course of events, Hephzibah might have flicked him half a crown for trying his luck upstairs. But this wasn’t the time for unkempt boys to be scuttling around the house. They’d made no allowances in the plan for that. And she didn’t like the way he was staring at her. One of Hephzibah’s actresses came whirling past, a profusion of taffeta and silks. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, throwing her champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered in all directions. “Enough chaos for you, dear?” she muttered to Hephzibah as the waiters hurried to clean it up, the dancers surging around them. The boy’s eyes narrowed. Have I been rumbled? Hephzibah wondered, with a prickling of alarm. “Boy!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the actress. “Fetch me a drink!” Perhaps her voice came out a little louder than she’d intended. An under-footman or a waiter glided up, tray in hand. “Madam,” he said, blocking her path. She dodged. “That little boy can fetch it for

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets - gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes - all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect. But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they laboured into the night over smug little treaties on the value of a planned political economy. Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend. In these enlightened days of course, no one believes a word of it. ================================================================= Chapter 16 Arthur awoke to the sound of argument and went to the bridge. Ford was waving his arms about. "You're crazy, Zaphod," he was saying, "Magrathea is a myth, a fairy story, it's what parents tell their kids about at night if they want them to grow up to become economists, it's ..." "And that's what we are currently in orbit around," insisted Zaphod. "Look, I can't help what you may personally be in orbit around," said Ford, "but this ship ..." "Computer!" shouted Zaphod. "Oh no ..." "Hi there! This is Eddie your shipboard computer, and I'm feeling just great guys, and I know I'm just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any programme you care to run through me." Arthur looked inquiringly at Trillian. She motioned him to come on in but keep quiet. "Computer," said Zaphod, "tell us again what our present trajectory is." "A real pleasure feller," it burbled, "we are currently in orbit at an altitude of three hundred miles around the legendary planet of Magrathea." "Proving nothing," said Ford. "I wouldn't trust that computer to speak my weight." "I can do that for you, sure," enthused the computer, punching out more tickertape. "I can even work out you personality problems to ten decimal places if it will help." Trillian interrupted. "Zaphod," she said, "any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet," adding, "whatever it turns out to be." "Hey, what do you mean by that? The planet's where I predicted it would be isn't it?" "Yes, I know there's a planet there. I'm not arguing with anyone, it's just that I wouldn't know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock. Dawn's coming up if you want it." "OK, OK," muttered Zaphod, "let's at least give our

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.txt

is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes-- a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best. "It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honor. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again. "And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into character. "And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

but our editing team—myself included—has done a good job of creatively tempering Tex’s and Arjun’s enthusiasm so no one feels too bad for them when they are likely voted off over the next twenty-four hours. And then my confessional with Fizzy begins. I’d neglected to mention this part to any of my family, and as my face appears on-screen, the room explodes with their noisy surprise. Nat is fucking delighted, Stevie is dancing on the couch and shouting that that’s her dad, and Ash lets everyone know that he’s just been issued a free pass to give me shit for the foreseeable future. Next to me, Fizzy is as smug as I’ve ever seen her. “Do you see that charisma?” she calls to the room, glass held in front of her. “Hollywood, please hire me as your casting director.” When it quiets again during another commercial, she taps me and motions to the TV. “Is now when you tell me I was right?” “Let’s manage expectations.” Most of the room has emptied out during the break, everyone waiting for the loo or off to the kitchen to refill their drinks. “We’ll get numbers tomorrow. Your phone must be blowing up with messages. What’s everyone saying?” Fizzy drains her glass and leans back against the couch. “Not ready for that level of reality yet. Let me stay in this soft-launch enthusiasm bubble until at least nine tomorrow morning. Then I’ll tiptoe into opinions. But for now”—she motions to the TV—“I was right about you. Say it.” “You are occasionally clever.” “Always.” “An average amount.” “Tell me I’m the best.” I smile. “You, Fizzy, are the best.” “Thank you, wow, I never expected such a compliment, but it means so much.” She hands me her empty glass. “Now please, more wine.” twenty-nine FIZZY I get into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade. But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of heart flutters is the same reason I became an author in the first place: I love romance. I love the swooping in my chest when I read a good kiss, the choking of my lungs when I get to the angst, the shaken-carbonated blast of joy reading the happily ever after. I just watched eight perfect men vying for my heart, and they’re not even why I have the flutters. I have them because I got to see my new favorite person tonight. Stretching, I find my reflection in the rearview mirror and glare at that harlot. “Listen up,” I tell her forcefully. “It’s a relief that things didn’t go very, very wrong because you had

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

me know yours, and I will tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" Hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "No, Basil, you must tell me," murmured Dorian Gray. "I think I have a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's mystery. "Let us sit down, Dorian," said Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?-- something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two -- " "What! The deaf and dumb man said all that!" Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Presently the Welshman said: "My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world. No -- I'd protect you -- I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me -- tell me what it is, and trust me -- I won't betray you." Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear: --------------------------------------------------------- -275- "'Tain't a Spaniard -- it's Injun Joe!" The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said: "It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a different matter altogether." During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of -- "Of WHAT?" If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended -- waiting for the answer. The Welshman started -- stared in return -- three seconds -- five seconds -- ten -- then replied: "Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the matter with you?" Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously -- and presently said: "Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what did give you that turn? What were you expecting we'd found?" --------------------------------------------------------- -276- Huck was in a close place -- the inquiring eye was upon him -- he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer -- nothing suggested itself -- the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper -- a senseless reply offered -- there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it -- feebly: "Sunday-school books, maybe." Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of

The Hunger Games.txt

cup of coffee. My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I’ve never seen. “They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.” I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being care- ful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother 55 told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up. When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eat- ing, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate. Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tri- butes never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been un- derfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with. “So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch. “Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I re- member I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m sur- prised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild. “That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending 56 the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “On- ly not to us.” Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace my- self to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back and squints at us. “Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen.

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

two philosophers gaped at him. "Bloody hell," said Majikthise, "now that is what I call thinking. Here Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?" "Dunno," said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper, "think our brains must be too highly trained Majikthise." So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a lifestyle beyond their wildest dreams. ================================================================= Chapter 26 "Yes, very salutary," said Arthur, after Slartibartfast had related the salient points of the story to him, "but I don't understand what all this has got to do with the Earth and mice and things." "That is but the first half of the story Earthman," said the old man. "If you would care to discover what happened seven and a half millions later, on the great day of the Answer, allow me to invite you to my study where you can experience the events yourself on our Sens-O-Tape records. That is unless you would care to take a quick stroll on the surface of New Earth. It's only half completed I'm afraid - we haven't even finished burying the artificial dinosaur skeletons in the crust yet, then we have the Tertiary and Quarternary Periods of the Cenozoic Era to lay down, and ..." "No thank you," said Arthur, "it wouldn't be quite the same." "No," said Slartibartfast, "it won't be," and he turned the aircar round and headed back towards the mind-numbing wall. ================================================================= Chapter 27 Slartibartfast's study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library. The old man frowned as they stepped in. "Terribly unfortunate," he said, "a diode blew in one of the life-support computers. When we tried to revive our cleaning staff we discovered they'd been dead for nearly thirty thousand years. Who's going to clear away the bodies, that's what I want to know. Look why don't you sit yourself down over there and let me plug you in?" He gestured Arthur towards a chair which looked as if it had been made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus. "It was made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus," explained the old man as he pottered about fishing bits of wire out from under tottering piles of paper and drawing instruments. "Here," he said, "hold these," and passed a couple of stripped wire end to Arthur. The instant he took hold of them a bird flew straight through him. He was suspended in mid-air and totally invisible to himself. Beneath him was a pretty treelined city square, and all around it as far as the eye could see were white concrete buildings of airy spacious design but somewhat the worse for wear - many were cracked and stained with rain. Today however the sun was shining, a fresh breeze danced lightly through the trees, and the odd sensation that all the buildings were quietly humming was probably caused by the fact that the square and all the streets around it were thronged with cheerful excited people. Somewhere a band was playing, brightly

Maame.txt

his profile picture this morning. Exactly as advertised. His brown hair is swept back and he has on Converse, jeans, and a plain white tee. “Hello, Maddie. Glad you could make it,” he says—deep and friendly with the slightest American lilt. We sit and on his table is a pot of tea, two cups, a Danish pastry for him and a brownie for me. I point to the brownie. “How did you know I wouldn’t stand you up?” “I only hoped you wouldn’t and told myself that if you did, I would eat your brownie as consolation.” He smiles again. Or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling? “It’s nice to properly meet you. You’re very pretty.” “Oh, thank you.” I try not to look away. “You’re also very … the male version of pretty.” He laughs. “I think that’s handsome,” he says, “but I’ll take pretty. Can I get you a coffee or anything?” “I don’t mind some of your tea.” “This is green tea,” he says, pouring himself a cup. “Have you had it before?” “No, but happy to try it.” As he pours me a cup, I say, “You didn’t bring your dog?” “I should have, but I thought I’d save him in case I needed help securing a second date.” I smile at him and try green tea for the first time. It’s a little bitter but instantly warming. “So, how have you been?” he asks. My face falls and I brace myself before remembering that Alex doesn’t actually know how I should be feeling. “Pretty good,” I answer. I tell him about Love Stories and make up a spontaneous evening bike ride for last night. He asks what I’ve got planned for the rest of my weekend. I offer him half my brownie while I think of something interesting to say. I come up short so end up sharing a lie. “Tomorrow my friend Em and I are going for brunch in Highbury,” I tell him, “but today I’m just going to pop home to say hi to the parents, then my friend’s having a barbecue at her place. Which reminds me, I don’t want to turn up empty-handed, so I should remember to go to the shops and pick up a few bits. What about you?” “Well, it’s my sister’s baby shower tomorrow, but tonight I might foist myself on my flatmates—they’re going to catch a movie.” If I’d been honest about not doing much, would he have asked to extend this date? “I haven’t been to the cinema since…” Ben. “In a long time,” I finish. “Is this your first time online dating?” Alex asks. “Ouch. Is it that obvious?” “I promise it’s not. I’ve just heard the cinema tends to be a good online-to-real-world date option.” “It is my first time,” I admit. “I’ve always been hesitant, but one night I decided to just go for it. You?” “I’m a couple of weeks old now.” “Any success stories?” “Besides you?” I roll my eyes. “Smooth.” I drink my tea to hide the smile. “Let me think…,”

USS-Lincoln.txt

kind of slow-drop shaft. Lu-puk slithered to an angled orange shaft and let it slow-slide him downward until he reached a junction. With practiced skill, he twisted and slow dropped toward the asteroid’s center. The fall was long, which gave Lu-puk time to think. He was the ranking officer in this sector. He’d been told numerous times … he had but one job: hold the advancement of alien interlopers from moving further into Liquilid territories. But allowing new, highly advanced alien technologies to slip through his claws, well, that would be his undoing. It had been the acquiring of alien tech that had propelled their once-primitive race to their current superior status. No, he would be punished if he and his crew could not decipher Portent’s auxiliary means of propulsion. Sure as shit fell downhill, he was not going to let this issue be his downfall. Coming to the next shaft, he rolled, and rolled again, ending within standard gravity. He took a moment to ensure he looked presentable, then casually slithered forward as if he had all the time in the world and nothing he was about to see would be all that impressive to him. Which wasn’t true, because the quantum flux generator impressed everyone. He slid into the massive chamber and stopped, inner eyelids sliding over his pupils. The quantum fluctuations did strange things to the light spectrum. Red light became green became yellow, all in the space of a heartbeat. The flux generator was a complex and massive device that employed advanced principles of physics to create a powerful field capable of disrupting the spacetime fabric in its vicinity. It was a technology pilfered from a now long-destroyed neighboring alien society. Lu-puk was certain the tech was beyond the current level of human understanding. From a visual standpoint, the flux generator was an imposing sight, held within a massive subterranean compartment. Entering the space he was instantly assaulted by fluctuating waves of heat. Rising five stories overhead, the glowing superstructure, even after seeing it many times, took Lu-puk’s breath away. It consisted of a central core surrounded by a series of concentric rings. The rings were made up of a complex array of materials that allowed the generator to harness and manipulate energy from the surrounding environment. The central core housed a series of advanced control systems that regulated the flow of energy and maintained the stability of the generator. The principle behind the generator was the concept of flux, which is the flow of energy or matter through a surface. In this case, the generator created a flux field that altered the local spacetime curvature. This allowed the generator to manipulate the properties of the space around it, including gravity and electromagnetism. Powerful electromagnetic fields surrounded the central core, and one should be wary of getting too close. By altering the intensity and direction of the flux fields, the generator could control the properties of surrounding space and matter—namely, in this case, interloper warships. He stared at the massive, slowly rotating and pulsing device. It was this

The Secret Garden.txt

hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her. She was not used to any one's tempers but her own. She took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. "He ought to be stopped! Somebody ought to make him stop! Somebody ought to beat him!" she cried out. Just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means. She even looked rather pale. "He's worked himself into hysterics," she said in a great hurry. "He'll do himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try, like a good child. He likes you." "He turned me out of the room this morning," said Mary, stamping her foot with excitement. The stamp rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been afraid she might find Mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes. "That's right," she said. "You're in the right humor. You go and scold him. Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever you can." It was not until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as Colin himself. She flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. She slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. "You stop!" she almost shouted. "You stop! I hate you! Everybody hates you! I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death! You will scream yourself to death in a minute, and I wish you would!" A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. He had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. His face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little Mary did not care an atom. "If you scream another scream," she said, "I'll scream too --and I can scream louder than you can and I'll frighten you, I'll frighten you!" He actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The scream which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over. "I can't stop!"

Tarzan of the Apes.txt

Clayton came to his feet with a start. His blood ran cold. Never in all his life had so fearful a sound smote upon his ears. He was no coward; but if ever man felt the icy fingers of fear upon his heart, William Cecil Clayton, eldest son of Lord Greystoke of England, did that day in the fastness of the African jungle. The noise of some great body crashing through the underbrush so close beside him, and the sound of that bloodcurdling shriek from above, tested Clayton's courage to the limit; but he could not know that it was to that very voice he owed his life, nor that the creature who hurled it forth was his own cousin--the real Lord Greystoke. The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Clayton, disheartened and discouraged, was in a terrible quandary as to the proper course to pursue; whether to keep on in search of Professor Porter, at the almost certain risk of his own death in the jungle by night, or to return to the cabin where he might at least serve to protect Jane from the perils which confronted her on all sides. He did not wish to return to camp without her father; still more, he shrank from the thought of leaving her alone and unprotected in the hands of the mutineers of the Arrow, or to the hundred unknown dangers of the jungle. Possibly, too, he thought, the professor and Philander might have returned to camp. Yes, that was more than likely. At least he would return and see, before he continued what seemed to be a most fruitless quest. And so he started, stumbling back through the thick and matted underbrush in the direction that he thought the cabin lay. To Tarzan's surprise the young man was heading further into the jungle in the general direction of Mbonga's village, and the shrewd young ape-man was convinced that he was lost. To Tarzan this was scarcely incomprehensible; his judgment told him that no man would venture toward the village of the cruel blacks armed only with a spear which, from the awkward way in which he carried it, was evidently an unaccustomed weapon to this white man. Nor was he following the trail of the old men. That, they had crossed and left long since, though it had been fresh and plain before Tarzan's eyes. Tarzan was perplexed. The fierce jungle would make easy prey of this unprotected stranger in a very short time if he were not guided quickly to the beach. Yes, there was Numa, the lion, even now, stalking the white man a dozen paces to the right. Chapter 14 Clayton heard the great body paralleling his course, and now there rose upon the evening air the beast's thunderous roar. The man stopped with upraised spear and faced the brush from which issued the awful sound. The shadows were deepening, darkness was settling in. God! To die here alone, beneath the fangs of wild beasts; to be torn and rended; to feel the hot breath of

Anne of Green Gables.txt

year-that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. "Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." "Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he thought about it for a week. "Oh, I'm so glad," said Anne, with shining eyes. "Dear Stacy, it would be perfectly dreadful if you didn't come I don't believe I could have the heart to go on with my studies at all if another teacher came here." When Anne got home that night she stacked all her textbooks away in an old trunk in the attic, locked it, and threw the key into the blanket box. "I'm not even going to look at a schoolbook in vacation," she told Marilla. "I've studied as hard all the term as I possibly could and I've pored over that geometry until I know every proposition in the first book off by heart, even when the letters ARE changed. I just feel tired of everything sensible and I'm going to let my imagination run riot for the summer. Oh, you needn't be alarmed, Marilla. I'll only let it run riot within reasonable limits. But I want to have a real good jolly time this summer, for maybe it's the last summer I'll be a little girl. Mrs. Lynde says that if I keep stretching out next year as I've done this I'll have to put on longer skirts. She says I'm all running to legs and eyes. And when I put on longer skirts I shall feel that I have to live up to them and be very dignified. It won't even do to believe in fairies then, I'm afraid; so I'm going to believe in them with all my whole heart this summer. I think we're going to have a very gay vacation. Ruby Gillis is going to have a birthday party soon and there's the Sunday school picnic. and the missionary concert next month. And Mrs. Barry says that some evening he'll take Diana and me over to the White Sands Hotel and have dinner there. They have dinner there in the evening, you know. Jane Andrews was over once last summer and she says it was a dazzling sight to see the electric lights and the flowers and all the lady guests in such beautiful dresses. Jane says it was her first glimpse into high life and she'll never forget it to her dying day." Mrs. Lynde came up the next afternoon to find out why Marilla had not been at the Aid meeting on Thursday. When Marilla was not at Aid meeting people knew there was something wrong at Green

Pineapple Street.txt

of it. All of this went through my head in the time it took Lola to find a photo of Mike on their laptop—his official shot from the UConn website—and show the class. Britt was bouncing in her corner seat. “Can I interview him? Lola, can I interview him?” Lola shrugged. I said, “He knew Thalia pretty well. He’d know Omar, too. He was an athlete.” Mike would have more to say than I had: Another ski star, he was one of Robbie Serenho’s best friends. He’d been both in the show and at the mattresses. He’d likely spoken to the police at much greater length than me. Plus, if he talked to Britt he’d see how obsessed she was, and, if news of the podcast got out to my classmates, he could maybe vouch for the fact that I hadn’t put her up to this. Lola said to Britt, “I mean, I can give you his email.” We caught up on everyone’s projects and talked editing, since the first of their first episodes would be due the next morning. Alder had a convoluted idea about convincing listeners his podcast consisted of rediscovered tapes from 1938, tricking them the way War of the Worlds had tricked people. Alyssa, the one covering Arsareth Gage Granby, kept falling asleep. I couldn’t blame her: She sat in front of the radiator, framed by a window that bathed her in morning sun. I was jealous. Britt had tried reaching out to Omar himself, through his lawyer, but hadn’t heard back. She’d decided to structure the podcast around unanswered questions. How exactly did that emergency pool exit work, in 1995, and who else might have had access to the building? What influence did the school have over the State Police? What were the circumstances of Omar’s confession? Was Thalia sleeping with her music teacher? Okay, no, not that last one. Not yet. 25 That afternoon, I had the film kids think about flashback. I showed them, to start, the wavy-screen memory intros from the Wayne’s World sketches of my own adolescence. Then I showed cheesy jump cuts from Lost. Also before their time, as ancient to them as the clips of Rashomon I showed next. We talked about the difference between a character remembering, and the camera as impartial eye on the actual past. Jimmy Stewart was dreaming, falling, his head floating in fields of vertiginous color. Fellini’s traffic jam gave way to flight. Their assignment that night was to watch Memento, to come in with notes and thoughts. “You’re going to watch it on your phones, aren’t you,” I said as they stood to leave. They shrugged. My bright-bulb kid said, “When you hold it close to your face, it’s as good as a theater.” 26 I was scared to check my phone, didn’t want more bad news about Jerome coming through the screen. But I looked, and it was worth it: Yahav wrote that he could come up Saturday—the day after tomorrow. I’d been thinking I wouldn’t see him, steeling myself with a lifetime’s accrual

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,

treasure island.txt

him are so confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I can- sup.” not get a word in. What I want to know is this: Supposing “As you will, Livesey,” said the squire; “Hawkins has earned that I have here in my pocket some clue to where Flint bur- better than cold pie.” ied his treasure, will that treasure amount to much?” So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, “Amount, sir!” cried the squire. “It will amount to this: If Contents and I made a hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, we have the clue you talk about, I fit out a ship in Bristol while Mr. Dance was further complimented and at last dis- dock, and take you and Hawkins here along, and I’ll have that Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 50 51 treasure if I search a year.” instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become due to “Very well,” said the doctor. “Now, then, if Jim is agree- someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the able, we’ll open the packet”; and he laid it before him on the cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be table. added, as “Offe Caraccas,” or a mere entry of latitude and The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get longitude, as “62o 17' 20”, 19o 2' 40".” out his instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of scissors. It contained two things—a book and a sealed paper. the separate entries growing larger as time went on, and at the “First of all we’ll try the book,” observed the doctor. end a grand total had been made out after five or six wrong The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as additions, and these words appended, “Bones, his pile.” he opened it, for Dr. Livesey had kindly motioned me to come “I can’t make head or tail of this,” said Dr. Livesey. round from the side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy “The thing is as clear as noonday,” cried the squire. “This the sport of the search. On the first page there were only is the black-hearted hound’s account-book. These crosses stand some scraps of writing, such as a man with a pen in his hand for the names of ships or towns that they sank or plundered. might make for idleness or practice. One was the same as the The sums are the scoundrel’s share, and where he feared an tattoo mark, “Billy Bones his fancy”; then there was “Mr. W. ambiguity, you see he added something clearer. ‘Offe Caraccas,’ Bones, mate,” “No more rum,” “Off Palm Key he got itt,” and now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel boarded off that some other snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I coast. God help the poor souls that manned her—coral long could not help wondering who it was that had “got itt,”

Hedge.txt

burrito with hot sauce. “A nomad who studies settlements.” “Yes, yes,” Gabriel said. “That’s been pointed out before.” His longest romantic relationship had lasted a year. The night before, when Maud asked, he’d run through one girlfriend after another: a photojournalist in Cairo, a fellow archaeologist in Peru, a college girlfriend who reemerged at the end of his thirties for a passionate fling in Paris before she went back to her wife. “Why didn’t you end up with any of them?” Maud asked. Gabriel laughed. “No one’s ever asked me that so directly.” “Sorry,” Maud said. “It seems like an obvious question.” “Intimacy issues, according to a therapist I saw in Ithaca after my last breakup. We never quite got to the bottom of it before I had to leave again for Jordan.” “Well, if you bothered to go to therapy, there’s hope,” Maud said. She had seen a psychologist herself in London for a few years after Ella was born, but Peter had never been to a therapist. He didn’t believe in therapy or in marriage counseling. Maud was starting to think that she might have to convince him that Ella could use a session with someone. Earlier, on the phone, she’d been upset about her friends again. “Being single didn’t seem like a problem in my thirties,” Gabriel said. “But now I can see fifty around the corner. And having my parents die in the same year … We weren’t close, but, you know.” He balled up his burrito wrapper and tossed it into the take-out bag. “The way I’m going, I’ll end up getting old in a tent with only my artifacts to keep me warm at night.” “You have plenty of time,” Maud said. “You could have a kid at seventy if you wanted to. Although it might kill you.” “First I have to stop falling for women like me. When both people in a relationship won’t jump, you end up standing on the edge of a building for a long time.” “Whereas I dove right off the building at twenty-four,” Maud said. During graduate school at the University of London, she used to watch out the window as her neighbor, a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders, folded the right leg of his pants and rode off with a satchel slung over his shoulder. One morning, purposefully, she came down the stairs with a bag of garbage as he was getting on his bike and asked him if the building recycled. “You must be the American,” he said. He invited her to dinner a few days later, and a year after that, they were engaged. In Maud’s Irish-American family—four grandparents who had fled poverty and persecution in Ireland; great-uncles who were soldiers of the Irish Republican Brotherhood; the 1916 Easter Proclamation hanging in the bathroom—moving to England had been bad enough. Marrying an Englishman had been an official declaration of rebellion. “It must be nice, though,” Gabriel said now, “only knowing the one relationship. Nothing to compare it to. You date a lot, you get confused.” “Confusion’s

The Foxglove King.txt

shook her leg out, barely limping, though agony shone in the rictus of her mouth as she ran forward. “Yes, I suppose I will,” Lore sighed. “Break it up!” The shouts came from the streets back toward the city, accompanied by the sounds of boots on cobblestones. The cheers of the crowd turned to shouts of surprise. “Bloodcoats! Clear out!” The hay ring was abandoned; spectators and waiting fighters alike turned tail and hauled ass, disappearing into alleyways as a group of bloodcoats surged into the street, bayonets catching the orange glow of the streetlights. It made them look like spears of flame. The girl Lore had been fighting cursed, turning to run on her sore leg. She didn’t give Lore a second glance. Revenge came long down the list of priorities when escaping the Burnt Isles was number one. A hand on her arm, steering her forward. Gabe. “Let’s go. This was a dead end.” They ran with the crowd up the streets, the sounds of capture and occasional gunfire spurring them on from behind, until Bastian darted out of an alley’s narrow mouth. “Over here!” Gabe didn’t break his stride as he turned, steering them both into the relative safety of the dark. Lore leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her stomach. It still hurt from getting punched, and the impromptu run hadn’t helped. “We need to go back to the Citadel before this gets out of hand.” Bastian stood right inside the lip of the alley, shadow cutting across his face as he peered out into the street. A group of bloodcoats ran by, and he pressed against the wall, disappearing into dark. “We’ll come back tomorrow—” “Absolutely not.” Gabriel loomed in the center of the dank alleyway, voice stony, expression stonier. “This was a stupid plan from the start.” Bastian looked back over his shoulder, the streetlights catching the gleam of his teeth. Lore recalled the last time she was in an alley with the Sun Prince, how he’d changed so quickly from layabout royal to something sharpedged and angry. “Do you have a better plan?” he asked, his voice a match for Gabriel’s blade-tones. “There has to be one,” Gabe replied. “We can talk to—” “That’s not going to work,” Lore said softly. “You know it’s not, Gabe. The only way we can find out who’s doing the hiring is to find them ourselves.” She gestured to the mouth of the alley. “A raid happening tonight is a sign. We’re on the right track, and someone knew we were coming.” Gabe turned on her, one blue eye blazing through his domino mask. “You don’t know how dangerous it is to keep doing this. To keep coming here—” “I’m from here.” She managed to straighten, despite the pain in her middle, and glare up at him. “Has it occurred to you that you might be taking your role as protector a bit too far?” She hadn’t planned to say it, didn’t know what shape her anger and fear and irritation would take until the words were forged

Dracula.txt

in this respect, then," He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood. My only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me. Later.--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed, I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams, and there it shall remain. When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me,as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me. There was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count's own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete. But it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully out. What I saw was the Count's head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had some many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought

The-Last-Sinner.txt

let him know it. She saw through his well-practiced charm and knew the twinkle in his eye wasn’t because he was clever, but because he thought he was pulling a fast one on her. In one interview at the prison before his release, she’d listened raptly and allowed a small smile to play on her lips, gazed into his eyes as if he were a god, and he’d not been able to help himself, thinking he was so damned smart and charismatic. Because he’d assumed that he’d captivated her into believing his bullshit, he’d even allowed her to tape the entire conversation despite his attorney’s vociferous objections. Cooke was just that self-involved. She searched through her computer files, found the interview in which Cooke had agreed to speak to her during the time he was appealing his original conviction. Kristi hit play and there he was, Dr. Hamilton Cooke, dressed in a prison uniform, his demeanor comfortable and even relaxed in a plastic chair, cinder block walls as a backdrop as he spoke into the camera she’d been allowed to set up. She’d sat on one side of a small table, he on the other, her voice and all other sound picked up by the microphone, only the doctor visible. Cooke’s features were even, his nose pointed, nearly aristocratic, his black hair having silvered, his smile pinned on to a clean-shaven face with a strong jaw. Tiny crow’s-feet fanned from blue eyes that had kept Kristi in sharp, almost inquisitive focus. He’d never faltered during the interview, his story unchanging. Cooke had sworn that his wife, Beth, had slipped and fallen in the shower, hit her head on the tile surround, and died before help could arrive. His daughter had been the person who found her. Hamilton, who had been outside in the back, by the pool house, had come running upon hearing his daughter’s screams. He claimed he had tended to Beth, trying his best to save her as the frantic daughter dialed 9-1-1. It was all for naught. She watched the recording for what had to be the twentieth time as he explained. “Sadly,” he said, his lips pulling into the slightest of frowns, “she was already gone when the EMTs arrived.” He stared straight into the camera. “A freak accident. That’s all.” He shrugged. “The police made more of it than there was.” The police being Kristi’s father. The trouble with Hamilton Cooke’s story was that the medical examiner had begged to differ about the extent of Beth Cooke’s injuries, that they were inconsistent with a fall and more likely the result of blunt force trauma from a weapon that was never located—a hammer of some kind. And Cooke had been convicted. Largely because he’d insisted on testifying and thinking he could convince the jury that he was innocent. They, too, had disagreed, and when Kristi had interviewed him he was in the process of appealing his conviction. He’d seemed to think that her book would help and he kept referring to his story. “So glad we could do

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

Five On A Treasure Island.txt

little cove not far off where they could bathe and paddle to their hearts' content. They had a wonderful day, but secretly Julian, Dick and Anne wished they could have visited George's island. They would rather have done that than anything! George didn't want to go for the picnic, not because she disliked picnics, but because she couldn't take her dog. Her mother went with the children, and George had to pass a whole day without her beloved Timothy. "Bad luck!" said Julian, who guessed what she was brooding about. "I can't think why you don't tell your mother about old Tim. I'm sure she wouldn't mind you letting someone else keep him for you. I know my mother wouldn't mind." "I'm not going to tell anybody but you," said George. "I get into awful trouble at home always. I dare say it's my fault, but I get a bit tired of it. You see, Daddy doesn't make much money with the learned books he writes, and he's always wanting to give mother and me things he can't afford. So that makes him bad-tempered. He wants to send me away to a good school but he hasn't got the money. I'm glad. I don't want to go away to school. I like being here. I couldn't bear to part with Timothy." "You'd like boarding school," said Anne. "We all go. It's fun." "No, it isn't," said George obstinately. "It must be awful to be one of a crowd, and to have other girls all laughing and yelling round you. I should hate it." "No, you wouldn't," said Anne. "All that is great fun. It would be good for you, George, I should think." "If you start telling me what is good for me, I shall hate you," said George, suddenly looking very fierce. "Mother and father are always saying that things are good for me- and they are always the things I don't like." "All right, all right," said Julian, beginning to laugh. "My goodness, how you do go up in smoke! Honestly, I believe anyone could light a cigarette from the sparks that fly from your eyes!" That made George laugh, though she didn't want to. It was really impossible to sulk with good-tempered Julian. They went off to bathe in the sea for the fifth time that day. Soon they were all splashing about happily, and George found time to help Anne to swim. The little girl hadn't got the right stroke, and George felt really proud when she had taught her. "Oh, thanks," said Anne, struggling along. "I'll never be as good as you- but I'd like to be as good as the boys." As they were going home, George spoke to Julian. "Could you say that you want to go and buy a stamp or something?" she said. "Then I could go with you, and just have a peep at old Tim. He'll be wondering why I haven't taken him out today." "Right!" said Julian. "I don't want stamps, but I could do with an ice. Dick and

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

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

Mother, she had been nervous about meeting anyone beyond the family until William was awake and they could officially announce their impending marriage. While the sentiment was logical, it didn’t sit easy in Simon’s stomach. Surely she didn’t need her betrothed at her side to meet a few neighbors. Still, he envied her. She had a legitimate reason to avoid the evening with the Thatchers, but Simon was trapped. Even if he came up with some way to make his excuses and take a tray in his room, his mother kept sending him piercing looks that told him under no circumstances was he allowed to leave her alone with this dreadful couple. For a woman who was always so sweet-tempered, she truly had a talent for instilling fear in her children. Simon remained rooted to the spot, trapped by his mother’s silent command. “Calloway, m’boy.” Thatcher waved his arm in Simon’s direction, as if making sure he was paying attention. “I hear you lost your sugar farm.” Where the devil had he heard that? He’d only just decided to sell. “A pity, considering mine has at least doubled its capital since I acquired it.” Simon forced a smile. “How fortunate for you.” He made a mental note to check with North and ensure his man of business hadn’t been spreading information around. Simon needed to remain in high standing among the other Lords of Parliament if he wanted to have any hope of being a valued voice, and he didn’t need anyone knowing about his failing business. As Mr. Thatcher launched into what was likely to be an exhausting recounting of all his thriving enterprises, Simon readied himself for an excruciating evening. He couldn’t imagine anything that could make tonight better, and he prayed the butler, Porter, announced dinner sooner rather than later. For now, he would simply have to try to distract himself and hope Thatcher didn’t try to pull him into conversation again, though that would also leave his mother to endure the man alone, which was not a better alternative. Simon wasn’t certain he had the stamina to assist his mother this time, so distraction would have to be his course of action. And what better way to distract himself than thinking about Lucy? He wasn’t sure why he’d shown her his pond, but he was immensely glad he had. Not only had she appreciated it and seemed to lose some of the invisible weight on her shoulders—weight from what, he hardly knew—but he had gotten the chance to learn a little more about his future sister-in-law. She had acted somewhat strangely on their walk back to the house though. Simon couldn’t make sense of it. He had replayed the conversation many times without any insight as to what had upset her. She truly was a mystery—one he was itching to solve. Porter appeared at the doorway to the sitting room, and Simon perked up. Finally time for dinner and a respite—however brief—from Thatcher’s endless yammering. But he was to be momentarily disappointed in his excitement because Porter merely

The Foxglove King.txt

to think him a spy. Men in powerful positions were unsettled by popular heirs waiting to take their places. In that regard, the Court of the Citadel wasn’t that much different from a poison runner crew. She’d seen more than one upstart assassinated by their own captain. A yawn stretched her mouth so wide Lore’s jaw popped. She’d barely taken in the walk from the back entrance of the Citadel to the North Sanctuary, too tired to pay much attention. It was a good mile and a half, by her counting, the path cobble-paved and smooth, lined with rosebushes—a stark contrast with the rubble-strewn walkways in Dellaire proper leading to the South Sanctuary, the one meant for commoners. On either side of the path, the Citadel’s massive green spaces rolled, manicured fields and pseudoforests, rich land fenced in by the fortress of the Church’s walls. Something nudged her shoulder. Gabe. “Wake up, cousin.” “I’m awake, cousin.” But another yawn cramped her jaw as she said it. “Why in all myriad hells are First Day prayers right at the ass-crack of dawn? Surely Apollius can still hear them around noon.” Gabe inclined his head to the stained-glass window at the very front of the sanctuary. The Bleeding God’s Heart, set out in panels of red and gold and ocher. As the sun rose, its gleam traced up the window, slowly illuminating the glass until the whole thing blazed with color. “That’s why,” he answered. She couldn’t tell if he sounded reverent or resentful. Maybe a little of both. For sleeping against the doorframe all night, Gabriel seemed positively refreshed. Dressed in plainer clothes than he’d had for the masquerade—dark doublet, dark breeches, and a linen shirt beneath, this time with sensible sleeves—this was the handsomest he’d looked in their brief acquaintance. Lore, on the other hand, had carefully avoided the mirror this morning, even as she brushed out her hair. The bags under her eyes were probably deep enough to smuggle hemlock. The double doors at the back of the sanctuary remained open, emitting the last straggling courtiers. Alienor glided down the thick tapestry carpet running through the center aisle, the sun through the windows making her nearly white curls glow the same colors as the stained glass, a halo-like nimbus around her head. Her eyes were clear and her gait steady as she approached the altar at the front of the sanctuary, knelt, and kissed its polished wood. Lore and Gabe had done the same when they entered. Lore tried not to think about all the lips that had been on it before hers. When Alie straightened and went to find her seat, her eyes met Lore’s. She smiled, threw a tiny wave. Lore returned it with a genuine smile of her own. Gabriel didn’t look at Alie at all. An older man walked close behind Alienor, close enough that they had to be arriving together, though they looked nothing alike. His skin was milkpale to her warm-copper, his hair wood-brown and pin-straight instead of white-blond and curling. His expression was dour,

Silvia-Moreno-Garcia-Silver-Nitr.txt

“Cipher of Fire” chapter and looked for the section on defensive magic. There were two pages on warding charms, which included the advice to “burn candles” to dispel noxious spirits—she supposed Abel had gotten the idea for the white candles from there—and a small spell that necessitated the pricking of a finger. You’d then smear the blood on a white handkerchief and draw a rune, tying it in three knots, and top it all off by burning a stick of incense in front of this bundle. Montserrat’s sister liked burning incense and had left a package of sticks at her apartment. She didn’t have a proper incense burner, so she simply dangled the stick atop a cup. As for the handkerchief, Montserrat pricked her finger but did not draw Ewers’s rune, instead tracing the word “shield” on a cloth napkin. She did this because she didn’t fancy Ewers’s complicated runes, but also because magic, from what Ewers seemed to be saying, was an exercise in belief and the self. She didn’t think it mattered as much whether you drew a rune or a word. It was the process of concentrating on the ritual that might yield results. Runes were important, personal, to Ewers. They meant nothing to her, and so she went with a word that did have the significance she sought. Now, whether this would work was another question. And it could be that Tristán and she were simply going crazy in unison, but in the event that there were indeed murderous sorcerers lurking around the city, Montserrat decided to be prepared. Her meeting with Alma had, despite her indifferent façade in front of Tristán, jolted her a little. After she was done knotting the handkerchief, she pushed her chair back and contemplated the corkboard that was now pinned with photos of Ewers along with notes and drawings. Her office was becoming a laboratory for understanding The House of Infinite Wisdom. She zeroed in on one photo of Ewers surrounded by pale socialites and grinning men in their fine suits, all of them with wineglasses in hand. Where would she and Tristán have fit in with a crowd like that? Nowhere. In the late 1930s, in Chihuahua, where Tristán’s father had lived before moving to Tamaulipas, merchants accused Middle Easterners of carrying diseases, of unfair business practices. They called them Turks, no matter where they came from, they said aboneros should be expelled from the country, like the Chinese had been kicked out. By the late 1950s, when Ewers presided over his crowd of admirers, Mexico City was warming up to certain Lebanese businesspeople who wielded their wealth as an entry card into society, but it didn’t mean a poor boy like Tristán would have been welcomed with open arms. It also meant Montserrat, with her swarthy complexion and large nose, would not have made a good impression on those snobs. Nevertheless, Ewers struck her as an opportunistic, slippery creature. A man who would not see a problem in draining as much money or knowledge from those he considered unsuitable companions

Great Expectations.txt

and disappeared. "Now, Mr. Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, "attend, if you please. You have been drawing pretty freely here; your name occurs pretty often in Wemmick's cash-book; but you are in debt, of course?" "I am afraid I must say yes, sir." "You know you must say yes; don't you?" said Mr. Jaggers. "Yes, sir." "I don't ask you what you owe, because you don't know; and if you did know, you wouldn't tell me; you would say less. Yes, yes, my friend," cried Mr. Jaggers, waving his forefinger to stop me, as I made a show of protesting: "it's likely enough that you think you wouldn't, but you would. You'll excuse me, but I know better than you. Now, take this piece of paper in your hand. You have got it? Very good. Now, unfold it and tell me what it is." "This is a bank-note," said I, "for five hundred pounds." "That is a bank-note," repeated Mr. Jaggers, "for five hundred pounds. And a very handsome sum of money too, I think. You consider it so?" "How could I do otherwise!" "Ah! But answer the question," said Mr. Jaggers. "Undoubtedly." "You consider it, undoubtedly, a handsome sum of money. Now, that handsome sum of money, Pip, is your own. It is a present to you on this day, in earnest of your expectations. And at the rate of that handsome sum of money per annum, and at no higher rate, you are to live until the donor of the whole appears. That is to say, you will now take your money affairs entirely into your own hands, and you will draw from Wemmick one hundred and twenty-five pounds per quarter, until you are in communication with the fountain-head, and no longer with the mere agent. As I have told you before, I am the mere agent. I execute my instructions, and I am paid for doing so. I think them injudicious, but I am not paid for giving any opinion on their merits." I was beginning to express my gratitude to my benefactor for the great liberality with which I was treated, when Mr. Jaggers stopped me. "I am not paid, Pip," said he, coolly, "to carry your words to any one;" and then gathered up his coat-tails, as he had gathered up the subject, and stood frowning at his boots as if he suspected them of designs against him. After a pause, I hinted: "There was a question just now, Mr. Jaggers, which you desired me to waive for a moment. I hope I am doing nothing wrong in asking it again?" "What is it?" said he. I might have known that he would never help me out; but it took me aback to have to shape the question afresh, as if it were quite new. "Is it likely," I said, after hesitating, "that my patron, the fountain-head you have spoken of, Mr. Jaggers, will soon--" there I delicately stopped. "Will soon what?" asked Mr. Jaggers. "That's no question as it stands, you know." "Will soon come to London,"

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

on Park Lane was swarming with detectives, men in trench coats with any number of questions, examining the locks and windows, trying to fathom the biggest burglary they’d ever seen in their lives. One or two were there on more sensitive business. Looking for the kitchen maids, to ask the most delicate questions. But most of the servants had scattered, giving up any hope of getting their wages. “You were right,” William said. “About getting out.” Mrs. King tilted her hat. “Now you tell me.” He sighed. “I’ve been pigheaded.” She remembered the moment he’d offered her that ring. Cut grass, the park, the stink of the house lingering on them as she told him: “No.” It should have happened at night. By the river, in their secret corners of the city. “So have I,” she said. A crowd of gentlemen came hurtling past, papers under their arms. Mrs. King lowered the brim of her hat. He put his hand out to her. She stood there, and looked at him, and then she took it. She squeezed his fingers. Not an answer, but something. “When?” he said. He meant, When will we see each other again? There was an enormous motor car behind her, a Daimler. Vast and rumbling gently. She longed to keep hold of his hand, not let go. But she repressed this. Too soon. Not safe. Nothing was settled. “I’m taking myself out of circulation for a while,” she said stolidly. She withdrew her hand from his, denying herself the comfort of it. “But I’ll let you know.” * * * Outside the post office, Alice saw the newspapers tied up with string, stacked on the pavement. They were all carrying the same story, the one that grew wilder by the day: the greatest robbery of the age, the biggest search in history... She glanced over her shoulder. She half expected to glimpse a man waiting for her at the end of the lane. Her nostrils were flared and ready, searching for an unsettling hint of gardenias. No one there. She entered the post office. It cost a lot of money to send a postcard to Florence. It cost even more to wire a large sum to a foreign bank. She chose the one opposite the Grand Hotel. “No message,” she said. “No need.” She felt lighter once it was done. She felt free. Alice met her sister the next morning, at dawn, five minutes from the Mile End Road. The light was creeping up, birds sounding their chorus. The cemetery smelled fresh, clean, not grim at all. Mrs. King came in a white dress, not black or navy. She looked strangely loose, untethered, hair swept over her shoulders. There was a fierce color in her cheeks. Alice wondered if she’d been out all night, just walking. “Where is it?” Mrs. King said. Alice took her to the grave. She adjusted her crucifix. “It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?” “Don’t be morbid, Alice.” Alice put her hands in her pockets. “Want a moment by yourself?” “Yes.” Mrs. King stood there

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

is art? What is the beauty it expresses? --That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepy-headed wretch, said Stephen, when I began to try to think out the matter for myself. Do you remember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow bacon. --I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flaming fat devils of pigs. --Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end. You remember the pigs and forget that. You are a distressing pair, you and Cranly. Lynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said: --If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at least another cigarette. I don't care about it. I don't even care about women. Damn you and damn everything. I want a job of five hundred a year. You can't get me one. Stephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the last one that remained, saying simply: --Proceed! --Aquinas, said Stephen, says that is beautiful the apprehension of which pleases. Lynch nodded. --I remember that, he said, PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT. --He uses the word VISA, said Stephen, to cover esthetic apprehensions of all kinds, whether through sight or hearing or through any other avenue of apprehension. This word, though it is vague, is clear enough to keep away good and evil which excite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis and not a kinesis. How about the true? It produces also a stasis of the mind. You would not write your name in pencil across the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle. --No, said Lynch, give me the hypotenuse of the Venus of Praxiteles. --Static therefore, said Stephen. Plato, I believe, said that beauty is the splendour of truth. I don't think that it has a meaning, but the true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the frame and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time and in the same connexion belong to and not belong to the same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understand the frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic apprehension. Is that clear? --But what is beauty? asked Lynch impatiently. Out with another definition. Something we see and like! Is that the best you and Aquinas can do? --Let us take woman, said Stephen. --Let us take her! said Lynch fervently. --The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt, the Hottentot, said Stephen, all admire a different type of female beauty. That seems to be a maze out

A-Living-Remedy.txt

the rest of my life looking backward, reliving the endless days and nights when my mother was dying and I couldn’t be with her. 22 The Priority Mail boxes begin arriving in June. Packed and shipped by my aunts, each box is stuffed with photos, documents, correspondence, religious items, knickknacks, jewelry. Sometimes I let them sit for days before I feel able to sift through the contents. Sometimes I tear them open at once, hoping to find items to show my family. One holds my mother’s jewelry boxes, her high school diploma, her senior photo, and the stub of a ticket to a Simon & Garfunkel concert she’d once told me about, her eyes shining: It was the best live concert I’ve ever seen. In another, amid old family photographs I have never seen before, I find Mom’s wallet and driver’s license, a bill from the attorney who’d represented my parents in my adoption, and a copy of the will she had written only months before. There’s a wooden box full of bead necklaces: black and white, turquoise, yellow, royal blue, celadon green. Did she wear all of these? I wonder. Any of them? The only necklace I can recall seeing around her neck, at least in recent years, is her sterling-silver Orthodox cross with the dark blue inlay. My older daughter picks out a necklace of aubergine beads and gives it to her little sister. Rummaging through another box, I don’t see what happens or how the string snaps; I only hear a sudden shower of beads hitting the floor. The girls pick them up together, sneaking slightly worried looks at me, but I’m not upset. There must be a dozen strings of beads in the box; one won’t be missed. Though I know we’ll never wear them, I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, or anything else that belonged to her or my dad. The boxes, once opened, pile up in my office. I find notes I wrote to my mom when I was five, large print crammed into hand-drawn hearts: Dear Mom, Well, how are you? How was work? Fine I hope! Sarra and me had a good time. Well, bye, love you. I find cards made for her decades later, by my own kids: Dear Grandma, Thank you for the gifts and treats! We miss you. We hope we can visit you soon. I find old report cards, paintings, postcards we sent to her, a heart-shaped cardboard picture frame I decorated in either second or fourth grade by gluing hundreds of painted pasta shells into place, just so. I find my father’s Cleveland Browns shot glass, which I recall him using as a toothpick holder. I find a letter from my mother to my father, trying to mend a rift after a fight, and it feels like something I should never have seen. Toward the bottom of one box, I find Mom’s brand-new passport, the one she had renewed for her planned trip to Greece. She was going to go with her friends the year Dad

The Mysteries of Udolpho.txt

would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.' The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to Drag at each remove a lengthening chain. He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its magnificence. Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay. The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all around. They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step. The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the

Confidence_-a-Novel.txt

to prove that any fraud is taking place?” “We have concrete evidence,” Karl insisted. “We’ve spoken to scientists, data specialists. We’ve planted informants on the Farm, people who are telling us that this stuff really, really does not work.” “Isn’t that entrapment?” “Couldn’t you argue,” Karl said, “that what Mr. Ortman is doing to these so-called NuLifers could also be defined as entrapment?” “I just don’t see how any of these people are trapped. People have choices. This is a free market. You can vote with your dollar for whatever type of business you want to. It doesn’t seem right to police people’s freedom.” “I’m not trying to police anything,” Karl said. “But it sounds like you are.” A fourth voice: “It sounds like you’re trying to pick apart a successful business model and a frankly quite inspiring public figure for your own benefit.” “Well, if you find him inspiring, I can’t exactly help that—” Karl began. “By your terms, it sounds like any legitimate business could be described as a pyramid scheme.” And before Karl could answer: “Where’s the CFO in all of this?” “Ezra Green is, in my opinion, a pawn of Orson Ortman,” Karl said, and the PowerPoint skipped ahead several slides to a graphic of the company masthead arrayed like a crime family: Orson at the top, followed by me and Elaine, then Delpy and Renhauser, all the way down to faceless gray boxes labeled “Farm residents.” “I don’t really think Ezra Green is engineering anything,” Karl said. “He’s passive. Everyone’s just doing their job except for Mr. Ortman, who invents his own rules. At best, they’re completely clueless like Mr. Green. At worst, they’re fleecing people while hiding behind corporate bureaucracy. A bunch of Eichmanns with stock options.” I snorted and poured myself another shot, nearly missing the glass. “Don’t you think that’s kind of a harsh comparison, Mr. Rothenberg?” “Any other questions?” Karl asked, his voice shaking. I told Brianna I’d seen enough and she switched off the TV. I felt bad for Karl. I felt bad for myself. There were thousands of places I would rather have been than sitting in my office with Brianna, blinking through my tunnel vision as distant purrs of thunder accompanied the occasional flash of lightning outside. “It feels like everything’s falling apart,” Brianna said. “Nothing’s falling apart. You’d be the first to know if everything was falling apart.” “I think I’d be the last to know.” I fixed her in my gaze. It was a little frightening to be almost drunk on top of being almost blind. “Do you want three hundred million dollars?” “What?” “As a bonus.” “Ez, what are you talking about? Where would that money come from?” I shrugged and poured another shot. “You’ve been loyal,” I said. “You’ve kept all my secrets.” “I have no idea where the money would come from, though.” “Does it matter? It’d come from somewhere.” She screwed up her face. It seemed like she really wanted to know where the money would come from. “It’d come from a shell Elaine

Confidence_-a-Novel.txt

had to say it,” I said. “Ez, please—I need you to give me the tabs back.” I obediently fished the gold case from my pocket and put it in her hand. “We have to do damage control,” she said. Behind me: a voice, elegant, reverse aged: “Ezra.” We both turned. Susan Lehigh emerged from the banquet room door into the lobby, her heels clicking, her smile inquisitive. “Very impressive,” she said. “And sweet of you to dedicate that to me.” She was fuzzing in and out, her image overtaken by something like the static on an old television screen. “We’re just on our way home,” Brianna said, her voice thick with fake apology. “Yes, go get some rest,” she said. “Good night, Ezra.” “Good night,” I said. “I’m not afraid of you.” And then Brianna dragged me out the door. * * * I got a text from Orson: come to the Farm. I took a company helicopter, Elaine picking at her cuticles across from me, flicking the dry and twisted ribbons of skin onto the floor between us. “Your lifestyle has to be aspirational,” she said. “There’s nothing about my lifestyle that’s aspirational,” I said. “I mean there is, there’s an essential part that is: you’re very rich. People want to know how they can get very rich like you.” Her gaze wandered out the window, where there were unremarkable clouds suspended in an unremarkable sky. “So give them something weird, something more marketable than losing your mind at a banquet. Maybe you should get your dogteeth removed and replaced with silver ones or eat only shellfish or do a triathlon.” “Can you see me doing a triathlon?” She looked at me lazily and then looked back down at her cuticles. I checked the share price on my phone. It was down 5 percent since the dinner. “This isn’t anything you can’t recover from,” she said, reading my mind. The thrill of being in the same place as Orson, of knowing I was about to see him, was tempered by the fact that I knew I’d done something wrong, and both at once made it difficult to know exactly how I was feeling as Elaine and I made our way through the throng of Wholeness attendees sprawled across the property. They picked at the grass or offered us flowers or sang a song I deduced was about the “divine love” between Orson and Emily. Many of them were unbathed, and the stench was invasive: I imagined it clinging to my suit, melting the moisturizer from my skin. Elaine went so far as to hold her nose. “Doing that makes you look like you hate them,” I said. “I don’t care,” she said. “They smell disgusting.” The farmhouse was crowded, too, but with cleaner devotees. Chuck and Priscilla Enner were hosting some kind of meditation session in the living room, and when they saw me, they waved, Priscilla instructing her students to “take a solo plunge into the abyss” for five minutes. “Ez, it’s been too long since we’ve seen you up

Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt

started off-balance, Finn has been all in on this relationship for longer than I have. He’s never wavered. And sure, he’s probably more famous than I’ll ever be, even if he’s not a household name—but he’s never made me feel like my career, as nebulous as it is, doesn’t matter. “It was never just professional for me,” I continue, “not even at the beginning. Maybe that means I should have been fired. Maybe I shouldn’t have ever taken the job, but that would have meant that we’d never have gotten as close as we did. And—and I never would have fallen for you.” I take a step closer. “We never would have pushed each other and realized that while we can do great things on our own . . . I think we can also be pretty great together.” The look on his face could rip me apart and put me back together. I force myself not to glance away, to meet that gaze with my own vulnerability. “I’m so deeply in love with you, and whatever my life looks like after this book—I want you in it.” Before I can take another breath, his arms are around me, heat and comfort and relief. “I love you so much, sweetheart,” he says into my hair, his hand cradling the back of my neck. Thumb skimming up my ear. “I adore you. The amount of makeup they had to apply to hide my dark circles—I was so miserable after you left. I get why you had to do it, but all I’ve been able to think about is whether you’d come back.” I bring a fingertip to the space beneath his eyes, brushing along his skin. “You look pretty great to me.” When we kiss, it feels like the first deep breath I’ve taken all week. Over and over, I tell him I love him, because suddenly I can’t stop saying it. “So . . . long distance?” he asks. “Because I think we’d be really fantastic at sexting.” I can’t help laughing at that—he’s probably right. “We’ll figure it out,” I tell him, because the uncertainty doesn’t scare me anymore. “But I’m not ready to live together just yet.” “Okay, but I will be over frequently. In your bed. And maybe in the kitchen shirtless making pancakes and veggie bacon on weekends.” “I am not opposed to any of that.” He holds me tighter, letting me burrow into his chest. “I’m so glad you took the risk,” he whispers into my ear. “That’s the thing,” I say to his heartbeat. Soft and steady and true. “With you, it doesn’t feel like one. It just feels like home.” FROM THE SCREEN TO THE PAGE, FINN WALSH HAS RANGE Vulture Finn Walsh has a lot to smile about these days. The former Nocturnals star’s memoir debuted at number four on the New York Times bestseller list last month, with proceeds going to his new nonprofit Healthy Minds, which is designed to make therapy accessible to creatives with financial barriers. He’s also been spotted across

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.txt

the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl. CHAPTER XI. "COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer." I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "What might your name be?" "Sarah Williams." "Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighbor- hood?' "No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out." "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something." "No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?" "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet." "No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeared of the dark." She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her rela- tions up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone -- and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and

Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.txt

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 President grinned. As he grinned his heart screamed unbearably and he fingered the small Paralyso-Matic bomb that nestled quietly in his pocket. Finally he could bear it no more. He lifted his heads up to the sky, let out a wild whoop in major thirds, threw the bomb to the ground and ran forward through the sea of suddenly frozen smiles. ================================================================= Chapter 5 Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons. His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead. His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of up to a thousand feet with no ill effects. Not that he ever went swimming of course. His busy schedule would not allow it. He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet's virgin shores... when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution ad simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake. They never evolved again; they should never have survived. The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thick- willed slug-brained stubbornness of these creatures. Evolution? they said to themselves, Who needs it?, and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the grosser anatomical inconveniences with surgery. Meanwhile, the natural forces on the planet

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

The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the tram conductor with his fists clenched. Up the street others followed these two, striking and shouting. Down towards the town, men and women were running, and he noticed clearly one man coming out of a shop-door with a stick in his hand. "Spread out! Spread out!" cried some one. Kemp suddenly grasped the altered condition of the chase. He stopped and looked round, panting. "He's close here!" he cried. "Form a line across--" "Aha!" shouted a voice. He was hit hard under the ear, and went reeling, trying to face round towards his unseen antagonist. He just managed to keep his feet, and he struck a vain counter in the air. Then he was hit again under the jaw, and sprawled headlong on the ground. In another moment a knee compressed his diaphragm, and a couple of eager hands gripped his throat, but the grip of one was weaker than the other; he grasped the wrists, heard a cry of pain from his assailant, and then the spade of the navvy came whirling through the air above him, and struck something with a dull thud. He felt a drop of moisture on his face. The grip at his throat suddenly relaxed, and with a convulsive effort Kemp loosed himself, grasped a limp shoulder, and rolled uppermost. He gripped the unseen elbows near the ground. "I've got him!" screamed Kemp. "Help! Help! hold! He's down! Hold his feet!" In another second there was a simultaneous rush upon the struggle, and a stranger coming into the road suddenly might have thought an exceptionally savage game of Rugby football was in progress. And there was no shouting after Kemp's cry--only a sound of blows and feet and a heavy breathing. Then came a mighty effort, and the Invisible Man threw off a couple of his antagonists and rose to his knees. Kemp clung to him in front like a hound to a stag, and a dozen hands gripped, clutched, and tore at the Unseen. The tram conductor suddenly got the neck and shoulders and lugged him back. Down went the heap of struggling men again and rolled over. There was, I am afraid, some savage kicking. Then suddenly a wild scream of "Mercy! Mercy!" that died down swiftly to a sound like choking. "Get back, you fools!" cried the muffled voice of Kemp, and there was a vigorous shoving back of stalwart forms. "He's hurt, I tell you. Stand back!" There was a brief struggle to clear a space, and then the circle of eager eyes saw the doctor kneeling, as it seemed, fifteen inches in the air, and holding invisible arms to the ground. Behind him a constable gripped invisible ankles. "Don't you leave go of en," cried the big navvy, holding a bloodstained spade; "he's shamming." "He's not shamming," said the doctor, cautiously raising his knee; "and I'll hold him." His face was bruised and already going red; he spoke thickly because of a bleeding lip. He released one hand and seemed to be feeling at the face. "The mouth's all wet,"

Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey.txt

while horror and revulsion roll off him. Holy fuck. “Note?” My voice mirrors his. 244/551 “Addressed to me.” “What did it say?” Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t di- vulge its contents. Oh. “Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.” Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me. “Shit,” I mutter. “Quite,” Christian says tightly. I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged? “I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.” “I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.” “Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused. “Yeah. There’s something there.” “I still don’t understand.” Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.” “I thought you were born here in Seattle,” I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches be- hind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head. “No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Mia was adopted here.” “So Jack is from Detroit?” 246/551 “Yes.” Oh . . . “How do you know?” “I ran a background check when you went to work for him.” Of course he did. “Do you have a manila file on him, too?” I smirk. Christian’s mouth twists as he hides his amusement. “I think it’s pale blue.” His fingers continue to run through my hair. It’s soothing. “What does it say in his file?” Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. “You really want to know?” “Is it that bad?” He shrugs. “I’ve known worse,” he whispers. No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest. “What?” he asks, puzzled by my reaction. “Nothing,” I murmur. “No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?” I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. “Sometimes I picture you as a child . . . before you came to live with the Greys.” Christian stiffens. “I wasn’t talking about me. I don’t want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone.” “It’s not pity,”

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

USS-Lincoln.txt

within him—a calculated risk that could turn the tide. With a resolute nod, J-Dog signaled his squadron to follow. He executed a daring maneuver, plunging his Arrow directly into the heart of the enemy formation. The dragonflies swarmed, their ghostly forms engulfing his ship. It was a high-stakes gamble—one that demanded split-second timing. As the dragonflies converged, J-Dog’s finger hovered over the trigger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he unleashed a barrage of Phazon Pulsar bolts, saturating the air with radiant energy. The concentrated firepower tore through the nanite cloud, rending it asunder. A shock wave rippled through space, fragments of the defeated dragonflies drifting aimlessly. The sight of their vanquished foes buoyed the spirits of J-Dog’s squadron. It had been but a small victory painted against mounting losses. They regrouped, seizing the opportunity to press the offensive. A renewed fervor coursed through their veins as they engaged another band of dragonflies, employing J-Dog’s innovative tactics to dismantle the ethereal threat. But as effective as J-Dog’s tactics were, they would be nowhere near effective enough to take out an entire squadron of dragonflies. Doing his best to keep the growing dread from creeping into his psyche, he continued to rally his pilots onward over the open channel. This wasn’t sustainable … Fuel was finite, losses through attrition, they were playing a losing game, and, of course, they all knew it. His comms crackled to life. “… Dog, get out of there … all of you … You don’t want to be anywhere near any of those alien fighters.” He recognized Akari, Ballbuster’s, voice. J-Dog gave the order. “Arrows … time for us to bug out of here!” The mass exodus from the battle sphere must have left the dragonflies scratching their respective heads, but only for a moment. It was Adams that fired off the first constrained electromagnetic pulse swath—one that would have been invisible to see but for the incendiary reactions upon the dragonflies. Unable to disseminate their nanites as usual, the dragonfly fighters exploded, momentary fireballs quickly quelled within the vacuum of space. Wrath and Portent were now following suit with their own EMP discharges. One by one, the dragonflies met their demise, their evasive tactics rendered futile against the three warships’ relentless onslaught. The battle space became a theater of explosions and shattered nanite clouds. But J-Dog, along with what remained of his squadron, all of them observing from a distance, wondered if he was missing something here. Self-congratulations were easy, that this small victory was a testament to US Space-Navy resilience and tactical brilliance. But now, as he watched with trepidation what was left of the vaporous, sparkling nanite cloud … it floated away, as if languidly being pushed along by a warm summer’s breeze. A breeze taking it in the direction of Adams, Wrath, and Portent… J-Dog brought his attention to the few remaining outlier dragonflies. “We still got some clean-up here, boys and girls. Over,” he said over the open channel. His pilots were making fast work of them, yet the victory had come

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

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

hat coming towards him down the slope of the bridge with little steps, tightly buttoned into his chocolate overcoat, and holding his furled umbrella a span or two from him like a divining rod. It must be eleven, he thought, and peered into a dairy to see the time. The clock in the dairy told him that it was five minutes to five but, as he turned away, he heard a clock somewhere near him, but unseen, beating eleven strokes in swift precision. He laughed as he heard it for it made him think of McCann, and he saw him a squat figure in a shooting jacket and breeches and with a fair goatee, standing in the wind at Hopkins' corner, and heard him say: --Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself. I'm not. I'm a democrat and I'll work and act for social liberty and equality among all classes and sexes in the United States of the Europe of the future. Eleven! Then he was late for that lecture too. What day of the week was it? He stopped at a newsagent's to read the headline of a placard. Thursday. Ten to eleven, English; eleven to twelve, French; twelve to one, physics. He fancied to himself the English lecture and felt, even at that distance, restless and helpless. He saw the heads of his classmates meekly bent as they wrote in their notebooks the points they were bidden to note, nominal definitions, essential definitions and examples or dates of birth or death, chief works, a favourable and an unfavourable criticism side by side. His own head was unbent for his thoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked around the little class of students or out of the window across the desolate gardens of the green an odour assailed him of cheerless cellar-damp and decay. Another head than his, right before him in the first benches, was poised squarely above its bending fellows like the head of a priest appealing without humility to the tabernacle for the humble worshippers about him. Why was it that when he thought of Cranly he could never raise before his mind the entire image of his body but only the image of the head and face? Even now against the grey curtain of the morning he saw it before him like the phantom of a dream, the face of a severed head or death-mask, crowned on the brows by its stiff black upright hair as by an iron crown. It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor, in the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the jaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly smiling; and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all the tumults and unrest and longings in his soul, day after day and night by night, only to be answered by his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that it was the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those whom he had not power

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

I remember how my father spent the whole day complaining about the rich bastards who’d built the palatial homes there. God knows what he’d say about Hope’s End, which eclipses those stately mansions in that snooty town. It’s bigger. Grander. This wouldn’t be out of place on Dallas or Dynasty or any of those other silly primetime soaps my mother used to watch. Three stories tall and seemingly as wide as a cruise ship, the mansion is a marvel of Gilded Age excess. The walls are redbrick. Around the front double doors and all the windows is marble detailing that serves no purpose except to show how much money the Hope family once had. A ton of it, to judge by the amount of sculpted curves and curlicues on display. The windows of the third floor retain the marble but jut from the pitched roof, which is topped by a dozen narrow chimneys that look like candles atop an ornate birthday cake. At the gate is a small intercom system. I roll down my window and stretch to press it. Thirty seconds pass before it crackles to life in a burst of static, followed by a woman’s voice. “Yes.” It’s not a question. In fact, the way she says it is packed with as much impatience as three letters can hold. “Hi. I’m Kit McDeere.” I pause to allow the source of the voice to also introduce herself. She doesn’t, prompting me to add, “I’m with Gurlain Home Health Aides. I’m the new care—” The woman interrupts me with a terse “Come up to the house” before the intercom goes silent. In front of the car, the gate starts to open, giving off a nervous shimmy, as if spooked by my presence. It creaks as it slowly swings wider, making me wonder how often Hope’s End welcomes guests. Not a lot, I assume, when the gate rattles to a stop even though it’s only halfway open. I inch the car forward, trying to gauge if there’s enough room to pass by. There isn’t. Not if I want to keep both of my side mirrors, which I very much do. My budget, such as it is, doesn’t include car repairs. I’m about to get out of the car and push on the gate myself when a man’s voice calls out in the distance. “Is it stuck again?” The source of the voice comes closer, pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with fallen leaves. He’s handsome, I notice. Mid-thirties. In very good shape, as far as I can tell, under his flannel shirt and dirt-streaked jeans. He has a full beard and hair grown a little too long so that it curls slightly at the back of his neck. I’d be interested under different circumstances. Completely different. Living-another-existence different. Just like car repairs, my life doesn’t have room for romantic entanglements. And no, Kenny doesn’t count. “I don’t know about the other time,” I say through the open window, “but it’s certainly stuck now.” “You should have said times,” the man replies, flashing a smile that’s

Rachel-Lynn-Solomon-Business-or-Pleasure.txt

been debating ordering a basket ever since I sat down. And yet. Drew saying it sounds like a bad line could fully be a line, I realize that, but maybe I’m not ready to go back to Noemie’s house and feel sorry for myself. This isn’t something I’d ever do, and yet in this moment, that feels like exactly the reason to say yes. I could toss my half-empty cider and get drunk on his attention alone. I grab my wallet, throwing a few dollars down on the bar. “Let’s get out of here.” * * * We’re on a mission, Drew and I: find the perfect late-night slice of pizza. The first restaurant we tried was closed and the second only served full pies, and now we’re on our way to a place I swear is right around here somewhere . . . “There!” I point to a flashing green Open sign on the corner, the delicious savory scent tugging us closer. It’s almost ten p.m. and Capitol Hill is just waking up. So far on our walk, I’ve learned that Drew lives in Southern California and he’s in town for work. He’s been to Seattle a few times but never had the chance to really explore, so I’ve made it my unofficial goal to show him as much as I can. I can’t remember the last time I was out on a Friday night, and it suddenly feels so full of possibility that I’m a little dizzy. Uncertain on my feet, so much that when I stumble across the pizzeria’s threshold, Drew steadies me with a hand to my lower back, that warm rush of contact going straight to my head. “I’m relieved for you,” he says as we take our place in line. “I was about to be very disappointed in Seattle.” The place is staffed by two aging punk rockers, Mudhoney playing over the sound system. I can always respect a Seattle establishment paying tribute to the Northwest’s long history of excellent bands. We may not have an abundance of by-the-slice pizza joints, but we know our music. Everyone clustered inside is in various stages of their nights: a trio of girls with flawless makeup and matching jumpsuits, a couple on what appears to be a first date, a group of college kids looking absolutely trashed, a shocking number of empty bottles covering their table. Drew gestures for me to go first, so I order a slice of pepperoni roughly the size of a Yield sign while he asks for a garden veggie. A guy with a tattoo of what I think might be the old Kingdome on his neck eyes the pie for a moment before selecting the largest slice, piled with green peppers, mushrooms, olives, and artichokes. When the cashier gives us plastic cups for the soda we order, Drew spends a moment inspecting his before filling it up with Sprite. “Just making sure it’s clean,” he says with this sheepish smile. It makes sense—this hole-in-the-wall’s hygiene is questionable at best. There are no chairs, only

1984.txt

was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of THE BOOK, he knew that that must be Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen, strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill. 'Do you remember,' he said, 'the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at the edge of the wood?' 'He wasn't singing to us,' said Julia. 'He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.' The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan--everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four. 'We are the dead,' he said. 'We are the dead,' echoed Julia dutifully. 'You are the dead,' said an iron voice behind them. They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath. 'You are the dead,' repeated the iron voice. 'It was behind the picture,' breathed Julia. 'It was behind the picture,' said the voice. 'Remain exactly where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.' It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late--no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it.

Pineapple Street.txt

to us on VHS. The story was on MSNBC, too. The one where the judge said the swimmer was so promising. The one where the rapist reminded the judge of himself as a young rapist. It was the one where her body was never found. It was the one where her body was found in the snow. It was the one where he left her body for dead under the tarp. It was the one where she walked around in her skin and her bones for the rest of her life but her body was never recovered. You know the one. The pizza was at the door. Oliver found us plates. He said, “So who’s watching your kids while you’re here?” 12 I took forever to fall asleep, and then woke too early, stewing over whether you’d in fact been a “creeper.” The idea bothered me, and I needed to weigh it—a strange marble I found I was holding in my hand. There were kids who thought you were cute, or at least you were the answer if they had to confess a teacher they crushed on. The girls loved that your cheeks blotched red when you got up at colloquium to make announcements, and some boys did, too, I’m sure. Red cheeks and dark hair are a compelling combination. And you certainly had your cult, the kids who wouldn’t only stop by your classroom but would sign up to carol with you on the town green or to watch the screwball comedies you screened. Occasionally they’d save you a seat at their dinner table, convince you to eat with them. This was a subset of the choir and orchestra kids, the ones who took private lessons, the musical theater divas like Beth and Sakina and Thalia who thought they could flatter their way into a lead. I’d never have gone caroling, wasn’t part of the group that got up onstage to surprise you with that German drinking song on your birthday—but I did feel free to stop by just to talk shop, as if we were colleagues. I felt you were my teacher, in a way Mr. Dar, for instance, whose history teaching seemed secondary to his hockey coaching, was not. Mr. Dar belonged to the hockey players, but you, you were mine and Fran’s and Carlotta’s, you belonged to the music kids and the speech geeks and the Italian club, to these tiny pockets of the school, not to everyone. I’ll never know why, when you arrived my sophomore year, Mrs. Ross decided I was the tech kid to throw your way. Maybe she could spare me to work October Follies when she couldn’t spare her juniors and seniors, already busy building the set for Our Town. Follies was just a variety show, after all; it only needed to entertain families at Parents’ Weekend and pad a few seniors’ college portfolios. Because you were new and I’d at least seen Follies the previous fall, I found myself in the odd position of explaining things to you. I saw it as

The-One.txt

push Brody to admit their affair, even in front of Jonah. If Brody confesses to Ethan and his new partner, the whole department will soon know about their affair. It would be out of Ethan’s hands. Being the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead, Sloane would likely be the next one brought in for questioning. She grabs her phone off the counter. She paces the kitchen as she waits for Ethan to answer. Pick up. It goes to voicemail after the third ring. “Ethan, call me back. I need to know you’re on my side.” She sinks onto the barstool that Ethan was just sitting in and cradles her head in her hands. She can’t trust Brody not to tell Ethan in front of Jonah. He’s a man with a lot to lose, and he’s facing more than just murder charges. She climbs off the stool and calls Ethan again as she moves through her living room. It goes to voicemail a second time. She stops and stares out her front window, letting her phone fall to her side. The sky is gray, but there’s still a good hour of daylight left. She lifts her phone, wondering if she should call Brody to warn him not to say anything to Ethan about her in front of Jonah. But that would show up in his phone records, and how would that look, especially to Ethan? She turns from the window and heads upstairs to change. Chapter 25 A light mist falls as Sloane jogs down the sidewalk away from her house. It’s been years since she exercised outside of a gym, and the cool, damp air feels good inside her lungs. She needed to get out of the house, clear her mind. From this proximity, her neighborhood has a slightly unfamiliar feel to it. She usually only sees it from the car—leaving for the hospital before dawn and getting home after sunset. The leaves on the deciduous trees have changed from emerald to bright mustard and crimson. She takes in the neatly trimmed hedges and occasional imported palm that line her street and tries not to dwell on the fact that Ethan hasn’t called her back. She looks at the view of Elliott Bay—the same waters where Chelsea drowned—beyond the bottom of the hill, still visible in the waning daylight, as she jogs between homes. She wonders if she should try calling him again. Instead, she keeps pressing one foot in front of the other. Ethan’s probably already with Jonah on their way to interview Brody. She barely notices the black Maserati that pulls to the curb beside her. She lifts her gaze to the large weeping willow swaying from the breeze in front of the Tudor home to her left. A car door closes. Seconds later, she feels a hand on her shoulder. She whips around and shrieks when she recognizes the man standing before her. Her knees buckle as she starts to run backward. “Sloane!” She falls, tearing the knee of her leggings against the sidewalk. Brody leans over and grabs her

David Copperfield.txt

town, and asked him to walk out with me that afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I would bring him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we made my domestic happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full of it; and said, that, picturing himself with such a home, and Sophy waiting and preparing for him, he could think of nothing wanting to complete his bliss. I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat down, for a little more room. I did not know how it was, but though there were only two of us, we were at once always cramped for room, and yet had always room enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been because nothing had a place of its own, except Jip's pagoda, which invariably blocked up the main thoroughfare. On the present occasion, Traddles was so hemmed in by the pagoda and the guitar-case, and Dora's flower-painting, and my writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the possibility of his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his own good-humour, 'Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!' There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip had never been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner. I began to think there was something disorderly in his being there at all, even if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old friend, and made short runs at his plate, with such undaunted pertinacity, that he may be said to have engrossed the conversation. However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, and how sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hinted no objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the skirmishing plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable appearance of the castors, which were all at sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the further blockade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass that our joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes - and whether our butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world; but I kept my reflections to myself. 'My love,' said I to Dora, 'what have you got in that dish?' I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces at me, as if she wanted to kiss me. 'Oysters, dear,' said Dora, timidly. 'Was that YOUR thought?' said I, delighted. 'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora. 'There never was a happier one!' I exclaimed, laying down the carving-knife and fork. 'There is nothing

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

And all he could think was I can’t lose her, too. I can’t. It would be so satisfying to make love and forget about all the obstacles in their path to matrimonial bliss, but if he took that route, he’d wake up one day and she’d be leaving for New York. His dick would have gotten a workout, fine. But she wouldn’t be any closer to loving him back. Or believing they could go the distance. At this rate, cheesy eighties songs were writing themselves, but who could blame him when she looked so gorgeous in his passenger seat, her left knee bouncing up and down in a nervous gesture that threatened to upend the pie. “Hey.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and brushed his knuckle along the outside of her knee, which turned out to be a big mistake, because Lord God almighty, she was smooth and that kneecap would fit right into his palm. Focus. “Are you nervous because Ingram Meyer is going to be there? Because we’ve got this, Natalie. By the end of the night, he’s going to be so positive that we married for love, he’s going to send us a second wedding gift. Fingers crossed on a chocolate fountain.” She appeared to be on the verge of rolling her eyes, but cut him a sly look instead. “You know, the one from Williams Sonoma doubles as a fondue pot.” He smacked the steering wheel. “Are we positive no one bought us one of those?” “Hallie took our gifts home, and opened and arranged them. Not a single chocolate fountain that doubles as a cheese cauldron, but then again, I wouldn’t put it past Julian’s girlfriend to steal it for herself. She once robbed a cheese shop in broad daylight.” She nodded solemnly at his incredulous eyebrow raise. “How are you so confident we’ll convince Meyer?” Because if that man can’t see I’d die for you, he’s blind. “I’m great at dinner parties. Although in Kansas, we call them barbecues.” Her laughter was kind of dazed. “Dinner with my mother in her formal dining room is far from kicking back with a cold one in someone’s backyard.” “That bad, huh?” His stomach begged him not to ask the next question, but hell, he did it anyway. “Did you ever bring your ex-fiancé home for dinner?” “Morrison? No.” “Fuck yeah.” His fist pump was so involuntary, he almost punched a hole in the roof of the truck. Pull back, tiger. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t have to go through the whole sticky process of detaching your family from the dude, as well. You know how that goes. You don’t just break up with someone, you break up with their family and friends. Such a mess.” Natalie stared. Any second now, she was going to call him on that fist pump and the bullshit that followed. Instead, she asked, “Do you . . . know how that goes? Have you had serious girlfriends?” Somehow, August got the sense that this was a dangerous topic.

Talia-Hibbert-Highly-Suspicious.txt

adult, when I’m successful, when I’m rich, she can lie in bed all day eating Godiva chocolates instead of dragging herself to work. But I’m not rich yet, so all I can say is, “What time did you go to bed last night?” “Bed?” She blinks theatrically. “Oh! After a lifetime of sleeping, I forgot it was necessary. Must be my old lady brain acting up again.” “Isn’t there something in the Bible about sarcasm being a sin?” “No,” Mum says primly. “There should be.” “Pot,” my sister shouts from across the hall, “meet kettle.” “Go away, Giselle,” I shout back. Mum snorts, then arranges her features into a carefully neutral expression. “So. Bradley was concerned about your health, I see? How nice. He is such a sweet boy. You know—” Ah. Here we go: the What happened to you and Bradley being best friends? spiel. “He was just bringing me my textbook,” I cut in, nodding to where it sits on the bedside table. Mum practically pouts. “Oh. Well.” She has this sick and twisted dream that Bradley and I will get married so she and Maria Graeme can be even more like sisters. I’m trying not to vomit at the thought when Mum says, “Oh, what’s this?” and pulls the leaflet out of my textbook. “Private property,” I tell her, “that’s what it is.” “Not in my house.” Mum snorts. Light bounces off the back of the shiny paper and hits the printed logo of Dad’s firm. My heart drops into my stomach. Crap. “Katharine Breakspeare,” Mum says, skimming the page. “You’re going to do this?” Awkwardly, I squeak, “I’m…going to apply.” How the hell do I get that leaflet out of her hand? She can’t see Dad’s name. She’ll get the wrong idea and assume I’m interested in the program because I’m, like, upset about his abandonment or something cringey like that when, in reality, I just want to grind my future success in his traitorous face and possibly ruin his life a little bit. Which I can do without ever bothering her with the details. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get in, baby,” she says fondly. “You’re so clever. I told Mr. Hollis at school about your AS results and he was not surprised. You were the highest-achieving pupil Farndon Primary ever had. I still remember your year-four parents evening….” Year four was just after Dad ditched us. Her hand lowers to the bed as she waxes lyrical about a project I did on the water cycle. Gently, soooo so gently, I ease the leaflet out from between her fingers while mmm-ing in all the right places. “Tea, Mum?” Giselle asks, popping her head into the doorway just as I shove the paper under a pillow. Her eyes narrow on the movement of my hand. I run it casually through my ponytail, and she looks away. That was close. BRAD Was I moaning about the heat on Monday? I want to go back and smack myself because by Thursday evening, the weather’s cold and miserable. Autumn is officially here.

Maame.txt

assistant forum discussing all kinds of things, from pay differences to appropriate work banter. Last year, someone asked: Does your boss pretend your ideas are his? Kieran: No. I’m credited for all my ideas. I might not have the experience to follow it up, but my line manager always lets the team know who came up with what idea, even if it’s tiny. Lia: Same here. I can’t always follow up because I don’t have that training, but I always get a “Lia came up with this great suggestion/congrats” from the team. Georgie: It’s a question of intellectual property belonging to the company you work for. I’m sure you were credited somehow, but don’t expect your name in the Acknowledgments. Steph: They do this because they want to keep you an assistant for longer. It’s better for them to pay you an assistant-level salary rather than acknowledge the position you really should have. An email from Kris pops up. From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Subject: RE: Love Stories It’s so good to hear from you, Maddie, but know there’s no pressure to return to work. If you feel you need to, do only bits of what you can, but we have plenty of breathing space on the schedule for this. Selecting your favorite photographers for Love Stories might be a fun task—see email below. K x I don’t ever get to do anything creative such as choose photographers—I assumed the Design team would do that—but this task must have been given solely to placate me. Still, I click the links to various portfolios and spend the rest of the afternoon going through food websites and photographs, keeping the book’s synopsis in mind. His style is more focused and appealing—the red of tomatoes, the drip of olive oil. Her photos are more ranging; she tells me an entire story in only a few shots. She’s very clean and neat, maybe too much so? Afra uses the words “chaotic expression” and I don’t see that here. He’s very bright and colorful. He’d be great for the summer section but for winter too? Is this too sparse or is it minimalist? Ooh, I like him. Incredible with close-ups. I know it’s an autumnal recipe from that photo alone … Pumpkin tagine—I knew it. Henry VIII royal banquet vibes. She’s good at incorporating people into her photos. Can I pull off that pale pink nail color? * * * I whittle my top eight down to three and send those to Kris, cc’ing in Penny. By three in the afternoon, I have no other responses to my “et al.” email and close my laptop. Jo’s sent a group message to say she’s got a date and will be back late. I immediately wonder if it’s with Sam, and then decide she’d have said if it was. I shouldn’t care if it is, but I do. It’s still warm, so I stay outside with a bottle of cider and respond to more app notifications. I hope there’s one from Alex. Nate Have you dated a white man before?

How to Sell a Haunted House.txt

the wall so the floor wouldn’t creak. On her fifth step a board popped, loud as a gunshot. She froze. She listened for the rustling of sheets. Nothing moved behind Poppy’s door. She took another step and the floor held, then the final step and she felt light-headed. The door swung open, smooth on its hinges. Poppy lay in bed, face to the door, eyes closed, looking like a Pre-Raphaelite painting in the golden glow of her goose nightlight. Pupkin was still on her arm. He was sitting up, legs dangling, looking right at Louise, head cocked to one side, waiting for her. Poppy’s eyes were closed, flickering beneath their lids, her lips parted, her breathing deep and regular. Pupkin looked alert. She must have fallen asleep holding him that way. Louise looked at Pupkin. Pupkin looked at Louise. He didn’t move, but she had the crawling fluttery cockroach feeling in her stomach that if she reached for the light switch his head would track her movements. All she had to do was take three steps and she’d have Pupkin off Poppy’s arm before she even woke up—that was the face Poppy made in deep sleep; that was the sound she made when they could pick her up and carry her upstairs and put her in bed without waking her up. She’d have Pupkin off Poppy’s arm and in the blender before Poppy could even open her eyes. She’d lock the door behind her. She’d leave Poppy in here, even if she banged on it and screamed. Sometimes you had to be cruel in the short term, but that was the price you paid for being an adult. You made the hard decisions and hoped that one day your kids would understand how everything you did was for their own good. She breathed in, gathered all her strength into the center of her stomach, then let her breath flow out and carry that strength into her arms, her legs, her spine. She took her weight off her left leg to step forward, and Pupkin moved. She stopped. He raised one tiny nubbin arm and lowered it, lifted it again and lowered it, waving to Louise, up and down, up and down, again and again, smiling his fixed sly smile. Bye-bye, his arm said. Bye-bye Bye-bye Poppy didn’t move. She stayed asleep, face blank, breathing regular, eyes closed. Pupkin waggled his head from side to side. He waved both arms. He thought this was a funny game. All the strength flowed down Louise’s legs and into the floor. Slowly, carefully, she stepped backward out of the room. Quietly, she closed the door and let the latch slide home. Then she sat on the sofa and waited for her hands to stop shaking. Chapter 30 A steady, piercing beep beep beep beep beep. Louise hauled herself up out of deep sleep and looked around, panicked. beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep The sunlight splashed the wall at the end of her bed like it always did. The angle of the light through

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.txt

lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises -- a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt. Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face -- but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went -- came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her --------------------------------------------------------- -56- worlds -- and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought). Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked -- partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out: "Tom." "Oh, no, not Tom -- it is -- " "Thomas." "Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very well. But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?" "Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say sir . You mustn't forget your manners." "Thomas Sawyer -- sir." "That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many -- very, very great many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll --------------------------------------------------------- -57- be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood -- it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn -- it's all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible -- a splendid elegant Bible -- to keep and have it all for my own, always -- it's all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas -- and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses -- no indeed you wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned -- no, I know you wouldn't -- for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?" Tom was tugging at a button-hole and

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

Lisa-See-Lady-Tan_s-Circle-of-Women.txt

answers. Grandmother and Grandfather taught me early on never to reveal my surprise when a patient discloses something disturbing. “So you still get your monthly moon water?” Oriole glances at Meiling, questioningly. “The problem is not that she gets it,” Meiling explains. “It’s that it never stops.” “When and how did that start?” I ask. “Once when I had my monthly moon water, my husband spent the day in town and I had to carry all the bricks myself. My labors didn’t end until long after darkness fell. I had nonstop flooding for three months. This turned into nonstop dribbling for three years.” Three years? My next question is an obvious one. “Has medicine helped?” Oriole shakes her head, and Meiling chimes in. “How can medicine work if she hasn’t been given a proper diagnosis?” “Oriole, you are alone here today,” I comment, hoping this might bring forth more information. “My husband is often away,” she says. “He sees to the delivery of our bricks. He likes to visit taverns too. And other places…” Her face turns a deep vermilion. Does she flush from embarrassment that her husband visits women who sell their bodies or from resentment and anger? “When he’s away,” she continues with emotion in her voice, “I’m left to carry and stack the bricks and tiles we make. Many nights I sleep alone.” I nod sympathetically. I too spend many nights alone in my marriage bed. “May I listen to your pulse?” I ask. I’ve been studying medicine and treating women for years now. I feel confident, but I take my time, palpating to reach the three levels on both her wrists. Her pulse is as I expect. Thin, like fine thread, yet distinct and clear. I mull over her symptoms—the constant spotting, especially—and possibilities for treatment, knowing I can never ask Grandmother’s advice on this case. “You’re suffering from Spleen qi deficiency and injured Kidney yin caused by taxation from toil,” I offer. “This type of deep fatigue can come from too much work or from extreme mental doings like studying too hard.” “I sleep—” “A single night of sleep will not allow your body to catch up. Taxation from toil is deep. Look what it has already done to you. If I write you a prescription, will you be able to fill it?” “Oriole can go where she wants,” Meiling answers on behalf of the brickmaker. “Then here is what I would like you to do. First, please have the herbalist make you a Decoction to Supplement the Center and Boost Qi.” I don’t know if any of this will matter to Oriole, but I take the time to explain anyway. “This is a classic remedy from a book called Profound Formulas. My grandmother says she has the last copy in existence.” Oriole’s eyes widen as she absorbs this information. “The most important ingredient is one that we women rely on. Astragalus will help your fatigue and Blood prostration. I’m adding my own ideas to your prescription. Skullcap root purges Fire and inflammation. Nut grass rhizome not

Emma.txt

agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of-- and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal." "And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?" Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush. "None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves." "Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?-- To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!" "I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not have heard." "You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady." "True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe." At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for-- and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said

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,

treasure island.txt

the party struck out at a actually been taken away except the captain’s money-bag and bouncing trot on the road to Dr. Livesey’s house. a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we were ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene. “They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were they after? More money, I suppose?” “No, sir; not money, I think,” replied I. “In fact, sir, I believe I have the thing in my breast pocket; and to tell you the truth, I should like to get it put in safety.” “To be sure, boy; quite right,” said he. “I’ll take it, if you like.” “I thought perhaps Dr. Livesey—” I began. “Perfectly right,” he interrupted very cheerily, “perfectly right—a gentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to Contents think of it, I might as well ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew’s dead, when all’s done; not Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 46 47 the hall buildings looked on either hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted, and taking me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house. The servant led us down a matted passage and showed us at the end into a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon the top of them, where the squire and Dr. Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of a bright fire. I had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready face, all roughened and reddened Chapter 6. and lined in his long travels. His eyebrows were very black, The Captain’s Papers. and moved readily, and this gave him a look of some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high. WE rode hard all the way till we drew up before Dr. “Come in, Mr. Dance,” says he, very stately and conde- Livesey’s door. The house was all dark to the front. scending. Mr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger “Good evening, Dance,” says the doctor with a nod. “And gave me a stirrup to descend by. The door was opened almost good evening to you, friend Jim. What good wind brings at once by the maid. you here?” “Is Dr. Livesey in?” I asked. The supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his No, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gone up to the hall to dine and pass the evening with the gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and for- squire. got to smoke in their surprise and interest. When they heard “So there we go, boys,” said Mr. Dance. how my mother went back to the inn, Dr. Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried “Bravo!” and broke his long Contents This time, as the

Frankenstein.txt

have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I

Alex-Hay-The-Housekeepers.txt

morning. I’ll smooth the way for you. Breathe a word to anyone that you know me and I’ll skin you alive.” Mrs. King put out her hand. It was sheathed in a calfskin glove, ivory colored. It was lovely. “Do we have a deal?” Mother had small hands, too. It had been Alice’s job to button Mother’s gloves, keep her tidy, properly put together. Mrs. King had abandoned those chores long ago. Alice congratulated herself for not giving anything away. For of course she was in trouble, about as deep as you could get. Sometimes it made the bile rise right up in her throat. All she’d wanted was to make a decent living. Shop girls looked so crisp and composed. She’d yearned to be one. Father had trained her behind the haberdasher’s bench, and she knew she was skilled with a needle, but she wasn’t about to be sweated out for nothing. She could sketch a garment faster than most girls could brush their hair. Even her plain work was tighter, more delicate, more perfect than any pattern. She swiped all the illustrated papers she could find, inhaled the advertisements. Alice studied the popular fashions as if under a microscope, watching the lines shifting each season: lengthening, narrowing, tilting forward at the bust, sweeping around the hips. Secretly, she longed to design her own. But she needed to be apprenticed. And that required cash. It wasn’t hard to get a loan. She had her wits about her—she knew all about sharks. There were women in the neighborhood who’d pawned everything they owned and still couldn’t pay off their debts. Alice scorned them. She went to a woman called Miss Spring, who kept a very plain and respectable house on Bell Lane. Miss Spring had a soft voice, and gentle manners, and kept immaculate oilcloths. She listened to Alice’s request, took scrupulous notes, and offered an advance against future wages—calculated at seven-and-six a week, no need for sureties, all agreed on note of hand alone. Alice spent six months as a machinist before she made it to the workroom bench, and she only made three shillings a week. Even the experienced girls were only making five-and-six. Alice watched her debt rising slowly, like a tide, pooling around her ankles. She visited Miss Spring’s house and found it boarded up. But the men who took the repayments still turned up every fortnight, teeth gleaming. She met them on the lane at the end of the road, where Father couldn’t see them. “Next week,” she said. “I’ll catch up next week.” “Of course, miss,” they said, all courtesy. “You take your time.” It would have been better if they’d got out a lead pipe to beat her, if they’d sent her screaming down the lane. Then she could have gone running for help without feeling any shame. As it was, she had the upside-down feeling of being sucked deeper and deeper into something she couldn’t control, something that presaged disaster—for there was only one way things could go with a bad debt. She told

Great Expectations.txt

a downcast heart. "Not a particle of evidence, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head and gathering up his skirts. "Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. There's no better rule." "I have no more to say," said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for a little while. "I have verified my information, and there's an end." "And Magwitch - in New South Wales - having at last disclosed himself," said Mr. Jaggers, "you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my communication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of fact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of fact. You are quite aware of that?" "Quite, sir." "I communicated to Magwitch - in New South Wales - when he first wrote to me - from New South Wales - the caution that he must not expect me ever to deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the law. I gave Magwitch that caution," said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at me; "I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt." "No doubt," said I. "I have been informed by Wemmick," pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking hard at me, "that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Purvis, or--" "Or Provis," I suggested. "Or Provis - thank you, Pip. Perhaps it is Provis? Perhaps you know it's Provis?" "Yes," said I. "You know it's Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Provis, asking for the particulars of your address, on behalf of Magwitch. Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by return of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received the explanation of Magwitch - in New South Wales?" "It came through Provis," I replied. "Good day, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand; "glad to have seen you. In writing by post to Magwitch - in New South Wales - or in communicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention that the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to you, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining. Good day, Pip!" We shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I turned at the door, and he was still looking hard at me, while the two vile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open, and to force out of their swollen throats, "O,

Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

a kiss that starts small, mindful of the fact that we are on television, sharing this moment with millions. But a cocktail of emotion rises in me—infatuation, relief, elation, and desire—and I can’t help the way my hand rises to his neck, the way my mouth softens against the full bow of his upper lip, the delectable swell of his lower lip, the curved, amused corner. Without question, it will be clear to everyone watching that we have done this before. As soon as our eyes open, a blast of a smile takes over my face. “I love you, too.” And then I suck in a breath and rip the envelope open. fifty-one Post-Finale Confessional Transcript Connor Prince: Well. Felicity Chen. Here we are. Fizzy Chen: Here we are. Connor: How are you feeling? Fizzy: I’m feeling like I was driven across town to film a confessional in this trailer when I should have been driven to your house to film our first sex tape. Connor: [laughs] I mean about tonight, the finale, and the revelation of our score, you muppet. Fizzy: Oh, it was the best night of my life. The surprises, the celebration with everyone onstage, the after-party. Connor: God, there are going to be some horrendous hangovers tomorrow. Fizzy: Tex was drinking beer out of his hat. Connor: I don’t think Nick ever found his shoes. Fizzy: Yes, well, some poor choices were made, but not by us. Connor: Indeed. Our night is only going to get better. Fizzy: Promise? Connor: Oh, I promise. Fizzy: In that case, I think it’s fitting that our score falls in the category of Titanium Matches. [winks at the camera] Connor: I believe that’s an erection joke and I’m going to move on. Fizzy: You always assume I’m being dirty. Maybe it was just a joke about the strength of our bond. Connor: Was it? Fizzy: No, it was an erection joke. Connor: You are ensuring that this footage never sees the light of day, aren’t you? Fizzy: When were you going to show this anyway? The finale was live! Connor: I presume there will be demand for a follow-up or reunion episode of some sort. Brenna said “trending” and “viral” about seven hundred times tonight. Fizzy: Okay, then just edit my boner joke out with bleeps and eggplant emojis; what’s so hard? Connor: Ah, note to self to add a cymbal crash there. Fizzy: See, I didn’t even mean to make that pun! You’re as bad as I am. Connor: Maybe that’s why this is true love. Fizzy: I think with a score of eighty-eight, there are a lot of reasons why this is true love. Connor: Why don’t you come over here and show me one? [Editor’s note: Minutes three to twenty-seven have been intentionally cut from footage.] Connor: Right. We’ll cut that. Fizzy: You’ve got lipstick on your… just there. Connor: Ah. Cheers. All right. Where were we? Fizzy: True love. Connor: True love. Fizzy: Our happily ever after. Connor: The one thing you promise your readers when they pick

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

The-One.txt

pregnant straight out of high school, her parents kicked her out of the house. Sloane’s father went to prison for auto theft three years later, and Crystal packed up her Firebird with Sloane and their few possessions, leaving the small, eastern Washington town for Seattle and never looking back. Sloane’s father died in prison a few years later, and Crystal went from being financially dependent on one deadbeat boyfriend after another. Sloane was lucky to get new clothes the few times her mother could afford to buy them. In her periphery, Brody eases the yoke forward. A colony of harbor seals basks in the sun on a small rocky island that protrudes from the channel. A couple lift their heads as the plane approaches. Sloane closes her eyes seconds before they make impact with the water. The plane glides smoothly across the surface before slowing to a stop. When she opens her eyes, Brody is grinning at her. “Did I worry you?” She exhales. Then, feeling ridiculous, she lets out a short laugh as she releases her grip from the edge of her seat. A splash catches her attention out her side window. She turns to see the seals jumping into the water. Brody taxis toward a long jetty beside a tall, rocky cliffside and moors the plane next to a boat less than half the size of his one on Lake Washington. After climbing out of the plane onto the jetty, Sloane reads the name on the side of the faded vessel: Miss Saigon. Unlike the megayacht moored at Brody’s Lake Washington dock, this boat with its faded paint job and rust-stained exterior shows wear from decades of use. Not what she expected to see at the billionaire’s weekend island home. “She was my dad’s.” Brody stops beside her with her overnight bag slung over his shoulder. “He passed a few years ago and left her to me.” Brody moves up the jetty, and Sloane follows beside him. “I spent nearly every summer on that boat as a kid. My dad would plan a trip to the San Juans every year. He, my mom, and I would stay on the boat and travel around to different islands and scuba dive.” “You scuba dived as a kid?” Sloane tries to hide her surprise. Remembering the shy, nerdy guy he was in college, she pictured the app founder growing up behind a computer screen. Or video games. “My parents were both divers, and they taught me to dive when I was eight.” “You are not at all what I expected.” “Should I take that as a compliment?” She grins when he catches her eye. “I guess I just expected, as an app creator, that you grew up more…indoors.” He chuckles, and Sloane can’t help laughing herself. She admires the color of the water lapping against the dark cliffside. “The water is so much greener than the Sound.” She steps off the jetty and follows Brody up a steep wooden staircase, noting the ease with which he climbs the steps while carrying their bags.

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

Frankenstein.txt

custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. Chapter 22 The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care and attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me! My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. "Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in

Blowback.txt

themselves Anonymous. Are you aware of who that is?” he asked. I was sweating in the hot van. “I’m not,” I responded. “Look, that was a parlor game that happened in Washington, D.C.… I’ve got my own thoughts about who that might be, but I want my focus to be on the president. And I certainly don’t want to—” “You’re not Anonymous?” Anderson interjected. “I wear a mask for two things, Anderson: Halloweens and pandemics. So, no.” For the hundredth time, I lied. Anderson Cooper wasn’t the first person in the media to ask, or the last. My anonymity would’ve survived only fifteen minutes if I’d confessed to the first person who inquired after the 2018 Times op-ed came out. D.C. reporters interrogated everyone. “If asked,” Anonymous told readers, “I will strenuously deny I am the author.” You don’t wear a mask if you plan to brag that you’re undercover. So when Anderson raised the question in August 2020, I stuck with the plan, knowing I’d eventually make the revelation. A few months later, I still hadn’t done it. I was on a cross-country truth crusade against the President of the United States, yet I was maintaining a lie about my identity. The contradiction was splitting me open. I needed someone to talk to about it. But who? Anabel and I were separated. My agents had a financial interest in whether I revealed myself (the revelation would surely affect book sales). And I wasn’t going to phone Jim Dao at the Times and ask him if I should blow up my life. There was one person I thought I could trust, partly because she already suspected me. On an October evening weeks before the 2020 election, I drove to a brewery and stuffed a book in my backpack. At a table in the corner—out of earshot from other patrons—I sat down and ordered a drink alone. I remember the tart guava beer because I had several. A blond-haired woman in her late twenties walked in, drawing stares from the men at the bar. Her magnetic confidence and designer outfit contrasted with the table partner she sought out. From the corner, in my black running clothes, I waved to her. “How are you?” Hannah asked. There was a knowing empathy in her voice when we hugged, and she held the embrace for an extra beat. Hannah had clearly heard about my relationship. “I am… tired.” I feigned a laugh. “I bet. You’ve been everywhere. I’m really proud of you guys.” Hannah had worked with several of the Trump dissenters—me, Elizabeth, Kelly, Olivia. “Thank you. It’s been a ride.” “I heard about Anabel. You probably don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to say I’m really sorry.” “Yeah, I’m getting by. It is what it is.” “My boyfriend and I broke up earlier this year. We were together for five years. So I get it. Staying busy is the best thing you can do, and it seems like you’ve got a full plate.” I didn’t want to talk about it. “Hey,

Wuthering Heights.txt

at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her mas- ter, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel. "Well, Mr. Earnshaw," she cried, "I wonder what you'll have agait next! Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house will never do for me. Look at t' poor lad; he's fair choking!--Wisht, wisht! you munn't go on so. Come in, and I'll cure that. There now, hold ye still." With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment ex- piring quickly in his habitual moroseness. I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy and faint, and thus compelled perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed. CHAPTER III. While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise, for her master had an odd notion about the cham- ber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered. She had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious. Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furni- ture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to ob- viate the necessity for every member of the family hav- ing a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet; and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff and every one else. The ledge where I placed my candle had a few mil- dewed books piled up in one corner, and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, how- ever, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small---Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff and then again to Catherine Linton. In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the win- dow, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw ---Heathcliff---Linton, till my eyes closed. But they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark as vivid as spectres---the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick

Tessa-Bailey-Unfortunately-Yours.txt

arms giving her the sensation of weightlessness? He’d made her feel almost . . . peaceful. Protected. How could the same man who made her want to screech like a banshee get that reaction out of her? No way to know. But the effect of him . . . lingered. Hard. “There was also some talk of giant tent rentals. Giant.” The corkscrew blonde tilted her head, but it was hard to discern whether she was sympathetic or excited. “You’re getting the full Napa wedding treatment whether you like it or not. Corinne is taking the flash-and-awe approach to fooling the local flavor and I want in, too. I’m an agent of chaos, Natalie. I can’t help it, I crave the danger.” “How do I know you’re not on an undercover mission?” Natalie narrowed her eyes over the rim of her mug. “Are you wearing a wire, Welch?” Without a moment’s hesitation, her brother’s girlfriend lifted the Stanford T-shirt to reveal a pair of rainbow panties and two very impressive tatas. She dropped the shirt again after a moment and Natalie hummed into a sip. “What kind of services are you offering?” “Floral arrangements, obviously. But also . . .” Hallie stepped forward, coming farther into the light. “Literally anything nefarious. Namely bachelorette party planning. I got you.” “You’re a little nuts, aren’t you, Hallie?” “I wrote your brother secret admirer letters and got jealous when he wrote me back.” “Good point.” Natalie tapped a finger against the side of her mug. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m entering into this phony union with someone I once called diseased foreskin? Or are you not asking because you already know?” “Julian and I have been talking about . . . you know.” Hallie flushed so rapidly, it was a wonder her legs had enough blood in them to keep her upright. “Marriage. To each other. And he might have mentioned something about a trust fund that will be released once that happens. He’s, um . . . well, he asked if I’d be opposed to him putting that money back into the winery. When the time comes.” A pang caught Natalie in the throat. “Well, he’s a lot more selfless than I am.” “No.” Hallie shook her head. “He’s just in a better position to help at this moment.” “I would help if they asked. If I thought they wanted my help—” She cut herself off with a wave of her hand, forcing a smile. “I appreciate your offer to help, crazy pants. I accept. I will feed your need for chaos as long as you keep my secret among family.” Hallie closed her eyes slowly, hands pressing together between her breasts. “Thank you. I hereby declare myself your secret minion.” “Just don’t ask me to call you that.” Natalie switched off the coffee maker and sauntered toward the hallway, half a cup in hand. Before exiting, she stopped in front of Hallie, who was all but quivering in excitement. “My brother has no idea what he’s gotten into, does he?” “Actually,

The Turn of the Screw.txt

him, at any rate, shut in or shut out. He was admirable, but not comfortable: I took it in with a throb of hope. Wasn't he looking, through the haunted pane, for something he couldn't see?--and wasn't it the first time in the whole business that he had known such a lapse? The first, the very first: I found it a splendid portent. It made him anxious, though he watched himself; he had been anxious all day and, even while in his usual sweet little manner he sat at table, had needed all his small strange genius to give it a gloss. When he at last turned round to meet me, it was almost as if this genius had succumbed. "Well, I think I'm glad Bly agrees with ME!" "You would certainly seem to have seen, these twenty-four hours, a good deal more of it than for some time before. I hope," I went on bravely, "that you've been enjoying yourself." "Oh, yes, I've been ever so far; all round about--miles and miles away. I've never been so free." He had really a manner of his own, and I could only try to keep up with him. "Well, do you like it?" He stood there smiling; then at last he put into two words--"Do YOU?"-- more discrimination than I had ever heard two words contain. Before I had time to deal with that, however, he continued as if with the sense that this was an impertinence to be softened. "Nothing could be more charming than the way you take it, for of course if we're alone together now it's you that are alone most. But I hope," he threw in, "you don't particularly mind!" "Having to do with you?" I asked. "My dear child, how can I help minding? Though I've renounced all claim to your company--you're so beyond me-- I at least greatly enjoy it. What else should I stay on for?" He looked at me more directly, and the expression of his face, graver now, struck me as the most beautiful I had ever found in it. "You stay on just for THAT?" "Certainly. I stay on as your friend and from the tremendous interest I take in you till something can be done for you that may be more worth your while. That needn't surprise you." My voice trembled so that I felt it impossible to suppress the shake. "Don't you remember how I told you, when I came and sat on your bed the night of the storm, that there was nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you?" "Yes, yes!" He, on his side, more and more visibly nervous, had a tone to master; but he was so much more successful than I that, laughing out through his gravity, he could pretend we were pleasantly jesting. "Only that, I think, was to get me to do something for YOU!" "It was partly to get you to do something," I conceded. "But, you know, you didn't do it." "Oh, yes," he said with the brightest superficial eagerness,

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

The Picture of Dorian Gray.txt

it?" "Of course I did." "Well, you don't mind my looking at it now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" [58] "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life of whom I have been really fond. I don't suppose I shall often see you again. You don't know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," cried Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you liked me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession." "A very disappointing one." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" "No: there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn't talk about not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so." "You have got Harry," said Hallward, sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don't think I would go to Harry if I was in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "But you won't sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward, regretfully. "And now good-by. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once again. But that can't be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! how little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! Basil's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences,--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance. He sighed, and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER VIII [...58] When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered if

After Death.txt

photo as well as a name, until he finds the man with proud Roman features, who is as noble-looking as Julius Caesar but whose eyes suggest a Nero who sets fires for pleasure and delights in the suffering of others. Durand Calaphas. FIRE MARSHAL Durand Calaphas is indifferent to most people. Their lives hold no interest for him. In his estimation, their beliefs are generally foolish, and their passions are tedious. They have no destiny except to work, pay taxes, consume, and die—all while, preferably, making little trouble. In a world shaped to a more intelligent plan, there would be fewer of their kind, which is a basic doctrine of the New Truth. He calls them “Extras” because they are to him like the actor wannabes who people the crowd scenes of movies, given no dialogue and lacking the talent to be granted any. Calaphas does his part to correct the problem of that excess population. The only people he has more than a passing interest in are those whom he is authorized to liquidate. Unlike the Extras, people who earn termination are figures of at least some substance, if only because they have done something to earn a death sentence and therefore make themselves part of Calaphas’s destiny, which is one of greatness. Occasionally, he encounters someone who isn’t on his kill list but to whom he is not indifferent, to whom he takes an immediate and intense dislike. Nolan Freeman, the fire marshal for this county, is one of those. The first thing Calaphas sees when he enters Freeman’s office, on the top floor of a three-story firehouse, is a memorial wall of firefighters who died on duty in this jurisdiction. Each is pictured on a small plaque that is fixed to a larger display with room for additions; under the photo is his or her name, length of service, and date of death. At the top of this honor roll, in the center of its width, the phrase AMERICAN HEROES is written in fancy script. Surmounting it all is a flag fixed flat to the wall. Calaphas hates the idea of heroes, which he believes is merely a tool with which the gullible are manipulated into doing all the dirty, dangerous work of society for meager wages, forfeiting their meaningless lives in a lost cause. He despises the flag and America, which will soon be washed away by the New Truth. He interprets the memorial wall as the work of either a fool who believes in duty, sacrifice, justice, freedom, and the sacred value of life, or a phony whose every word and action is calculated to burnish his image in the eyes of his superiors. Given the uncompromising principles by which Calaphas lives, he finds it difficult to smile at Nolan Freeman and shake his hand. He would prefer to kill the sonofabitch and cut off his genitals and nail them to the memorial wall. However, he’s seeking information related to Michael Mace that might prove essential to understanding that fugitive and finding him; he must play the

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

returned to the stables, but he’d had to watch from the window of the library while he and Mr. North, his man of business, had been going through a detailed report of how much Father’s sugar farm was costing them. It was terribly dull work, but it was important. And far better than discussing William’s perilous health with Mr. Pritchard. According to the doctor, there was more to William’s state than simply a fever, and Simon did not have the capacity to wonder why his brother had a half-healed scar from what looked like a pistol ball. “You’re saying he was shot?” Simon had asked incredulously. “I’m saying he was lucky to be alive before this fever ever hit,” the physician had replied. None of the rumors Simon had heard in Town had involved William being shot, so the injury was simply another mystery—one Simon wasn’t sure he had the energy to solve. Whatever William did with his free time, Simon was inclined to let his brother deal with the consequences himself so he could focus on the businesses that kept him far too busy. Particularly this failing one. Thank the heavens he had not had to travel to the West Indies to see to the affairs himself. He had had the foresight to convince his father to hire a steward, who kept up regular correspondence and seemed open to being managed from afar. Simon knew the chance was great that the man was lying with every word he wrote and that every pound that came out of the crops went straight to his pocket, but he hoped for the best. Father had loved this venture in particular, and Simon would hate to see it fail. “Assuming everything reported is correct,” North was saying—Simon reluctantly pulled himself away from the window to pay attention—“I still don’t see how keeping the farm will do anything but drain the full allotment we’ve given this business. It is barely breaking even as it is, what with you paying such high wages to the workers.” Simon was afraid of that, but he refused to treat those who worked the farm as anything less than they deserved as productive employees. “You wrote to Mr. Wyndham, didn’t you?” The man owned land near Simon’s and paid similar wages, and his farm had been thriving for the last two years. North nodded. “I did. He agreed to take on your workers if you sell the land to him for three quarters of what you offered it for.” Settling heavy in his chair, Simon thought that over. Father had not bought a large farm, thankfully, but if they kept trying to keep the place alive, other ventures would suffer. Wyndham had more resources and could easily make Simon’s land profitable. But for such a low selling price? Simon wasn’t worried about going poor—his position had its perks, and the family had assets to spare—but admitting defeat and selling at three quarters of what the land was worth, like North was sure to suggest he do, meant he had failed and

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

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.txt

than ever: she sat down and began to cry again. `You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, `a great girl like you,' (she might well say this), `to go on crying in this way! Stop this moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall. After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, `Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, `If you please, sir--' The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go. Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: `Dear, dear! How queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them. `I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, `for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome--no, THAT'S all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I'll try and say "How doth the little--"' and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:--

What-Dreams-May-Come.txt

whether William had been returning for a visit or for a more extended stay or for any time at all, there was the chance he had intended to take up a more permanent residence at his estate before the storm and subsequent fever had derailed his plans. None of that would matter if he never woke up. “Please wake up,” she whispered, gripping his hand a little tighter. If anyone would help her, surely he would. He had done it before. “I need you to wake up and help me fix all of this. Please.” Chapter Seven “Blast your inability to stay whole through a rainstorm, William!” Simon paced the corridor near his brother’s chamber, trying to work up the courage to go inside and try to wake him enough to have a conversation. Just a tiny little conversation. Enough for the man to explain how he could have spent five years in London with no plans to settle down and then show up out of the blue—and engaged, no less, to a woman as charming as Miss Staley. Two minutes of talking to the woman, and Simon already knew she was too good for William. He had honestly thought he was dreaming when he woke in the library and found her perusing his books. Her dark hair had caught his eye immediately, contrasting the green dress she wore, and her eyes were even darker. He’d never seen a more handsome woman, and Olivia’s declaration of who she was had only made the belief that he was trapped in a dream stronger. But no, Mother had confirmed it, and Mother never lied. William was engaged to be married, and Simon needed to know why. “There has to be a reason,” he muttered to himself as he paced. Miss Staley was too sensible to have fallen into some sort of trap. True, Simon knew nothing about her, but he was skilled at recognizing a person’s values, and he could tell she had a good character. And William may have been wild at times and had been in plenty of scrapes, but he was not a total fool. With how lightly he’d always treated the idea of settling down, he would never get himself into a situation in which a marriage was necessary. This was exactly why Simon needed to talk to William. What had changed to convince him to take a wife when doing so would force him to adapt to a new lifestyle? Sure, he could keep roaming the country and hop over to France or Spain whenever he was feeling trapped at home, but people would talk. A bachelor acting that way was commonplace; a married man never at home was not. Not without certain implications, and William would not compromise his family that way. Simon groaned, running a hand through his hair despite the fact that his valet would get angry with him for ruining his coiffure so early in the day. He usually lasted a few hours longer than this. William wouldn’t hurt his family. Would he? It had

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

Great Expectations.txt

when the tide was low, looking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on at the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out to sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss Havisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off, upon a cloud or sail or green hill-side or water-line, it was just the same. - Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange life appeared to have something to do with everything that was picturesque. One Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself on being "most awful dull," that I had given him up for the day, I lay on the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying traces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky and in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought concerning them that had been much in my head. "Joe," said I; "don't you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit?" "Well, Pip," returned Joe, slowly considering. "What for?" "What for, Joe? What is any visit made for?" "There is some wisits, p'r'aps," said Joe, "as for ever remains open to the question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might think you wanted something - expected something of her." "Don't you think I might say that I did not, Joe?" "You might, old chap," said Joe. "And she might credit it. Similarly she mightn't." Joe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard at his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition. "You see, Pip," Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger, "Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were all." "Yes, Joe. I heard her." "ALL," Joe repeated, very emphatically. "Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her." "Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were - Make a end on it! - As you was! - Me to the North, and you to the South! - Keep in sunders!" I had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to find that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more probable. "But, Joe." "Yes, old chap." "Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day of my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after her, or shown that I remember her." "That's true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes all four round - and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four round might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of hoofs--" "I don't mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don't mean a present." But

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

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

see things that smarter people like you overthink.” “Like me?” I say, both flattered he considers me smart and insulted that he believes I overthink things. “What I mean is that sometimes facts just get in the way. Sure, you’re Lenora Hope’s caregiver and you think she can’t hurt anyone.” “Because she can’t.” “You’re still overthinking,” Kenny says. “There’s more to everyone than meets the eye. You, me, even Lenora Hope. Look at us. Back when we first decided to . . .” “Fuck,” I say, because that’s all it was. “Right. Back then, I knew what happened to your mom and what everyone was saying about you. But I didn’t spend any time thinking about it. I just knew in my gut that you were a good person.” A lump forms in my throat. No one has said that about me for a very long time. That it comes from Kenny, of all people, makes me understand just how much my father’s silence has hurt me. He’s the one who should be telling me this. Not the guy I started sleeping with just because I was starved for human contact. “Thank you,” I say. “No problem,” Kenny replies with a shrug. “But on the flip side, sometimes your gut tells you something else. So while Lenora looks like she can’t do much, maybe, like you, there’s more than meets the eye.” There’s certainly more to Kenny than I expected. Back when we were having no-strings afternoon sex, I had no idea there was this kind of wisdom inside him. But before I can give him too much credit, he grabs my waist, pulls me close, and sloppily kisses me. I push him away, worried that Mrs. Baker is still watching from the front door. “It’s not going to happen, Kenny.” “Thought I’d give it a shot,” he says, flashing that horny grin I’ve seen dozens of times since May. “I should go anyway. Take care of yourself, Kit. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” Kenny gives me a playful wink before sprinting to the wall at the end of the lawn and scaling it with zero effort. Then, with a corny salute, he turns and hops off the wall, vanishing from view. Turning around, I take in the entirety of Hope’s End. From the vantage point of the lawn, it looks enormous, forbidding. It’s easy to forget that when you’re on the inside, navigating its bloodstained stairs and tilted halls. Lenora’s the same way. I remember the fear I felt when stepping into her room for the first time. Her reputation preceded her. Now that I’ve gotten to know her, that reputation has, if not faded, at least been made more benign by familiarity. Not anymore, thanks to Kenny. Now my gut tells me I was wrong about initially thinking there are only four people at Hope’s End who could have shoved Mary off the terrace. There’s someone else. A fifth, highly unlikely suspect. But now a suspect all the same. Lenora. TWENTY-SEVEN Back in

Oliver Twist.txt

at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold--and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it--and then went on to think again. At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close. He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone. Perfect stillness ensued--not a rustle--not a breath--Guilty. The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday. The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that he was an old man--an old man--and so, dropping into a whisper, was silent again. The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, uttered some exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed. They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to HIM; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison. Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the condemned cells, and left him there--alone. He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried

We-Could-Be-So Good.txt

if anybody has a problem with that, they can very much go fuck themselves. Nobody, it turns out, has a problem with that. Or, if they do, they pretend not to. Or, just as likely, they’re too tipsy to notice. One of the women is an artist. She wears trousers and has her hair down and Nick is massively intimidated. The other two women work at the museum with Jeanne, but Nick hardly gets a chance to say a word to either of them because they sit very close on the couch, their heads bent together, their voices inaudible to anyone else. Of the three men, one is a friend of Andy’s from prep school who is currently going to law school at Columbia and hating every minute of it; he is, therefore, sauced. Another of the men is a banker who spends the evening doting on Jeanne. And the third man. Well. “Nick, right? Emily told me I’d particularly enjoy meeting you.” His voice goes all singsongy on particularly. His name is Ted and he’s a few years older than the rest of them, a bit over thirty, and apparently he works at an art gallery where Emily’s boss did a photo shoot. “Did she?” Nick raises an eyebrow. “She said we might have some friends in common.” Nick would put the odds at zero that they know a single soul in common. Which means only one thing. “I suppose we go to a lot of the same places,” he suggests blandly. “I bet we do,” Ted says, a grin spreading across his handsome face. Nick is going to kill Emily. Or thank her, possibly. This guy doesn’t look like an undercover cop, at least. There’s no way Emily Warburton knows anyone so lowly as a cop, so that’s some comfort. How, though, did Emily figure it out? Andy doesn’t even know. When Ted talks to Nick, he’s flirty and camp and not making any secret of who or what he is. But when they sit down at the enormous linen-draped table and eat honest-to-God pheasant, he reins in his whole demeanor and becomes only a little bit camp. Nick has always counted himself lucky for being able to blend in with everyone else. He can pretend to be like any other man, and he’s fortunate that it’s even an option for him. But he’s twenty-five and he’s already tired. He’s so careful, all the time, about everything, from not letting himself look too long at other men to being almost paranoid about who he picks up. But the stakes are too high for anything else. He’ll lose his job if he gets arrested or if the Chronicle finds out he’s queer. He’ll never get another job at another newspaper. The situation with his family will be unbearable. He’ll wind up waiting tables on Mott Street or knocking heads together outside a bar. He knows things are different for artists and maybe they’re different for people who work in art galleries, too. He tries not to think too hard about it,

Maame.txt

jumper before her coat, and as always my attention is first drawn to the marks on her cheeks. “Not scars, Baaba. Tribal marks.” She lives in North London and has her own list of health problems, not limited to sore joints, so she only comes by once or twice a month. But her monthly appearance serves us better than James’s. She brings Dad homemade pepper soup, which I put straight on the stove, and she sits with her brother for hours talking in Twi. Dad understands more of his language than English (maybe because he’s been speaking it since he was old enough to) and, these days, even finds it easier to communicate in. I can understand what’s being said, even when interchanged between Twi and Fante, but I wish I could speak the language. My parents spoke it all the time at home, but James and I only got as far as understanding it, always responding in English. We’d be prompted to do otherwise, but we could never grasp it and I didn’t consider it important in my more adaptable, formative years; all my friends spoke English, and I still understood what my parents were saying regardless, so why bother? I never thought a day would come when I felt left out. If I hadn’t made it clear before, let me do that now. Dad doesn’t get a lot of visitors. He never had many friends; used to be a bit of a recluse, a hermit. Mum often jokes he’s where I get my solitary nature from. She made it seem as if it’s one of Dad’s faults, that he lacks social graces. I, however, see it for what it really is: he’s an introvert. The world is filled with two different kinds of people: those who need to be surrounded by others and those who do not. Dad and I are simply the latter, James and Mum the former. Whenever Auntie Mabel comes round, I wonder what became of Dad’s few friends. I’ve never asked, and now he won’t remember. There used to be a man Dad would laugh, watch football, and drink beer with. A man I called Uncle (he wasn’t blood-related) … Richard? Albert? Caleb? I sometimes think about what happened to him. It’s possible Uncle X saw Dad’s health deteriorating and couldn’t handle it. It happens. When people are ill to the point of no return to full health, to the person they used to be, some don’t have the stomach to stick around. We don’t appreciate being reminded of our own body’s weaknesses, our lack of control and inevitable mortality. Or maybe moving from Battersea to Croydon put distance between them, a distance Uncle X couldn’t be bothered to continually cross. Now Dad doesn’t have any friends who aren’t family. Which isn’t entirely the case for me, but not too far off. If I were Dad, which of my friends would I see monthly? Who would come to visit me with a home-cooked meal? Would James even? I hang around for a few minutes, then excuse

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

Hound of the Baskervilles.txt

is unlikely that the composer of such a letter would be careless. If he were in a hurry it opens up the interesting question why he should be in a hurry, since any letter posted up to early morning would reach Sir Henry before he would leave his hotel. Did the composer fear an interruption -- and from whom?" "We are coming now rather into the region of guesswork," said Dr. Mortimer. "Say, rather, into the region where we balance probabilities and choose the most likely. It is the scientific use of the imagina- tion, but we have always some material basis on which to start our speculation. Now, you would call it a guess, no doubt, but I am almost certain that this address has been written in a hotel." "How in the world can you say that?" "If you examine it carefully you will see that both the pen and the ink have given the writer trouble. The pen has spluttered twice in a single word and has run dry three times in a short address, showing that there was very little ink in the bottle. Now, a private pen or ink-bottle is seldom allowed to be in such a state, and the combination of the two must be quite rare. But you know the hotel ink and the hotel pen, where it is rare to get anything else. Yes, I have very little hesitation in saying that could we examine the waste-paper baskets of the hotels around Charing Cross until we found the remains of the mutilated Times leader we could lay our hands straight upon the person who sent this singular message. Halloa! Halloa! What's this?" He was carefully examining the foolscap, upon which the words were pasted, holding it only an inch or two from his eyes. "Well?" "Nothing," said he, throwing it down. "It is a blank half- sheet of paper, without even a water-mark upon it. I think we have drawn as much as we can from this curious letter; and now, Sir Henry, has anything else of interest happened to you since you have been in London?" "Why, no, Mr. Holmes. I think not." "You have not observed anyone follow or watch you?" "I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel," said our visitor. "Why in thunder should anyone follow or watch me?" "We are coming to that. You have nothing else to report to us before we go into this matter?" "Well, it depends upon what you think worth reporting." "I think anything out of the ordinary routine of life well worth reporting." Sir Henry smiled. "I don't know much of British life yet, for I have spent nearly all my time in the States and in Canada. But I hope that to lose one of your boots is not part of the ordinary routine of life over here." "You have lost one of your boots?" "My dear sir," cried Dr. Mortimer, "it is only mislaid. You will find it when you return to the hotel. What is

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).