harbour; one of those unquestionable cruisers, frequent at that day, which, without being absolutely outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable irresponsibility of character. This vessel had recently arrived from the Spanish Main, and within three days' time would sail for Bristol. Hester Prynne--whose vocation, as a self-enlisted Sister of Charity, had brought her acquainted with the captain and crew--could take upon herself to secure the passage of two individuals and a child with all the secrecy which circumstances rendered more than desirable.% The minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest, the precise time at which the vessel might be expected to depart. It would probably be on the fourth day from the present. "This is most fortunate!" he had then said to himself. Now, why the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate we hesitate to reveal. Nevertheless--to hold nothing back from the reader--it was because, on the third day from the present, he was to preach the Election Sermon; and, as such an occasion formed an honourable epoch in the life of a New England Clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode and time of terminating his professional career. "At least, they shall say of me," thought this exemplary man, "that I leave no public duty unperformed or ill-performed!" Sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound and acute as this poor minister's should be so miserably deceived! We have had, and may still have, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable, of a subtle disease that had long since begun to eat into the real substance of his character. No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true. Thesaurus irrefragable: (adj) indisputable, deliberation, carefulness, reliability. unquestionable: (adj) incontrovertible, incontestable, incontrovertible, pitiably: (adv) pathetically, pitifully, indisputable, sure, incontestable, indubitable, certain, undeniable, miserably, piteously, lamentably, indubitable, certain, unequivocal, unquestionable, undoubted, wretchedly, patheticly, tragically, irrefutable, undoubted, definite; (v) uncontrollable, indestructible; (v) tragicly, sadly, deplorably. unimpeachable. ANTONYMS: (adj) irresistible. terminating: (adj) final, ending, dubious, uncertain, doubtful, irresponsibility: (n) flightiness, conclusive, dying, determining, indefinite, tenuous, provisional, irresponsibleness, arbitrariness, terminative, last, expiring, decisive, debatable, disputable. exemption, freedom, release, liberty, expiring groans; (n) termination. wigwam: (n) hovel, cabin, shanty, renunciation, untrustiness, unperformed: (v) unfinished, shed, tepee, lodge, dugout, booth, untrustworthiness, insanity. uncompleted, unaccomplished; (adj) bothy, chalet, cot. ANTONYMS: (n) caution, maturity, partial. wilds: (n) wasteland, waste, desert. Nathaniel Hawthorne 209 The excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale's feelings as he returned from his interview with Hester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried him townward at a rapid pace. The pathway among the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude natural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he remembered it on his outward journey. But he leaped across the plashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbush, climbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in short, all


stain the satin. The motor ground to a halt and Winnie flashed a nervous smile as she slipped out. “Good luck.” Hephzibah concealed her expression, and her trepidation, with her parasol. “Talent does not require luck,” she said, in as frosty a tone as she could manage. They’d hired the chauffeur with the car. He didn’t know Hephzibah from Eve. “Here, m’lady?” he said. Hephzibah peered out. She hadn’t planned for this moment. The house was still so extraordinarily big, so white—like a wedding cake, many tiers high. The park was a desert, all baked earth and scrub grass. Dust came in great billowing clouds from Rotten Row. It was desolate, a dreadful place. I’m not equal to this, she thought. “Yes, here,” she said to the driver, and he got out to deliver her card. Her own self vanished. She sank into her silks and ruffles, and became the Duchess of Montagu. * * * The head footman ushered Hephzibah through the hall. Servants paused in their duties and huddled behind pillars. The staircase was still tremendously ugly. She’d forgotten its recesses, those blocks of black and blood-red marble. They looked like gravestones, signposts on the way to hell. How many times had she cleaned the banisters, rubbed them with blacking, cracked her nails on their grooves and whorls? The footman gave Hephzibah a wide and courteous berth. “No more visitors,” he murmured to the under-footmen, and they closed the doors. He was enormously good-looking. Stony faced, dark haired, terrific eyes. He was something to focus on, to occupy the mind. “This way,” he said, extending a gloved finger. “Oh, I can guess the way,” said Hephzibah. She needed to warm up, to test the voice. “People only move in one direction when they build a house like this.” She held out her parasol, and he took it. “Up.” His eyes flashed, a single golden gleam. Amused. Good, Hephzibah told herself, that was a clever line. Well judged. Nice and rude. She wondered, Would a duchess speak to a footman? Perhaps there were no rules for duchesses. She tried to quiet her mind. It was too easy to lose a character, just by listening to all the chatter in one’s head. She eyed the footman’s calf muscles, the hard curve of his arse underneath his tails. Lovely, she said to herself, trying to cheer herself up. She could smell beeswax: there was parquet upstairs. It made her dizzy, the memory of all those tiny pieces of wood. It took hours and hours to polish every block. The saloon doors slid open—slowly, slowly. She spied a small figure on a couch, far away in the center of the room. Great slanting shafts of light came through the windows facing the park. Hephzibah shaded her eyes with her hand. She had tried to cast her mind back to the old days, to remember the child who’d lived in the nursery. A snowball creature, with yellow-gold hair done up in ringlets. More like a pet than a person, a fluffy thing fed and watered


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

the open air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my other clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch certain letters by the mail, I thought that, having nothing else earthly to do, Bartleby would surely be less inflexible than usual, and carry these letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So, much to my inconvenience, I went myself. Still added days went by. Whether Bartleby’s eyes improved or not, I could not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked him if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no copying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had permanently given up copying. “What!” exclaimed I; “suppose your eyes should get entirely well—better than ever before—would you not copy then?” “I have given up copying,” he answered, and slid aside. He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay—if that were possible—he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length, necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days’ time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step towards a removal. “And when you finally quit me, Bartleby,” added I, “I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from this hour, remember.” At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo! Bartleby was there. I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him, touched his shoulder, and said, “The time has come; you must quit this place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go.” “I would prefer not,” he replied, with his back still towards me. “You must.” He remained silent. Now I had an unbounded confidence in this man’s common honesty. He had frequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped upon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button affairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed extraordinary. “Bartleby,” said I, “I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are thirty-two; the odd twenty are yours.—Will you take it?” and I handed the


Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the terrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived the idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman said, "Ye are now to declare it!" would be the time for me to rise and propose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure that I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to this extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday. Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble the wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's uncle, but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do corn-chandler in the nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was half-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery. The time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and the company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large shining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud of; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could only give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he himself confessed that if the Church was "thrown open," meaning to competition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church not being "thrown open," he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he punished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm - always giving the whole verse - he looked all round the congregation first, as much as to say, "You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your opinion of this style!" I opened the door to the company - making believe that it was a habit of ours to open that door - and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B., I was not allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties. "Mrs. Joe," said Uncle Pumblechook: a large hard-breathing middle-aged slow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair standing upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been all but choked, and had that moment come to; "I have brought you, as the compliments of the season - I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry wine - and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine." Every


labour and expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution possible, danger as might be; and until that was done I considered that and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true. my life would certainly be spared. He had risen from his position to his hands and knees, While I was thus turning the business over in my mind, I and though his leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when had not been idle with my body. I had stolen back to the he moved—for I could hear him stifle a groan—yet it was at cabin, slipped once more into my shoes, and laid my hand at Contents a good, rattling rate that he trailed himself across the deck. In random on a bottle of wine, and now, with this for an excuse, half a minute he had reached the port scuppers and picked, I made my reappearance on the deck. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 210 211 Hands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle sions running out, knives going, and what not. Well, now I and with his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to tell you, I never seen good come o’ goodness yet. Him as bear the light. He looked up, however, at my coming, knocked strikes first is my fancy; dead men don’t bite; them’s my the neck off the bottle like a man who had done the same views—amen, so be it. And now, you look here,” he added, thing often, and took a good swig, with his favourite toast of suddenly changing his tone, “we’ve had about enough of this “Here’s luck!” Then he lay quiet for a little, and then, pulling foolery. The tide’s made good enough by now. You just take out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid. my orders, Cap’n Hawkins, and we’ll sail slap in and be done “Cut me a junk o’ that,” says he, “for I haven’t no knife and with it.” hardly strength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon All told, we had scarce two miles to run; but the naviga- I’ve missed stays! Cut me a quid, as’ll likely be the last, lad, tion was delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was for I’m for my long home, and no mistake.” not only narrow and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the “Well,” said I, “I’ll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you schooner must be nicely handled to be got in. I think I was a and thought myself so badly, I would go to my prayers like a good, prompt subaltern, and I am very sure that Hands was Christian man.” an excellent pilot, for we went about and about and dodged “Why?” said he. “Now, you tell me why.” in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness that “Why?” I cried. “You were asking me just now about the were a pleasure to behold. dead. You’ve


astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-colored silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. "You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. "Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honor to address?" "You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone." I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me." The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history." "I promise," said Holmes. "And I." "You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own." "I was aware of it," said Holmes drily. "The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia." "I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had


when the man in the Chelsea jersey began to vomit. She jumped out of the line of projectile just in time. Kingsley was not as quick. “Oh God.” Wúràọlá glanced around. There was no one they could send to get a cleaner. “Fuck.” Kingsley’s shirt was covered in clumps of vomit and specks of blood. “Eish Pẹ̀lẹ́.” Wúràọlá stepped further away. “I think I might have some of this vomit in my mouth.” “Go, change, take a shower before you come back.” Dr. Hassan waved Kingsley out of the ward. “Send us a cleaner on your way out.” * * * Four days after he was on call with Wúràọlá, Kingsley presented with malaise and some vomiting. He was given the afternoon off to rest. When he showed up in A & E with a cough and chest pain later that evening, the doctor on call suspected Lassa fever and asked that he be transferred to Ifẹ̀ for isolation. “Do you know when you’ll have the Lassa test results?” Wúràọlá asked him when she called to check how he was doing. “They’ve taken my sample, but the test can only be done in Lagos. So at least another week after it arrives in Lagos this evening or tomorrow.” “You mean they can’t even do it in Ìbàdàn?” She glanced at her wall clock. If she did not leave her flat in ten minutes, she would be late for ward round. “Someone said there’ll be a new lab that can in Akure soonish, but for now, only three labs can do this in the whole country and the closest is in Lagos.” “I’m so sorry.” Wúràọlá slid her feet into her green ballet shoes. “How are you feeling?” “My fever is down, so that’s good.” “Temperature?” “Last check was thirty-two.” “Not so bad.” She picked up her handbag. “I have to go now, sorry I can’t—” “I know how it is. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” “I’ll call you again later in the day.” “A promise is a debt, golden babe.” She did not remember her promise until much later in the evening when Kúnlé checked her call log while they spooned in bed. Since Tifẹ́’s birthday, Kúnlé had been coming to spend the evenings with her. He cooked or bought dinner for her, cleaned up after her and once handwashed her pile of dirty underwear while she slept. “Why did you call Kingsley?” “He’s my friend.” “I said, why did you call him?” Wúràọlá felt the sudden urge to run into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. Someone’s heart was thudding; she was not sure if it was his or hers. Her tongue did not move when she wanted to speak, and although one of his hands was slung across her midriff, she felt as if both were at her throat again. “Wúrà?” “He’s sick.” “Why are you whispering?” Wúràọlá cleared her throat. So far, he did not seem upset. “Kingsley has been ill for a few days.” “Why didn’t you tell that me earlier?” Kúnlé wrapped his body


Hey, did that cop across the street see Sal?” “No, he wasn’t there when I got home.” “He’s not down there now, either. Huh. Anyway, where will you go?” “Oh, you know.” He waves a hand vaguely uptown, not wanting to admit that he’s going to stay in his dad’s spare room and probably cry about Nick and his mom and a dozen other things. He even manages a smile before he leaves because it won’t do Nick any good to know that he’s falling apart. Chapter Twenty-Three When Andy lets himself in to his father’s apartment, it’s empty. He drops his suitcase, turns on the lights, helps himself to a gin and tonic, and settles on the sofa with a copy of last month’s National Geographic. But he can hear the clock ticking, the drip of a faucet in the bathroom, and the apartment is so quiet and empty that each sound seems to echo. He thinks about calling Nick, but the next conversation they have ought to be face-to-face. Andy will make things right when he sees Nick; he thinks he might already have gotten most of the way there. Nick wasn’t upset when he got home. They’ll figure out how to talk about things sensibly and probably manage another baker’s dozen equally inane fights before they get anywhere. That all makes Andy sick to his stomach, but it isn’t what he’d call a crisis. The crisis is that Nick doesn’t think they can stay together. And if staying together means living together, Andy might have to concede the point. Being roommates isn’t an excuse that will stand up to much scrutiny—not indefinitely, at least. But they could be together without sharing a roof. Andy would miss the shared bed, the morning coffee, the hours of watching Nick cook. But it’s better than nothing. Andy’s notion of happiness has always hinged on sharing a home with someone, and he might not get to have that. The past few weeks with Nick have been the first time he really felt like he had a home—not an empty apartment, not a dormitory. A home. He’s been fixating on the notion of settling down, of having someone to come home to, but that’s only possible in a world where you’re allowed space to settle. Maybe Nick’s known this all along. But maybe what Andy needs is to learn to be alone. Maybe he needs to get used to the idea that he isn’t going to have the sort of life he can share with anyone. Maybe what he needs is to make peace with a life of waking up alone and learn for that to be enough. * * * At the sound of a key in the lock, Andy turns to see his father leaning heavily on his cane. He looks awful. “Andy,” he says, sounding surprised but not displeased to see his son. “Everything all right?” Andy’s already on his feet. “Where’s the chair?” “Coat closet.” Andy has the wheelchair out and next to his dad in seconds. His father collapses


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

by elastic bands. On the evening of the day on which the property was sold Stephen followed his father meekly about the city from bar to bar. To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who importuned him for a lob Mr Dedalus told the same tale--that he was an old Corkonian, that he had been trying for thirty years to get rid of his Cork accent up in Dublin and that Peter Pickackafax beside him was his eldest son but that he was only a Dublin jackeen. They had set out early in the morning from Newcombe's coffee-house, where Mr Dedalus's cup had rattled noisily against its saucer, and Stephen had tried to cover that shameful sign of his father's drinking bout of the night before by moving his chair and coughing. One humiliation had succeeded another--the false smiles of the market sellers, the curvetings and oglings of the barmaids with whom his father flirted, the compliments and encouraging words of his father's friends. They had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather and Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. They had unearthed traces of a Cork accent in his speech and made him admit that the Lee was a much finer river than the Liffey. One of them, in order to put his Latin to the proof, had made him translate short passages from Dilectus and asked him whether it was correct to say: TEMPORA MUTANTUR NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS or TEMPORA MUTANTUR ET NOS MUTAMUR IN ILLIS. Another, a brisk old man, whom Mr Dedalus called Johnny Cashman, had covered him with confusion by asking him to say which were prettier, the Dublin girls or the Cork girls. --He's not that way built, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him alone. He's a level-headed thinking boy who doesn't bother his head about that kind of nonsense. --Then he's not his father's son, said the little old man. --I don't know, I'm sure, said Mr Dedalus, smiling complacently. --Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the boldest flirt in the City of Cork in his day. Do you know that? Stephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the bar into which they had drifted. --Now don't be putting ideas into his head, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him to his Maker. --Yerra, sure I wouldn't put any ideas into his head. I'm old enough to be his grandfather. And I am a grandfather, said the little old man to Stephen. Do you know that? --Are you? asked Stephen. --Bedad I am, said the little old man. I have two bouncing grandchildren out at Sunday's Well. Now, then! What age do you think I am? And I remember seeing your grandfather in his red coat riding out to hounds. That was before you were born. --Ay, or thought of, said Mr Dedalus. --Bedad I did, repeated the little old man. And, more than that, I can remember even your great-grandfather, old John Stephen Dedalus,


hopes of having a soul-to-soul encounter. Of the Four Examinations, the art of taking a pulse will be the primary diagnostic tool you’ll use in the future.” She reaches for one of my hands and pulls me to her. “Before we visit Lady Huang,” she says, “we will review how to read the primary pulses. Place three fingers just below my left wrist bone. There are three levels that you will learn to feel—light, medium, and then with deep pressure. You will do this on each wrist, to gather a total of six readings.” She moves my fingers to the depression below the joint of her wrist bone and the place from which the wrist bones lead to the pointer finger. “We call this location the Fish Border. It is on the Lung channel.” She presses lightly on my fingers so I might feel deeper. “You are now on the Liver pulse. You can ascertain a woman’s constitution if you take what you’re feeling deep within yourself. In time, you will learn to identify twenty-eight separate and distinct types of pulses. With experience, you may learn even more.” She pauses. “Tell me, Yunxian, how do you identify a hollow pulse?” “A hollow pulse feels like the stem of a scallion,” I answer. “It’s hard on the outside but empty inside.” “And what does that tell you?” “Deficient Blood.” “What about a wiry pulse?” “It’s tight like a string on an erhu. It shows stagnation in the body.” “And what do you feel on my wrist?” I stare at her. I can recite but I can’t yet discern. She pulls my fingers off her wrist. “Enough of that for today. Learning to read the pulses will take months, if not years. Let us take up another subject—symptoms. It is said that strange symptoms are as numerous as the spines on a hedgehog—” I have been trailing my grandmother for more than a month as she treats our female relatives and their children, all of whom live with us. They suffer from common ailments—colds, coughs, and sore throats—and Grandmother is always keeping guard for signs of smallpox. “Every baby brings fetal poison with him or her into the world,” Grandmother tells me. “Fetal poison is a product of the pollution found in the child palace long before birth. Sometimes it comes because mother and father were drinking when Essence met Blood, or the mother ate too many spicy foods, but it can also result from labor when a fetus’s excrement, hair, or the clotted blood of a mother finds its way into the infant’s mouth. It can flare up at any time. For boys, it often arrives with the onset of those dreams that come to them when they’ve reached twelve or thirteen years. But the most common eruption of fetal poison is smallpox. The disease sweeps across our great land every three years, when the smallpox goddess emerges from hiding to spread her heavenly flowers. The best way to keep the pestilence outside the gates is to invite in the smallpox-planting master.” “Does


need to get out of here—” “I think,” a voice said from the darkness, “that we’ve heard enough.” Fear crossed Thais’s face. She whirled around as four figures emerged from the dark garden. Bianca Rossi, a smirk on her lips, the dead thread lassoed in her fist. Rosa, frowning, camera in hand. Ava, her mouth covered by both hands, tears flowing. And Luc Saint-Yves, face broken with sorrow, aiming a gun straight at Thais’s heart. The flash of the camera flooded the greenhouse with light, immortalizing Thais among the carnage she had caused. Bianca gave Io a feral grin. “I figured a proper journalist would want to see this. In case our new Mayor got any ideas to bury this whole story,” she said. “It so happened that your friend was covering the elections at the Plaza, and Ava was able to drag her along.” This had been Io’s plan. Saint-Yves would never leave his victory party to come to the House of Nine, not unless he was urged by his fiancé’s sister herself. Io had simply told Bianca to convince Ava to bring Saint-Yves here, on the pretense of an emergency concerning Thais, but the addition of Rosa was a smart play by the mob queen. With frantic movements, almost hysterical, Thais looked at her audience. Her fiancé, her sister, a journalist, and her latest victim. Then her gaze twisted to the puddle of threads in Io’s fists, where they had been safely stretched taut to ensure Thais didn’t see them coming. “You tricked me,” Thais choked out. Io nodded. Her mind toiled with opposing waves of victory and loss. “Luc,” Thais pleaded. “Let me explain. You’ll understand everything, I promise. All I have ever done is to keep us safe. Didn’t I tell you about Bianca? Didn’t I warn you and protect you? Luc, please give me a chance—” “Stop,” Saint-Yves said. His eyes were wet, his hold on the gun shaking. “I trusted you. I loved you. What you did, no matter your reasons, goes against everything I believe in. I will see that you are judged fairly for your crimes, but whatever we shared, whatever dreams we had, it’s over.” “Over?” Thais whispered. Her head snapped to Io. Her face sobered. It was so sudden, so unexpected that Io felt like she had been kicked in the stomach. Thais reached for a marble ashtray from the table and launched it, hard, at Io’s head. Edei’s lean figure slipped through one of the side panels. His arm grabbed Io by the waist and hauled her out of the trajectory of the ashtray, just in time. It hit the pane behind her instead, cracking the glass. In a fluid movement, Edei pushed Io behind him, and raised a knuckled fist to Thais. “You okay?” he whispered over his shoulder to Io. “Yes,” Io breathed. “I’ve used the knuckle raps,” Edei said. “The gang is coming.” “Well, then,” Thais said, her voice harsh. She looked about the room with frenetic energy, her gaze lurching from person to person. “If it’s the


boat down to the water, wondering what George was doing. All kinds of crashing sounds came from the motor-boat! "George! George! Buck up. The men are out!" suddenly yelled Julian. He had seen the three men running to the cliff that led down to the cove. George leapt out of the motor-boat and joined the others. They pushed their boat out on to the water, and George took the oars at once, pulling for all she was worth. The three men ran to their motor-boat. Then they paused in the greatest dismay- for George had completely ruined it! She had chopped wildly with her axe at all the machinery she could see, and now the boat could not possibly be started! It was damaged beyond any repair the men could make with the few tools they had. "You wicked girl!" yelled Jake, shaking his fist at George. "Wait till I get you!" "I'll wait!" shouted back George, her blue eyes shining dangerously. "And you can wait too! You won't be able to leave my island now!" Chapter Seventeen THE END OF THE GREAT ADVENTURE Contents- Prev THE three men stood at the edge of the sea, watching George pull away strongly from the shore. They could do nothing. Their boat was quite useless. "The fishing-smack they've got waiting out there is too big to use that little inlet," said George, as she pulled hard at her oars. "They'll have to stay there till someone goes in with a boat. I guess they're as wild as can be!" Their boat had to pass fairly near to the big fishing-boat. A man hailed them as they came by. "Ahoy there! Have you come from Kirrin Island?" "Don't answer," said George. "Don't say a word." So no one said anything at all, but looked the other way as if they hadn't heard. "AHOY THERE!" yelled the man, angrily. "Are you deaf? Have you come from the island?" Still the children said nothing at all, but looked away while George rowed steadily. The man on the ship gave it up, and looked in a worried manner towards the island. He felt sure the children had come from there-and he knew enough of his comrades' adventures to wonder if everything was right on the island. "He may put out a boat from the smack and go and see what's happening," said George. "Well, he can't do much except take the men off- with a few ingots! I hardly think they'll dare to take any of the gold though, now that we've escaped to tell our tale!" Julian looked behind at the ship. He saw after a time that the little boat it carried was being lowered into the sea. "You're right," he said to George. "They're afraid something is up. They're going to rescue those three men. What a pity!" Their little boat reached land. The children leapt out into the shallow water and dragged it up to the beach. Tim pulled at the rope too, wagging his tail. He loved to join in anything that the


That evening, after Mr. Jackson had taken himself away, and the ladies had retired to their chintz- curtained bedroom, Newland Archer mounted thoughtfully to his own study. A vigilant hand had, as usual, kept the fire alive and the lamp trimmed; and the room, with its rows and rows of books, its bronze and steel statuettes of "The Fencers" on the mantelpiece and its many photographs of famous pictures, looked singularly home-like and welcoming. As he dropped into his armchair near the fire his eyes rested on a large photograph of May Welland, which the young girl had given him in the first days of their romance, and which had now displaced all the other portraits on the table. With a new sense of awe he looked at the frank forehead, serious eyes and gay innocent mouth of the young creature whose soul's custodian he was to be. That terrifying product of the social system he belonged to and believed in, the young girl who knew nothing and expected everything, looked back at him like a stranger through May Welland's familiar features; and once more it was borne in on him that marriage was not the safe anchorage he had been taught to think, but a voyage on uncharted seas. The case of the Countess Olenska had stirred up old settled convictions and set them drifting dangerously through his mind. His own exclamation: "Women should be free--as free as we are," struck to the root of a problem that it was agreed in his world to regard as non-existent. "Nice" women, however wronged, would never claim the kind of freedom he meant, and generous- minded men like himself were therefore--in the heat of argument--the more chivalrously ready to concede it to them. Such verbal generosities were in fact only a humbugging disguise of the inexorable conventions that tied things together and bound people down to the old pattern. But here he was pledged to defend, on the part of his betrothed's cousin, conduct that, on his own wife's part, would justify him in calling down on her all the thunders of Church and State. Of course the dilemma was purely hypothetical; since he wasn't a blackguard Polish nobleman, it was absurd to speculate what his wife's rights would be if he WERE. But Newland Archer was too imaginative not to feel that, in his case and May's, the tie might gall for reasons far less gross and palpable. What could he and she really know of each other, since it was his duty, as a "decent" fellow, to conceal his past from her, and hers, as a marriageable girl, to have no past to conceal? What if, for some one of the subtler reasons that would tell with both of them, they should tire of each other, misunderstand or irritate each other? He reviewed his friends' marriages-- the supposedly happy ones--and saw none that answered, even remotely, to the passionate and tender comradeship which he pictured as his permanent relation with May Welland. He perceived that such a picture presupposed, on her


Godfrey has no excuse. The Squire hasn't even punished him for losing the money, yet as soon as his father comes close to guessing his deeper secret--his marriage--Godfrey turns coward. These readers say it's easy for Godfrey to blame his father for indulging him, just as it's easy for Squire Cass to blame his dead wife for his son's weakness, but people should accept responsibility for their own mistakes. Ironically, the Squire mentions Nancy Lammeter, not knowing how closely she relates to Godfrey's other problems. In this dialogue, you learn more about Godfrey's courtship of Nancy--there's been an understanding between them for a while, and Nancy has already turned down a proposal from her cousin. You learn that she's pretty, and her home is probably more refined than the Casses'. Read this scene twice--from the Squire's point of view and then from Godfrey's. In the Squire's eyes, Godfrey isn't acting like a man. But feel the pressure Godfrey is under, from his father and from his own desire for Nancy, while he can only evade the issue. The Squire ends this discussion abruptly, ordering Godfrey around like a servant. Casually, he disowns Dunstan--for the time being, at least. Godfrey escapes from the room, but is his position improved? He hasn't been punished, but he hasn't cleared his conscience, either. What's more, he has a new fear--that the Squire will speak to Mr. Lammeter about Nancy. He hopes, however, that good fortune will keep him out of trouble. Eliot asks you to look at this impulse as a universal human reflex. In a series of parallel sentences, each structured with the phrases "Let him... and he will," she gives everyday examples of this impulse at work. But such a faith in Fortune, she declares, ignores the fact that a natural chain of events follows from every human action--"the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind." ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: CHAPTER 10 Eliot switches to a tone of irony as she returns to the more public Raveloe scene. Mockingly, she describes the vain efforts to find the gypsy peddler. Meanwhile, she says, nobody seems concerned that Dunstan still hasn't come home. NOTE: THE MYSTERY For you, unlike the villagers, the real mystery here is Dunstan's disappearance. You know Dunstan disappeared after robbing Silas. Why hasn't anyone in Raveloe made the connection? To some readers, this is a flaw in the plot. Yet Eliot explains that Godfrey is too blinded by an image of Dunstan off enjoying himself. And the villagers simply can't imagine that a member of the gentry would be involved with sordid theft. Some other readers suggest that Eliot has kept these two Raveloe worlds so far apart that it's easy to forget they ever connect with one another. Do you find this part of the plot believable? People in town still speculate about Silas' robbery, but interest has died down. Eliot focuses your attention now on Silas, who's been offstage for a while. His loss has made him more shrunken and withered than ever. In retrospect,


the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a transcript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short. LOG OF THE "DEMETER" Varna to Whitby Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land. On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands. . .two mates, cook, and myself, (captain). On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m. On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago. On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out. On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong. They only told him there was SOMETHING, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet. On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble ahead. On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern. Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

driving the oíche sidhe mad with her impossible messes—she knew the poor creatures did so abhor disorder. Further evidence of this came unexpectedly and unpleasantly in the form of sudden wet smacks to her face when she was working, rather like being struck with a small, invisible mop. The serving girl lived in terror that the oíche sidhe would murder her one day. Eventually, the serving girl snuck out into the woods where an old witch lived and begged for help. In exchange for one of the pomaded chickens, the witch informed her that the serving girl’s curse originated in the royal family with the youngest prince, and that only he could undo it. Fortunately, the serving girl knew the queen and all her children were due to pay a visit to the queen’s sister soon. The night before their arrival, the serving girl took her shabbiest dress, freshly stained with kitchen grease, and tore it to shreds, which she scattered over the floor. When the serving girl awoke in the morning, she found in place of her old dress the loveliest and most eccentric gown imaginable. It was quite clear that the oíche sidhe were indeed going mad, for the dress was at odds with itself, one moment deciding to be murky pond green and the next ocean blue or harvest brown. It was festooned with baubles and ribbons like a Christmas tree, including a crystal that showed flashes of strangers’ futures and a live hedgehog, which with its tiny claws climbed from pocket to pocket as the mood took it (the dress had an infinite number of pockets). Dubious, the girl donned the dress and went downstairs. The castle was full of royal attendants and various hangers-on, all bustling about importantly, and in her ridiculous dress, everyone assumed she was a relation of the duchess. She asked one of the ladies’ maids where the youngest prince could be found, and she was told: in the garden. She found the prince wandering the garden with a displeased look on his face, for those whose blood is half Folk and half mortal exist in a state of perpetual displeasure—the typical games of the Folk leave them perplexed, while they find mortal pursuits dull. In truth, the prince was only scheming to obtain the throne for want of anything better to do with himself. The prince took one look at the serving girl and fell instantly in love with her, just as she’d hoped. Most young men fell instantly in love with her when she was not dressed in rags and covered in stains, as the serving girl was beautiful, with black eyes, pale golden hair, and skin of a darker gold, a strange but irresistible combination. The duchess was furious when the prince expressed his intention to marry her cherished serving girl, but she could not very well gainsay the queen’s favourite son. On her wedding day, the serving girl was elated. Once they were wed, she planned to order the prince to undo her curse—if he did not, as her husband


thoughts without words at all." "I don't believe he'll find the doctor at Carmody," sobbed Diana. "I know that Dr. Blair went to town and I guess Dr. Spencer would go too. Young Mary Joe never saw anybody with croup and Mrs. Lynde is away. Oh, Anne!" "Don't cry, Di," said Anne cheerily. "I know exactly what to do for croup. You forget that Mrs. Hammond had twins three times. When you look after three pairs of twins you naturally get a lot of experience. They all had croup regularly. Just wait till I get the ipecac bottle-you mayn't have any at your house. Come on now." The two little girls hastened out hand in hand and hurried through Lover's Lane and across the crusted field beyond, for the snow was too deep to go by the shorter wood way. Anne, although sincerely sorry for Minnie May, was far from being insensible to the romance of the situation and to the sweetness of once more sharing that romance with a kindred spirit. The night was clear and frosty, all ebony of shadow and silver of snowy slope; big stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there the dark pointed firs stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through them. Anne thought it was truly delightful to go skimming through all this mystery and loveliness with your bosom friend who had been so long estranged. Minnie May, aged three, was really very sick. She lay on the kitchen sofa feverish and restless, while her hoarse breathing could be heard all over the house. Young Mary Joe, a buxom, broad-faced French girl from the creek, whom Mrs. Barry had engaged to stay with the children during her absence, was helpless and bewildered, quite incapable of thinking what to do, or doing it if she thought of it. Anne went to work with skill and promptness. "Minnie May has croup all right; she's pretty bad, but I've seen them worse. First we must have lots of hot water. I declare, Diana, there isn't more than a cupful in the kettle! There, I've filled it up, and, Mary Joe, you may put some wood in the stove. I don't want to hurt your feelings but it seems to me you might have thought of this before if you'd any imagination. Now, I'll undress Minnie May and put her to bed and you try to find some soft flannel cloths, Diana. I'm going to give her a dose of ipecac first of all." Minnie May did not take kindly to the ipecac but Anne had not brought up three. pairs of twins for nothing. Down that ipecac went, not only once, but many times during the long, anxious night when the two little girls worked patiently over the suffering Minnie May, and Young Mary Joe, honestly anxious to do all she could, kept up a roaring fire and heated more water than would have been needed for a hospital of croupy babies. It was three o'clock when Matthew came with a


no "mahogany furniture," but there was a white-painted bookcase filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet table befrilled with white muslin, a quaint, gilt-framed mirror with chubby pink Cupids and purple grapes painted over its arched top, that used to hang in the spare room, and a low white bed. Anne was dressing for a concert at the White Sands Hotel. The guests had got it up in aid of the Charlottetown hospital, and had hunted out all the available amateur talent in the surrounding districts to help it along. Bertha Sampson and Pearl Clay of the White Sands Baptist choir had been asked to sing a duet; Milton Clark of Newbridge was to give a violin solo; Winnie Adella Blair of Carmody was to sing a Scotch ballad; and Laura Spencer of Spencervale and Anne Shirley of Avonlea were to recite. As Anne would have said at one time, it was "an epoch in her life," and she was deliciously athrill with the excitement of it. Matthew was in the seventh heaven of gratified pride over the honor conferred on his Anne and Marilla was not far behind, although she would have died rather than admit it, and said she didn't think it was very proper for a lot of young folks to be gadding over to the hotel without any responsible person with them. Anne and Diana were to drive over with Jane Andrews and her brother Billy in their double-seated buggy; and several other Avonlea girls and boys were going too. There was a party of visitors expected out from town, and after the concert a supper was to be given to the performers. "Do you really think the organdy will be best?" queried Anne anxiously. "I don't think it's as pretty as my blueflowered muslin-and it certainly isn't so fashionable." "But it suits you ever so much better," said Diana. "It's so soft and frilly and clinging. The muslin is stiff, and makes you look too dressed up. But the organdy seems as if it grew on you." Anne sighed and yielded. Diana was beginning to have a reputation for notable taste in dressing, and her advice on such subjects was much sought after. She was looking very pretty herself on this particular night in a dress of the lovely wild-rose pink, from which Anne was forever debarred; but she was not to take any part in the concert, so her appearance was of minor importance. All her pains were bestowed upon Anne, who, she vowed, must, for the credit of Avonlea, be dressed and combed and adorned to the Queen's taste. "Pull out that frill a little more-so; here, let me tie your sash; now for your slippers. I'm going to braid your hair in two thick braids, and tie them halfway up with big white bows-no, don't pull out a single curl over your forehead-just have the soft part. There is no way you do your hair suits you so well, Anne, and Mrs. Allan says you look like a Madonna when you part


them. To have others see royalty in such straits--it set a bad precedent. Leto could feel strength returning. And now, the memory of the false tooth stood out in his mind like a steeple in a flat landscape. The nerve-shaped capsule within that tooth--the poison gas--he remembered who had put the deadly weapon in his mouth. Yueh. Drug-fogged memory of seeing a limp corpse dragged past him in this room hung like a vapor in Leto's mind. He knew it had been Yueh. "Do you hear that noise, Duke Leto?" the Baron asked. Leto grew conscious of a frog sound, the burred mewling of someone's agony. "We caught one of your men disguised as a Fremen, " the Baron said. "We penetrated the disguise quite easily: the eyes, you know. He insists he was sent among the Fremen to spy on them. I've lived for a time on this planet, cher cousin. One does not spy on those ragged scum of the desert. Tell me, did you buy their help? Did you send your woman and son to them?" Leto felt fear tighten his chest. If Yueh sent them to the desert fold . . . the search won't stop until they 're found. "Come, come," the Baron said. "We don't have much time and pain is quick. Please don't bring it to this, my dear Duke." The Baron looked up at Piter who stood at Leto's shoulder. "Piter doesn't have all his tools here, but I'm sure he could improvise." "Improvisation is sometimes the best, Baron." That silky, insinuating voice! Leto heard it at his ear. "You had an emergency plan," the Baron said. "Where have your woman and the boy been sent?" He looked at Leto's hand. "Your ring is missing. Does the boy have it?" The Baron looked up, stared into Leto's eyes. "You don't answer," he said. "Will you force me to do a thing I do not want to do? Piter will use simple, direct methods. I agree they're sometimes the best, but it's not good that you should be subjected to such things." "Hot tallow on the back, perhaps, or on the eyelids," Piter said. "Perhaps on other portions of the body. It's especially effective when the subject doesn't know where the tallow will fall next. It's a good method and there's a sort of beauty in the pattern of pus-white blisters on naked skin, eh, Baron?" "Exquisite," the Baron said, and his voice sounded sour. Those touching fingers! Leto watched the fat hands, the glittering jewels on baby-fat hands--their compulsive wandering. The sounds of agony coming through the door behind him gnawed at the Duke's nerves. Who is it they caught? he wondered. Could it have been Idaho? "Believe me, cher cousin," the Baron said. "I do not want it to come to this." "You think of nerve couriers racing to summon help that cannot come," Piter said. "There's an artistry in this, you know." "You're a superb artist," the Baron growled. "Now, have the decency to be silent." Leto suddenly recalled a thing Gurney


Cal's a girl, it would be many years before I would be interested in boys, I would never be interested in clothes... but I kept quiet. "What about Uncle Jimmy?" asked Jem. "Is he comin', too?" "Oh no, he's staying at the Landing. He'll keep the place going." The moment I said, "Won't you miss him?" I realized that this was not a tactful question. Uncle Jimmy present or Uncle Jimmy absent made not much difference, he never said anything. Aunt Alexandra ignored my question. I could think of nothing else to say to her. In fact I could never think of anything to say to her, and I sat thinking of past painful conversations between us: How are you, Jean Louise? Fine, thank you ma'am, how are you? Very well, thank you, what have you been doing with yourself? Nothin'. Don't you do anything? Nome. Certainly you have friends? Yessum. Well what do you all do? Nothin'. It was plain that Aunty thought me dull in the extreme, because I once heard her tell Atticus that I was sluggish. There was a story behind all this, but I had no desire to extract it from her then. Today was Sunday, and Aunt Alexandra was positively irritable on the Lord's Day. I guess it was her Sunday corset. She was not fat, but solid, and she chose protective garments that drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist, flared out her rear, and managed to suggest that Aunt Alexandra's was once an hour-glass figure. From any angle, it was formidable. The remainder of the afternoon went by in the gentle gloom that descends when relatives appear, but was dispelled when we heard a car turn in the driveway. It was Atticus, home from Montgomery. Jem, forgetting his dignity, ran with me to meet him. Jem seized his briefcase and bag, I jumped into his arms, felt his vague dry kiss and said, "'d you bring me a book? 'd you know Aunty's here?" Atticus answered both questions in the affirmative. "How'd you like for her to come live with us?" I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can't do anything about them. "We felt it was time you children needed- well, it's like this, Scout," Atticus said. "Your aunt's doing me a favor as well as you all. I can't stay here all day with you, and the summer's going to be a hot one." "Yes sir," I said, not understanding a word he said. I had an idea, however, that Aunt Alexandra's appearance on the scene was not so much Atticus's doing as hers. Aunty had a way of declaring What Is Best For The Family, and I suppose her coming to live with us was in that category. Maycomb welcomed her. Miss Maudie Atkinson baked a Lane cake so loaded with shinny it made me tight; Miss Stephanie Crawford had long visits with Aunt Alexandra, consisting mostly of Miss


nice people we deal with, Cal.” “I hear ya. The other one, Roy Mullen, he was a cop. Tread light, but I’m pretty sure he took money to drive over my witness and shoot her in the chest. She died. He got me pretty good, too.” Orhan raises bushy eyebrows. “How’d that work out for him?” “Not well. Figure you’ve got a few hours before they shut his accounts.” “You seem like you’re having a time, Cal. I’ll do you a solid and check your man Denton for outgoings in the same amount, in case he maybe sends someone to let you know he is unhappy.” “Thanks, Orhan.” He shrugs. “Got to protect my revenue streams. It’s not a favourable economy.” * * * — From Orhan’s I head north again, then take a waterbus along the shore and duck inland to Victor’s. She’s not there, which is fine, because I want to talk to Sam. “How’s your chef?” “I am not discussing that with you.” “Come on, Sam, it’s just small talk before I ask you what you really don’t want to talk about with me.” “She’s fine, Cal. She has doubts about me as a long-term partner.” “I don’t.” “Well, that’s great, let’s get hitched right away.” “Come work with me. That gets you away from Victor’s. You can bootstrap to respectable security professional.” “Yeah, sure, because just everyone thinks you’re respectable.” “Athena does and that’s all that matters.” “So I hear. Also that you keep stepping back, which I understand conceptually but for the record: you’re an idiot.” That is probably true. * * * — “Sam, if you were going to make a first-dose Titan put a gun to his own head, how would you do it?” “I got an alibi.” “And what is that exactly?” “If I’d killed your guy you’d have never found the body.” “Not really how those work.” “Yeah, also I was here.” He shrugs. “What do you want?” “I want to know—” “First thing people think of is knock him out. Drugs, obviously.” “Tranquilisers.” “Sure. An absolute shitload of them, maybe, and even then it would not be my first choice.” “Why not?” “Because of what’s happening right now. You’d find it and then you would go: ‘Huh, this guy was unconscious when he shot himself, I wonder if that’s legit?’ And then you would go ‘what the fuck am I saying, of course that’s not legit, it’s fucking ridiculous.’ But also: why not just overdose him on ketamine? He’ll be just as dead.” “So you would go with—?” “If I wanted to make it personal—which I assume is the point of the whole drug-and-shoot thing—maybe with the right person and the right information you can use a hostage.” “Nasty.” “And unreliable.” “What else?” “If it was a proper covert operation I’d go with carbon dioxide. You leave him breathe a while after, there’s not much left to find in the body. Then he’s unconscious, you pull the trigger. Fine line, but it’s conceivable no one would ever know.” “And physical force?” He


"Oh, Piggy!" A storm of laughter arose and even the tiniest child joined in. For the moment the boys were a closed circuit of sympathy with Piggy outside: he went very pink, bowed his head and cleaned his glasses again. Finally the laughter died away and the naming continued. There was Maurice, next in size among the choir boys to Jack, but broad and grinning all the time. There was a slight, furtive boy whom no one knew, who kept to himself with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy. He muttered that his name was Roger and was silent again. Bill, Robert, Harold, Henry; the choir boy who had fainted sat up against a palm trunk, smiled pallidly at Ralph and said that his name was Simon. Jack spoke. "We've got to decide about being rescued." There was a buzz. One of the small boys, Henry, said that he wanted to go home. "Shut up," said Ralph absently. He lifted the conch. "Seems to me we ought to have a chief to decide things." "A chief! A chief!" "I ought to be chief," said Jack with simple arrogance, "because I'm chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp." Another buzz. "Well then," said Jack, "I--" He hesitated. The dark boy, Roger, stirred at last and spoke up. "Let's have a vote." "Yes!" "Vote for chief!" "Let's vote--" This toy of voting was almost as pleasing as the conch. Jack started to protest but the clamor changed from the general wish for a chief to an election by acclaim of Ralph himself. None of the boys could have found good reason for this; what intelligence had been shown was traceable to Piggy while the most obvious leader was Jack. But there was a stillness about Ralph as he sat that marked him out: there was his size, and attractive appearance; and most obscurely, yet most powerfully, there was the conch. The being that had blown that, had sat waiting for them on the platform with the delicate thing balanced on his knees, was set apart. "Him with the shell." "Ralph! Ralph!" "Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing." Ralph raised a hand for silence. "All right. Who wants Jack for chief?" With dreary obedience the choir raised their hands. "Who wants me?" Every hand outside the choir except Piggy's was raised immediately. Then Piggy, too, raised his hand grudgingly into the air. Ralph counted. "I'm chief then." The circle of boys broke into applause. Even the choir applauded; and the freckles on Jack's face disappeared under a blush of mortification. He started up, then changed his mind and sat down again while the air rang. Ralph looked at him, eager to offer something. "The choir belongs to you, of course." "They could be the army--" "Or hunters--" "They could be--" The suffusion drained away from Jack's face. Ralph waved again for silence. "Jack's in charge of the choir. They can be--what do you want them to be?" "Hunters." Jack and Ralph smiled at each other with shy liking. The rest


well? Does he fray the line between body and mind? Perhaps not entirely. But enough to make an inch, three inches, five inches of difference? She springs, but she hesitates slightly, doesn’t push off with the legs of a ten-year-old but with legs that have been told what they are until she believes it. She knows, in the way you always know, in any bad fall, that the earth is rising for you, and she manages to twist. Not to right herself, but to turn like a barbershop pole so it’s the back of her head that hits the pool rim. And not even the outer rim, but the inner one, the one under a few centimeters of water. Her head leaves no dent; her blood billows through the water in faint pink clouds. She struggles a minute, drifting in and out of consciousness. She can’t pull herself out but she follows the lane line to the shallow end, draping herself on the green and gold rings, nestling them under her chin, slipping under, coming up, slipping under, coming up on the far side, but now something has her hair, something’s pulling her head back and down, and the easiest thing, the only thing, is to sleep. 20 After our interview, Britt had sent me a link to a YouTube video from a man named Dane Rubra. He had a whole channel, in fact, that seemed to be ninety percent about Thalia. At two a.m., suddenly wide awake, I decided I could enter this particular rabbit warren for exactly one hour, after which I’d sleep. Dane Rubra looked, and I’m putting this gently, like he hadn’t seen the sun or eaten a vegetable or gotten laid in a decade. A pastier Norman Bates with stringier hair and doughier cheeks. According to his first video, which I had to scroll to find, he was “between jobs” when he first saw the Dateline special, and he had an epiphany, felt he could contribute. When he said Thalia’s name, oozed over the vowels, I felt the skin on my neck tighten. He was about my age, and I imagined he fancied that if only he and Thalia had crossed paths, he could have saved her, bedded her, won her love. He showed a yearbook photo of Puja Sharma and said, “This one wasn’t as pretty as her friend, and you have to think, that could have been a source of jealousy. Miss Sharma is a real possibility here. Someone we can never question, unfortunately.” I nearly slammed my laptop shut at that one, at the gall, the wrongheadedness, the slime. Puja might have been a hanger-on—might have used Thalia’s kindness as entry into the crowd that spent Feb Week at Mike Stiles’s ski house, that went to the Vineyard on long weekends—but she was devastated by Thalia’s death. Two weeks afterward, Puja took off on foot in the middle of the night, walking the roadsides until police picked her up two towns over, muddy and disoriented. She was sent home to London, and we never


itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What you know


can. “You are no Spartan woman,” Clytemnestra says with a smile. “Not like you. If you were a man, you’d be among the strongest fighters in Greece.” “I’m already among the cleverest in Sparta,” Clytemnestra says, grinning. Helen frowns. “You shouldn’t say these things. You know what Mother says about hubris.” “The pride that comes before a fall,” Clytemnestra recites, bored. “But Father always says he’s the bravest warrior in Sparta, and no one has punished him yet.” “Father is king. We aren’t, so we shouldn’t anger the gods,” Helen insists. Clytemnestra laughs. Her sister, moving through the world as if life were all mud and murk, always amuses her. “If you’re the fairest woman in all our lands and beyond, I might as well be the cleverest. I don’t see why the gods should be angry with that—they’ll always be cleverer and more beautiful anyway.” Helen thinks it through. Clytemnestra swims toward a patch of sunlight glistening on the water, and her sister follows. The two remain floating in the river, their faces like sunflowers, always following the light. * * * They reach the gymnasium in time for their daily practice. The sun is strong, and they hurry under the shade of the trees that surround the courtyard. On the sand, young girls are already practicing, running around the square fully naked. Here the Spartiates, daughters of the best and noblest warriors of Sparta, train with commoners, and they will continue to do so until they start a family. Their bodies are covered with oil, old scars pale against their tanned skin. Clytemnestra steps into the yard, Helen close behind her. The sand burns under their feet, like a heated blade, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat. The master—one of her father’s warriors—gives them a discus, then a spear, and corrects their posture as they throw again and again. The sun grows higher, and the girls jump, race, and run, their limbs hurting, their throats sore in the dry, hot air. At last, there is the dancing. Clytemnestra catches sight of Helen smiling at her; the dance is her sister’s favorite moment. The drums start beating and the girls begin. Bare feet thud on the sand, pulsing through the sunlit air, and the dancers’ hair moves, like tongues of flame. Clytemnestra dances with her eyes closed, her strong legs following the rhythm. Helen’s movements mirror her sister’s but are more composed and graceful, as if she were afraid of losing herself. Her feet light and precise, her arms like wings, she looks ready to take flight and soar high, away from the others’ eyes. But she can’t rise, so she keeps dancing, relentless. Clytemnestra dances for herself; Helen dances for others. * * * The water of the bath is cold and pleasant on the skin. Only Helen, Clytemnestra, and the Spartiates are allowed to share the small room in one corner of the courtyard. Most of the other athletes, commoners and girls who can’t claim to be native Spartans, are washing away the sweat in


in which she had dwelt with Hrin. And when the Elves departed she sent with them the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin, greatest of the heirlooms of the house of Hador. Trin grew fair and strong in Doriath, but he was marked with sorrow. For nine years he dwelt in Thingol's halls, and during that time his grief grew less; for messengers went at times to Hithlum, and returning they brought better tidings of Morwen and Nienor. But there came a day when the messengers did not return out of die north, and Thingol would send no more. Then Trin was filled with fear for his mother and his sister, and in grimness of heart he went before the King and asked for mail and sword; and he put on the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin and went out to battle on the marches of Doriath, and became the companion in arms of Beleg Cthalion. And when three years had passed, Trin returned again to Menegroth; but he came from the wild, and was unkempt, and his gear and garments were way-worn. Now one there was in Doriath, of the people of the Nandor, high in the counsels of the King; Saeros was his name. He had long begrudged to Trin the honour he received as Thingol's fosterson; and seated opposite to him at the board he taunted him, saying: 'If the Men of Hithlum are so wild and fell, of what sort are the women of that land? Do they run like deer clad only in their hair?' Then Trin in great anger took up a drinking-vessel, and cast it at Saeros; and he was grievously hurt. On the next day Saeros waylaid Trin as he set out from Menegroth to return to the marches; but Trin overcame him, and set him to run naked as a hunted beast through the woods. Then Saeros fleeing in terror before him fell into the chasm of a stream, and his body was broken on a great rock in the water. But others coming saw what was done, and Mablung was among them; and he bade Trin return with him to Menegroth and abide the judgement of the King, seeking his pardon. But Trin, deeming himself now an outlaw and fearing to be held captive, refused Mablung's bidding, and turned swiftly away; and passing through the Girdle of Melian he came into the woods west of Sirion. There he joined himself to a band of such houseless and desperate men as could be found in those evil days lurking in the wild; and their hands were turned against all who came in their path Elves and Men and Orcs. But when all that had befallen was told and searched out before Thingol, the King pardoned Trin, holding him wronged. In that time Beleg Strongbow returned from the north marches and came to Menegroth, seeking him; and Thingol spoke to Beleg, saying: 'I grieve, Cthalion; for I took Hrin's son as my son, and so he shall remain, unless Hrin himself should return out of the shadows to claim


ready in the coming days.… In the meantime, please feel free to reply to this e-mail or give me a call.… Your friend, Anonymous, senior Trump official. P.S. Yes, it is me. But if you are skeptical, we can always do background verification by phone, e-mail or by Zoom meeting.” My mind was like a classroom during a test, and the faint click of the ticking clock was maddeningly loud. Time was running out. Back home in Indiana, I settled on a plan. I couldn’t wait any longer to do something, so I decided to step out into the light just before the Republican National Convention in August. Trump would be in the midst of getting renominated for the presidency. A GOP defection—right as he was about to get coronated again—would throw his campaign off-kilter. Before doing anything, I wanted to see whether others would join me. I did the rounds once more, arranging meetings with former colleagues who shared my earned disdain of the president. Over coffees and drinks in their backyards, I hinted that I was going to come out against Trump and assessed their willingness to join. The bulk of them demurred or pledged to do something “closer to the election.” There was someone I really wanted to recruit. My former coworker Chad Wolf had risen to become the acting secretary of DHS after I quit. When we worked together, Chad fought to beat back White House policies that we all knew were reckless, which is why I initially cheered on his appointment to the position. I went to see him one evening in early August 2020. The Virginia night was still sweaty after sundown when I got to Chad’s house. Like a lot of people, I’d given up trying to manage my alcohol consumption during the pandemic and showed up with a six-pack of strong IPAs. We cracked open beers and sat in fold-out chairs on his driveway, appreciating how August was a slower month in the nation’s capital. I hadn’t seen him in probably a year. He looked more energized than I’d expected. We reminisced as we drank. Chad and I had spent a lot of time together in government. After everyone had gone home, we would be the last two left in the front office, commiserating about how a broken administration was straining our personal lives and our health. We sent each other memes about quitting. I hoped he would still consider it. Trump would be badly weakened in the heat of the campaign if any of his cabinet members resigned in anger. John Kelly and Kirstjen Nielsen both thought the role of DHS secretary was the most thankless job in Washington. But, as we drank, I could tell Chad was enjoying the trappings of the office. The new headquarters. The private jet. The Secret Service detail sitting inside two black SUVs along the road in front of us. When the topic of the president came up, Chad was more reserved than usual. He avoided speaking ill of Trump, which was odd. Bashing a fucked-up White


after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?" Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way. "I don't know," he said, taking a pull of beer. "Why - do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?" Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said: "Drink up." He added, perfectly factually: "The world's about to end." Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business. "This must be Thursday," said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, "I never could get the hang of Thursdays." ================================================================= Chapter 3 On this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere many miles above the surface of the planet; several somethings in fact, several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings, huge as office buildings, silent as birds. They soared with ease, basking in electromagnetic rays from the star Sol, biding their time, grouping, preparing. The planet beneath them was almost perfectly oblivious of their presence, which was just how they wanted it for the moment. The huge yellow somethings went unnoticed at Goonhilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera and Jodrell Bank looked straight through them - which was a pity because it was exactly the sort of thing they'd been looking for all these years. The only place they registered at all was on a small black device called a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic which winked away quietly to itself. It nestled in the darkness inside a leather satchel which Ford Prefect wore habitually round his neck. The contents of Ford Prefect's satchel were quite interesting in fact and would have made any Earth physicist's eyes pop out of his head, which is why he always concealed them by keeping a couple of dog-eared scripts for plays he pretended he was auditioning for stuffed in the top. Besides the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and the scripts he had an Electronic Thumb - a short squat black rod, smooth and matt with a couple of flat switches and dials at one end; he also had a device which looked rather like a largish electronic calculator. This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million "pages" could be summoned at a moment's notice. It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words Don't Panic printed on it in large friendly letters. The other reason was that this device was in fact that most remarkable of all books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor - The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The reason why it was published in the form of a micro sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal


deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall but imposing figure; and fancied myself in ideahis wife . Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be right; I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts, with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage, and devotion, and vigor; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man; profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity; my body would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to; my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he never came; and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered, which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march trample down; but as his wife at his side always, and always restrained, and always checked forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital thiswould be unendurable.     St. John!" I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.     "Well?" he answered, icily.     "I repeat; I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary; but not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you."     "A part of me you must become," he answered steadily; "otherwise the whole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we be forever together sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amid savage tribes and unwed?"     "Very well," I said, shortly; "under the circumstances, quite as well as if I were either your sister, or a man and a clergyman like yourself."     "It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such; to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for the rest, though you have a man's vigorous brain, you have a woman's heart and it would not do."     "It would do," I affirmed with some disdain, "perfectly well. I have a woman's heart; but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte's respect and submission to his hierophant; nothing more don't fear."     "It is what I want," he said, speaking to himself; "it is just what I want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would not repent marrying me; be


Àdùkẹ́ had been warm to him all week, that had to have some impact on what her husband would decide. Maybe she had even put in a good word about how he seemed like a good worker. He did not dwell much on what would be required of him in exchange for the money. Whatever it was could not be terrible. After all, the man fed scores of people every day without asking for anything in return. Erelú Àdùkẹ́ was handing out brown envelopes to a group of boys when Ẹniọlá arrived in the compound. He approached the file of about a dozen boys and hung back, close to Rashidi and Sàámú. Everyone in the queue was at least as tall as Ẹniọlá. A few were brawny, with bulging muscles that strained against the seams of their shirts. Together, they were an intimidating crowd. Once she was done with the group, Erelú beckoned Ẹniọlá and led him to the winding staircase beside the house. She hitched her wrapper up to her knees and took the stairs two at a time. He was breathless when they got to the landing, but after she opened the door, she continued to charge ahead in the unlit corridor, her footsteps clicking ahead of him while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Erelú opened a door, and light streamed into the corridor. He followed her into the room. The walls were lined with shelves and each one was bursting with books. Ẹniọlá had never seen so many books in one place. Honourable was seated behind a large desk, reading from a book, head bowed so his bald spot shone at Ẹniọlá. “Kọ́lá.” Erelú clapped twice. Honourable looked up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “He’s here?” “Yes now.” “Thank you, dear.” Honourable bowed his head. Erelú patted Ẹniọlá on the shoulder. “Wait here, he’ll be done soon.” Ẹniọlá nodded. Honourable turned a page as the door clicked shut behind Erelú. Four armchairs were arranged in a circle around an orange rug on one end of the room, while the desk dominated the other. Ẹniọlá squinted at the book spines on the shelf behind Honourable. Land Law in Nigeria, A History of Customary Land Law in South-West Nigeria, Ten Prayers to Destroy Stubborn Enemies, The Bourne Identity, Twenty Prayers Against Satanic Arrows─ “Do you like reading?” “Sir?” Ẹniọlá snapped to attention. “Yes, yes sir.” Honourable shut the book he’d been reading and studied Ẹniọlá. Ẹniọlá scratched his thigh, worried that there might be a follow-up question. If he were to name titles, what would he say? Mention the copies of Hearts and Better Lover that Sàámú had been passing on to him? And if Honourable asked him to talk about what he’d read? Lai lai, he could not discuss “Ten Ways to Fuck a Busy Woman” or the escapades of Peter Stringfellow, who according to Better Lover had slept with four thousand women. Maybe he could talk about the Bible. He remembered enough stories to give the impression that he’d read it himself. “You


there in his rumpled pajamas, knuckling grains of lingering sleep from his eyes. He comes fully awake at the sight of Michael. “You’re him.” On his first visit to this house, Michael had come under the guise of a potential new client seeking Nina’s accounting services. John had been attending classes at Saint Anthony’s. “Pleased to meet you, John.” “Mom told me about you, but not everything.” “She’s been waiting to see if I’d keep a promise I made. I believe now she’ll tell you the rest.” John is good-looking, with large brandy-brown eyes that seem to be lit from within. Michael cannot read minds or discern the quality of anyone’s character with a divining rod, but judging by what Nina has said and what the teachers at Saint Anthony’s School have written in their student reports, he believes this is a smart and steady kid, a fine man in the making. John’s posture, the inclination of his head, his quiet voice, and a hesitant manner suggest a healthy vulnerability that will inoculate him against the psychotic degree of self-esteem that shapes other boys into gangsters like Aleem. He reminds Michael of Shelby. “You’re younger than I thought,” John says. By one calculation, Michael is forty-four, but in another sense, he is only four days old. To the boy, he says, “And I suspect you’re older than your years.” Nina confirms, “He’s that, all right,” and the boy ducks his head, shying away from the praise. “It won’t be easy leaving your friends.” “What friends?” the boy asks. “I know you have them.” “You mean school friends.” “A hard thing for most kids.” “School friends aren’t forever. Everyone grows up and moves on. That’s how it is.” Impressed, Michael says, “I know you’ll help your mother through this.” If John is ever capable of looking at his mother without his intense love being apparent, this is not one of those moments. He clearly adores her. “We’re always all right.” “Always,” she says. “Stay home from school,” Michael advises. “I’m not afraid,” the boy says. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart.” His mother says, “You can help me pack, sweetheart.” “So we’re going.” “If we really hustle,” she says, “we can be out of here tomorrow afternoon.” “To where?” “Wherever we want. We have resources.” “The sooner the better,” Michael reminds her. He smiles at John, and the boy responds to the smile with a sober expression that says he has been aware of the stakes for most of his life. THE ARM OF THE STATE The declared purpose of the sprawling Internal Security Agency is to seek, discover, monitor, and eliminate every threat to the nation that might arise within its borders, and the ISA actually does some of that. As the agency has evolved, however, its primary purposes are to guarantee the perpetuation of the labyrinthine and unelected bureaucracy that in truth runs the country, ensure the prerogatives of the ruling class, and to monitor that only the right kind of people are gorging themselves at the public


for I was still incredulous.     "Do you doubt me, Jane?"     "Entirely."     "You have no faith in me?"     "Not a whit."     "Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked, passionately. "Little skeptic youshall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None; and that you know. What love has she for me? None; as I have taken pains to prove; I caused a rumor to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would not I could not marry Miss Ingram. You you strange you almost unearthly thing! I love as my own flesh. You poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are I entreat to accept me as a husband."     "What, me!" I ejaculated; beginning in his earnestness and especially in his incivility to credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the world but you if you are my friend; not a shilling but what you have given me?"     "You, Jane. I must have you for my own entirely my own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly."     "Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face; turn to the moonlight."     "Why?"     "Because I want to read your countenance; turn!"     "There; you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched page. Read on; only make haste, for I suffer."     His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in the features and strange gleams in the eyes.     "Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "With that searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture me!"     "How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion they cannot torture."     "Gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added, wildly "Jane, accept me quickly. Say Edward give me my name Edward I will marry you."     "Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your wife?"     "I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it."     "Then, sir, I will marry you."     "Edward, my little wife!"     "Dear Edward!"     "Come to me come to me entirely now," said he; and added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, "Make my happiness I will make yours."     "God pardon me!" he subjoined ere long; "and man meddle not with me; I


at least) than any he had ever heard in church before. Then, there were the walks as usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself. In the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the fields, and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with which he would return laden, home; and which it took great care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this science also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will, until Miss Rose made her appearance: when there were a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done. So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and which, in Oliver's were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable generousity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself. CHAPTER XXXIII WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN CHECK Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had donned her mantle of brightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad. It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing. Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown stout and healthy; but health or


I am!” he said at last, spection. wiping his cheeks. “You and me should get on well, Hawkins, Long John told the story from first to last, with a great for I’ll take my davy I should be rated ship’s boy. But come deal of spirit and the most perfect truth. “That was how it now, stand by to go about. This won’t do. Dooty is dooty, were, now, weren’t it, Hawkins?” he would say, now and again, messmates. I’ll put on my old cockerel hat, and step along of and I could always bear him entirely out. you to Cap’n Trelawney, and report this here affair. For mind The two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, you, it’s serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me’s but we all agreed there was nothing to be done, and after he come out of it with what I should make so bold as to call had been complimented, Long John took up his crutch and credit. Nor you neither, says you; not smart— none of the departed. Contents pair of us smart. But dash my buttons! That was a good un “All hands aboard by four this afternoon,” shouted the about my score.” squire after him. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 70 71 “Aye, aye, sir,” cried the cook, in the passage. “Well, squire,” said Dr. Livesey, “I don’t put much faith in your discoveries, as a general thing; but I will say this, John Silver suits me.” “The man’s a perfect trump,” declared the squire. “And now,” added the doctor, “Jim may come on board with us, may he not?” “To be sure he may,” says squire. “Take your hat, Hawkins, and we’ll see the ship.” Chapter 9. Powder and Arms. THE HISPANIOLA lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and round the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated underneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us. At last, however, we got along- side, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the mate, Mr. Arrow, a brown old sailor with earrings in his ears and a squint. He and the squire were very thick and friendly, but I soon observed that things were not the same between Mr. Trelawney and the captain. This last was a sharp-looking man who seemed angry with Contents everything on board and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the cabin when a sailor followed us. “Captain Smollett, sir, axing to speak with you,” said he. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 72 73 “I am always at the captain’s orders. Show him in,” said “No,” said Dr. Livesey, “I don’t.” the squire. “Next,” said the captain, “I learn we are going after trea- The captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered sure—hear it from my own hands, mind you. Now, treasure at once and shut the door behind him. is ticklish work; I don’t like treasure voyages on any account, “Well, Captain Smollett, what have you to say?


to bind them into a bundle. Without haste he wrapped them securely, and then, ere he turned to leave, the devil of capriciousness entered his heart. He looked about for some hint of a wild prank to play upon these strange, grotesque creatures that they might be again aware of his presence among them. Dropping his bundle of arrows at the foot of the tree, Tarzan crept among the shadows at the side of the street until he came to the same hut he had entered on the occasion of his first visit. Inside all was darkness, but his groping hands soon found the object for which he sought, and without further delay he turned again toward the door. He had taken but a step, however, ere his quick ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps immediately without. In another instant the figure of a woman darkened the entrance of the hut. Tarzan drew back silently to the far wall, and his hand sought the long, keen hunting knife of his father. The woman came quickly to the center of the hut. There she paused for an instant feeling about with her hands for the thing she sought. Evidently it was not in its accustomed place, for she explored ever nearer and nearer the wall where Tarzan stood. So close was she now that the ape-man felt the animal warmth of her naked body. Up went the hunting knife, and then the woman turned to one side and soon a guttural "ah" proclaimed that her search had at last been successful. Immediately she turned and left the hut, and as she passed through the doorway Tarzan saw that she carried a cooking pot in her hand. He followed closely after her, and as he reconnoitered from the shadows of the doorway he saw that all the women of the village were hastening to and from the various huts with pots and kettles. These they were filling with water and placing over a number of fires near the stake where the dying victim now hung, an inert and bloody mass of suffering. Choosing a moment when none seemed near, Tarzan hastened to his bundle of arrows beneath the great tree at the end of the village street. As on the former occasion he overthrew the cauldron before leaping, sinuous and catlike, into the lower branches of the forest giant. Silently he climbed to a great height until he found a point where he could look through a leafy opening upon the scene beneath him. The women were now preparing the prisoner for their cooking pots, while the men stood about resting after the fatigue of their mad revel. Comparative quiet reigned in the village. Tarzan raised aloft the thing he had pilfered from the hut, and, with aim made true by years of fruit and coconut throwing, launched it toward the group of savages. Squarely among them it fell, striking one of the warriors full upon the head and felling him to the ground. Then it rolled among the women and stopped beside