entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out, ``What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.'' ``We are speaking of music, Madam,'' said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply. ``Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?'' Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency. ``I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,'' said Lady Catherine; ``and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, if she does not practise a great deal.'' ``I assure you, Madam,'' he replied, ``that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.'' ``So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired, without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano forte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house.'' Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill breeding, and made no answer. When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano forte, stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said, ``You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There is a


his elbow, pulling an imperturbable moustache and affecting not to glance at the message. "Hallo, Newland: thought I'd catch you here. I've just heard of old Mrs. Mingott's stroke; and as I was on my way to the house I saw you turning down this street and nipped after you. I suppose you've come from there?" Archer nodded, and pushed his telegram under the lattice. "Very bad, eh?" Lefferts continued. "Wiring to the family, I suppose. I gather it IS bad, if you're including Countess Olenska." Archer's lips stiffened; he felt a savage impulse to dash his fist into the long vain handsome face at his side. "Why?" he questioned. Lefferts, who was known to shrink from discussion, raised his eye-brows with an ironic grimace that warned the other of the watching damsel behind the lattice. Nothing could be worse "form" the look reminded Archer, than any display of temper in a public place. Archer had never been more indifferent to the requirements of form; but his impulse to do Lawrence Lefferts a physical injury was only momentary. The idea of bandying Ellen Olenska's name with him at such a time, and on whatsoever provocation, was unthinkable. He paid for his telegram, and the two young men went out together into the street. There Archer, having regained his self-control, went on: "Mrs. Mingott is much better: the doctor feels no anxiety whatever"; and Lefferts, with profuse expressions of relief, asked him if he had heard that there were beastly bad rumours again about Beaufort. . . . That afternoon the announcement of the Beaufort failure was in all the papers. It overshadowed the report of Mrs. Manson Mingott's stroke, and only the few who had heard of the mysterious connection between the two events thought of ascribing old Catherine's illness to anything but the accumulation of flesh and years. The whole of New York was darkened by the tale of Beaufort's dishonour. There had never, as Mr. Letterblair said, been a worse case in his memory, nor, for that matter, in the memory of the far-off Letterblair who had given his name to the firm. The bank had continued to take in money for a whole day after its failure was inevitable; and as many of its clients belonged to one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were "the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction-- of pleading that she was "a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet


around the surfboard propped beside him. There was a pendant around his neck, but Alex couldn’t make out what it was. “That’s so sad,” Hellie said. She’d moved on to a deck of cards set out on the coffee table. “Ooh, does Mira read tarot?” She plucked a card off the top deck and held it up. The Wheel. For the first time, Alex felt something other than love and regret well up in her at the sight of Hellie, perfect Hellie with her ocean eyes. “You shouldn’t have let them kill Babbit Rabbit,” she said. “I wouldn’t have let him die.” Alex watched the Wheel spin, alight with blue fire that consumed first the card, then Hellie’s hand, then Hellie, her mother, the room, the house. The world swallowed by blue flame. All is well. She was standing on the steps of Sterling, surrounded by fire, and the others were looking at her with pity in their eyes. Alex wiped her tears away, her gut twisting with shame. She’d felt no sorrow at her own death, only relief to see the world wiped clean. She knew her mother had wept over her, but how many more tears had she wasted on a living girl? And Hellie? Well, that was the worst of it. If Alex hadn’t been with Len that day on the Venice boardwalk, maybe Hellie never would have gone home with them. Maybe she wouldn’t have stayed as long. She would have made the trip back from hell and returned to the world of softball games and college transcripts and yoga on Saturday morning. She never would have died. “I’m going to make this easy for you,” Anselm said gently. “Take your place here, Galaxy Stern. Live in splendor and comfort, never want for anything, and see all the damage you’ve done in the world erased. Everyone gets what they want. All will be well.” What would it mean to become a ghost? Darlington grabbed her arm. “It isn’t real. It’s just another kind of torture, living with something that isn’t real.” He wasn’t wrong. She’d known Len’s love wasn’t real. She’d known her mother’s protection wasn’t real. That knowledge ate at you every day. You lived on a tightrope, waiting for the moment the rope would vanish. It was its own kind of hell. “I can make it easier still,” said Anselm. “Stay or your lovely friend dies.” In the shimmer of the fountain that would have been the Women’s Table, Alex caught a flicker of movement. She recognized the man approaching Mercy in the courtyard. Eitan Harel. As if from a great distance, she heard him ask, “Where is that bitch? You think this is a joke?” He’d found her. “He’s going to hurt her,” Anselm said. “You know that. But you can stop it. Wouldn’t you like to save her? Or will she be one more girl you failed? One more life taken because you’re so determined to survive?” Another Hellie. Another Tripp. Alex met Dawes’s eyes and said, “Find a way to shut the door


he’s enjoying it.” Alex thought of what she’d read in Kittscher’s Daemonologie. If Rudolph Kittscher was right, then demons had been getting by on the emotions of the dead for a very long time, and that was nothing compared to feasting on the pain and pleasure of the living. Why wouldn’t they be enjoying themselves now that they were in the mortal realm? The buffet was open. “Listen, Tripp … I’m sorry I got you into this.” “I totally get it. You were just doing your job.” Alex hesitated. “You … you know this wasn’t sanctioned by Lethe, right? We were never going to make trouble for you with Skull and Bones.” “Oh, I know.” “And you helped us anyway?” “Well, yeah. I needed the cash and … I don’t really know where I am, y’know? My friends are all working in the city. I still don’t have my degree. I don’t even know if I want it anymore. I like Darlington and … I don’t know. I like being one of the good guys.” Is that who we are? There was no greater good here, no fight for a better world. But what had Mercy said? You rescue me. I rescue you. That’s how this works. To pay your debts, you had to know who you owed. You had to decide who you were willing to go to war for and who you trusted to jump into the fray for you. That was all there was in this world. No heroes or villains, just the people you’d brave the waves for, and the ones you’d let drown. Alex and Tripp said their goodbyes at the green. She felt better than she had an hour before, but the double nightmare of Eitan and Not Hellie had left her roughed up. She wasn’t in any condition to meet with the Praetor, but there was no way around it. “My God,” he said when she tapped on his office door. “You look terrible.” “It’s been a rough few days.” “Come in. Sit down. Can I offer you tea?” Alex shook her head. She wanted to get this over with, but she felt so rotten she let herself slouch in the chair as he set an electric kettle to boil. She just didn’t have it in her to put on a performance, and there was no reason to anymore. “Well,” said the Praetor as he sorted through a selection of teas. “Where shall we start?” “The fire last night…” He gave a dismissive wave. “New Haven.” So Walsh-Whiteley had believed Turner’s claims of vandalism. Maybe he hadn’t gone inside. Maybe after being summoned from his warm bed, he’d been only too happy to go home. “It was far worse in the eighties,” the Praetor continued. “New Haven was quite the punch line. Biscuit?” He held out a blue tin to her. Alex was baffled, but she didn’t say no to food. She took two. “There was an upside, of course. We threw some marvelous parties at the old clock factory and there was simply no


restlessly, keenly, intolerantly, perfectly, flawlessly, correctly, well unimaginably. ANTONYM: (adv) hastily, avidly, uneasily, imperious: (adj) haughty, tolerably enthusiastically, edgily, fidgetily, domineering, authoritative, impost: (n) custom, tax, customs, restively. ANTONYMS: (adv) arbitrary, imperative, masterful, customs duty, toll, dues, cess, excise, uncomplainingly, calmly, dictatorial, commanding, lordly, Scot, sess, stone unenthusiastically, lightly magisterial, despotic. ANTONYM: impracticable: (adj) unfeasible, impeded: (adj) blocked, disabled, (adj) subservient infeasible, impractical, unrealistic, hampered, crippled, slow impersonally: (adv) indifferently, unworkable, impervious, unusable, impediment: (n, v) hindrance, check, objectively, impartially, unattainable, useless; (v) crotchety, difficulty, delay; (n) bar, hitch, unemotionally, fairly, distantly, fussy. ANTONYMS: (adj) viable, barrier, obstruction, drawback, disinterestedly, coldly, unbiasedly, feasible, possible, accustomed encumbrance, block. ANTONYMS: detachedly, callously. ANTONYM: impress: (n, v) mark, print, stamp; (v) (n) benefit, boost, incentive, strength (adv) warmly move, affect, inscribe, instill, touch, impel: (v) coerce, constrain, force, impiety: (n) disrespect, irreligion, emboss, inculcate; (n) impression carry, compel, goad, urge, stimulate, blasphemy, unrighteousness, impressiveness: (n) solemnity, actuate, animate, push. impiousness, sacrilege, profanity, gravity, excellence, grandness, force, ANTONYMS: (v) restrain, godlessness, irreverence, sin, evil. expansiveness, weightiness, discourage, prevent ANTONYMS: (n) restraint, loftiness, magnificence, majesty; (n, impelled: (adj) prompted, provoked, goodness v) importance determined, compulsive, implicated: (adj) involved, involve, imprinted: (adj) printed, marked, encouraged, goaded, motivated, associated, caught up, occupied, embossed bound mixed up, interested, allied to, imprisoned: (adj) confined, jailed, impending: (adj) forthcoming, close, culpably involved, affiliated fenced in, unfree, locked up, future, coming, approaching, near, implicitly: (adv) unquestioningly, incarcerate, deeply moved, prospective, pending, at hand, absolutely, tacitly, virtually, enraptured; (v) behind bars upcoming, threatening. indirectly, silently, unspokenly, improbable: (adj) implausible, ANTONYMS: (adj) distant, unlikely, inherently, obliquely, completely, impossible, incredible, unbelievable, past unexpressedly. ANTONYMS: (adv) fishy, questionable, inconceivable, imperatively: (adv) commandingly, openly, explicitly impractical, unthinkable, absurd; imperiously, urgently, pressingly, implore: (v) beg, beseech, supplicate, (adj, n) marvelous. ANTONYMS: authoritatively, obligatorily, ask, conjure, crave, pray, importune, (adj) probable, certain, plausible, essentially, magisterially, appeal, plead, solicit. ANTONYMS: truthful, ordinary, on, practical necessarily, instantly, critically (v) demand, grant, reject improbably: (adv) fantastically, imperceptible: (adj) invisible, importunate: (adj) annoying, exigent, incredibly, bizarrely, oddly, intangible, insensible, faint, pressing, insistent, bothersome, apocryphally, unusually, evanescent, inaudible, negligible, pestiferous, pestilent, instant, extraordinarily, fascinatingly, indiscernible, unseen, unnoticeable, obdurate, demanding, pleading. incongruously, mysteriously, gentle. ANTONYMS: (adj) obvious, ANTONYM: (adj) feeble peculiarly. ANTONYMS: (adv) overwhelming, clear, visible, importunately: (adv) pleadingly, plausibly, believably, normally, perceptible, heavy, noticeable, annoyingly, persistently, pressingly, credibly definite, considerable, conspicuous, imploringly, beseechingly, improper: (adj) false, illicit, strong insistently, exigently, entreatingly, illegitimate, unsuitable, wrong, imperceptibly: (adv) unnoticeably, clamorously, earnestly indecent, bad, coarse, amiss, faulty; gradually, slightly, invisibly, gently, imposing: (adj, n, v) impressive; (adj, (adj, v) indecorous. ANTONYMS: quietly, softly, observably, n) noble, commanding, solemn; (adj) (adj) suitable, fitting, polite, indistinctly, scarcely, hardly. dignified, grandiose, stately, acceptable, sensitive, moral, correct, ANTONYMS: (adv) obviously, distinguished, regal, lofty, baronial. dignified, lawful, clean, honest visibly, audibly, conspicuously, ANTONYMS: (adj) unimpressive, improperly: (adv) wrongly, perceptibly, heavily, clearly, modest, unimposing, weak, unbecomingly, badly, 294 The Scarlet Letter inappropriately, indecorously, unarticulate, speechless, guttural, ANTONYMS: (n) congruity, indecently, faultily, unseemly, fuzzy. ANTONYMS: (adj) articulate, normality, agreement incongruously, illicitly, eloquent, fluent, distinct, talkative inconsistency: (n) disagreement, illegitimately. ANTONYMS: (adv) inasmuch: (adv) gradually, pro


strong-willed ladies. He will not hesitate to do what he can to assist you, and he knows a good deal of good people far from London. Please. For my own sanity.” “Very well.” An enormous weight seemed to lift from her shoulders, and she took a slow breath, as if she hadn’t been able to breathe deeply for days. Maybe she hadn’t. “I suppose I will go take my walk now.” Nick grimaced, glancing at the closed door that separated them from Simon. “Couldn’t you at least take that maid of yours with you? I can’t like the idea of you being out there on your own.” “I need only a few moments to myself,” she assured him. “A chance to see the grounds one last time. Besides, only someone truly touched in the head would be awake this early.” She grinned when Nick chuckled. “Go. Look after Simon, and I will come inside shortly.” He clasped her hand briefly, then stepped back, walking backward in the direction of the parlor. “I will see to the travel arrangements once the rest of the world is awake. Don’t stay out too long, Lucy.” “Thank you, Nick. Thank you for being my friend.” Lucy stepped out into the cool morning and breathed the air damp from the rain, feeling almost at peace for the first time since her admission. She would still ache from missing this place—even in the darkness the grounds were beautiful and wild—but her future was not looking so bleak. She would survive once she woke from this dream, and perhaps she would even be better for it. A gentle wind blew through the leaves of the nearby trees, and Lucy closed her eyes, letting the coolness of the breeze dry her tears. Yes, she decided. She was at peace. Ready to move on and let her past disappear behind her. “Good morning, Miss Hayes.” Lucy shrieked, though the sound was cut off when she recognized Mr. Granger’s voice. She could barely make out the man’s silhouette in the thick darkness, but he was far closer than she’d expected. Where had he come from? “Mr. Granger,” she said, her heart still racing from being startled. “What are you doing here?” He chuckled, the sound low and far more menacing than she’d ever heard him. “I told you three days, did I not? Well? Have you made your peace? It is time for us to be on our way.” Chapter Twenty-Nine Was it possible for a man to sleep when his heart was broken? Simon doubted it; he hadn’t slept a minute since the moment Forester had finally let him go upstairs to his chamber to get a couple of hours’ sleep. He had simply lain awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he could have been so completely foolish. That and reliving the kiss that would haunt him for the rest of his life. And now that the sun was up, much to his irritation, he would have to face his family and see the damage Lucy had done. Her


scrubbing in for surgery, clerking a patient and drawing up an impeccable treatment plan. The relentless hours she’d spent getting squashed during lectures in MDL II in her pre-med years were eased by detailed fantasies about clinical postings. How happy she would be to leave that overcrowded laboratory behind and spend her time in the hospital. Striding into wards and theatres, even the morgue. Since she had qualified and started her house job, her focus had shifted to what being a resident doctor would be like. Recently she had begun to suspect that she would always be restless. Maybe she was one of those people for whom satisfaction lay only in the future, forever slightly out of reach. She touched the praying man’s shoulder. He went quiet and slumped against the bedframe. He was gaunt, cadaverous even. Had he always been this way or was it because his eyes were not at this moment framed by his glasses and therefore seemed more sunken than they usually did? She stepped closer to him as he struggled to his feet. Where he’d seemed slim when she first met him, now he looked like someone who could be blown across the room by a strong breeze. Before she could speak, he launched into the usual apologies. “My dear, I can’t leave. I will keep my voice down, ehn. Whisper.” He lowered his voice until it was barely audible. “I will whisper now, ehn, you hear?” He turned away from her and placed his hands on the bed rail, ready to kneel again. Wúràọlá took a deep breath. “Mr…. Mr…. you have to leave sir.” The man twisted his upper body towards her, gripping the bed rail as though he might keel over if he let go. “My dear, I can’t leave him.” “You have to go sir. Now.” He opened his mouth as though to speak but said nothing. She tried to catch the eye of one of the nurses who were seated behind a desk next to the door. One was fast asleep, and the other was absorbed in a large textbook that was propped open on his knees at an improbable angle that she supposed was meant to keep him awake. If this situation devolved, she could always shout his name or just yell “nurse,” since she was too exhausted to remember any name but her own. “I understand that you’re praying,” she said. “But your voice gets too loud.” She waited, but the man did not protest. He stood still. He did not say a word or shut his mouth. There was nothing defiant in his stance, and it was clear to her that there would be no arguments, no need for threats about calling security to haul him out. This man was not standing his ground; he simply could not remember what to do with his body when he was not on his knees. “I’ve warned you several times.” In a whisper that she strained to hear, the praying man said, “Yèyé mi.” Wúràọlá was not sure if he was appealing


that--- "Maister Linton wer just o' this side th' Heights, and he'd be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further." "Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle," I observed. "He bade us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at once." "Well, we'll turn our horses' heads round when we reach him," answered my companion; "our excursion shall lie towards home." But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from his own door, we found he had no horse, and we were forced to dismount and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath awaiting our ap- proach, and did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so feebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,--- "Why, Master Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill you do look!" Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment. She changed the ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm, and the congratulation on their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry whether he were worse than usual. "No; better---better!" he panted, trembling, and re- taining her hand as if he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over her, the hollow- ness round them transforming to haggard wildness the languid expression they once possessed. "But you have been worse," persisted his cousin--- "worse than when I saw you last. You are thinner, and------" "I'm tired," he interrupted hurriedly. "It is too hot for walking; let us rest here. And in the morning I often feel sick. Papa says I grow so fast." Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined be- side her. "This is something like your paradise," said she, making an effort at cheerfulness. "You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only there are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow, it is nicer than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we'll ride down to the Grange Park and try mine." Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of, and he had evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His lack of interest in the sub- jects she started, and his equal incapacity to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not conceal her disappointment. An indefinite altera- tion had come over his whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into fondness had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed, and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an in- sult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a punishment than a gratification to endure our company, and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to depart. That


each way. When Ralph had wriggled into this he felt secure, and clever. He sat down carefully among the smashed stems and waited for the hunt to pass. Looking up between the leaves he caught a glimpse of something red. That must be the top of the Castle Rock, distant and unmenacing. He composed himself triumphantly, to hear the sounds of the hunt dying away. Yet no one made a sound; and as the minutes passed, in the green shade, his feeling of triumph faded. At last he heard a voice--Jack's voice, but hushed. "Are you certain?" The savage addressed said nothing. Perhaps he made a gesture. Roger spoke. "If you're fooling us--" Immediately after this, there came a gasp, and a squeal of pain. Ralph crouched instinctively. One of the twins was there, outside the thicket, with Jack and Roger. "You're sure he meant in there?" The twin moaned faintly and then squealed again. "He meant he'd hide in there?" "Yes--yes--oh--!" Silver laughter scattered among the trees. So they knew. Ralph picked up his stick and prepared for battle. But what could they do? It would take them a week to break a path through the thicket; and anyone who wormed his way in would be helpless. He felt the point of his spear with his thumb and grinned without amusement. Whoever tried that would be stuck, squealing like a pig. They were going away, back to the tower rock. He could hear feet moving and then someone sniggered. There came again that high, bird-like cry that swept along the line. So some were still watching for him; but some--? There was a long, breathless silence. Ralph found that he had bark in his mouth from the gnawed spear. He stood and peered upwards to the Castle Rock. As he did so, he heard Jack's voice from the top. "Heave! Heave! Heave!" The red rock that he could see at the top of the cliff vanished like a curtain, and he could see figures and blue sky. A moment later the earth jolted, there was a rushing sound in the air, and the top of the thicket was cuffed as with a gigantic hand. The rock bounded on, thumping and smashing toward the beach, while a shower of broken twigs and leaves fell on him. Beyond the thicket, the tribe was cheering. Silence again. Ralph put his fingers in his mouth and bit them. There was only one other rock up there that they might conceivably move; but that was half as big as a cottage, big as a car, a tank. He visualized its probable progress with agonizing clearness--that one would start slowly, drop from ledge to ledge, trundle across the neck like an outsize steamroller. "Heave! Heave! Heave!" Ralph put down his spear, then picked it up again. He pushed his hair back irritably, took two hasty steps across the little space and then came back. He stood looking at the broken ends of branches. Still silence. He caught sight of the rise and fall of his diaphragm and


and eaten dirt before her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not want to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's child. He was peculiar and no mistake. But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure him. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny household; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faint odour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl's photograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was very clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred's questions with frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them. "I don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself at last. It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her


I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, * and [* Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've got to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child." Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's wood --------------------------------------------------------- -18- and split the kindlings before supper -- at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work. Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways. While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep -- for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she: "Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?" "Yes'm." "Powerful warm, warn't it?" "Yes'm." "Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?" A bit of a scare shot through Tom -- a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he said: "No'm -- well, not very much." The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said: "But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered --------------------------------------------------------- -19- that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move: "Some of us pumped on our heads -- mine's damp yet. See?" Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration: "Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!" The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed. "Bother! Well, go 'long with you.


difference. Catherine had risen, with an impulse to dash out, when she saw him. "Stop!" he said, arresting her by the arm. "No more runnings away! Where would you go? I'm come to fetch you home, and I hope you will be a dutiful daugh- ter, and not encourage my son to further disobedience. I was embarrassed how to punish him when I discov- ered his part in the business---be's such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him---but you'll see by his look that he has received his due. I brought him down one evening, the day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and never touched him afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room to ourselves. In two hours I called Joseph to carry him up again; and since then my presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost, and I fancy he sees me often, though I am not near. Hareton says he wakes and shrieks in the night by the hour together, and calls you to protect him from me; and whether you like your precious mate or not, you must come. He's your concern now; I yield all my in- terest in him to you." "Why not let Catherine continue here," I pleaded, "and send Master Linton to her? As you hate them both, you'd not miss them. They can only be a daily plague to your unnatural heart." "I'm seeking a tenant for the Grange," he answered, "and I want my children about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes me her services for her bread. I'm not going to nurture her in luxury and idleness after Linton has gone. Make haste and get ready now, and don't oblige me to compel you." "I shall," said Catherine. "Linton is all I have to love in the world, and though you have done what you could to make him hateful to me, and me to him, you cannot make us hate each other. And I defy you to hurt him when I am by, and I defy you to frighten me." "You are a boastful champion," replied Heathcliff, "but I don't like you well enough to hurt him; you shall get the full benefit of the torment as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make him hateful to you; it is his own sweet spirit. He's as bitter as gall at your desertion and its consequences. Don't expect thanks for this noble devotion. I heard him draw a pleasant picture to Zillah of what he would do if he were as strong as I. The in- clination is there, and his very weakness will sharpen his wits to find a substitute for strength." "I know he has a bad nature," said Catherine; "he's your son. But I'm glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, you have nobody to love you; and however miserable you make us, we shall still have the


might have acted differently had it been anyone other than Fairel, who was mine since the day Raya brought her to the keep. If under alternate conditions, I might have stayed hidden and merely added this kernel of rage to the collection. The villagers screamed as the clustered horses kicked at Fairel, and the sound of breaking bones fired across the main road. My magic seethed forward, and I gripped my dagger, Felix’s viscera bright in my mind’s eye. I was moving for Felix before the horses had finished their assault on Fairel’s still body. Arin moved faster. I hadn’t taken more than a step, and he was already there, blocking my path. He knocked the dagger from my hand. My magic did not approve, howling as the horses trotted past Fairel, their hooves red with her blood. The pressure on my cuffs tightened, familiar pain roaring beneath my skin, and then—the impossible. The dagger shuddered into the air and flew. My magic hummed, keeping the dagger’s course true. I gasped, the incomprehensible sight made more confounding by the cuffs’ unchanged presence around my wrists. Arin didn’t turn around to see the dagger embed itself into Felix’s thigh, not even when the other Heir screamed. He didn’t turn at the shouts from the guardsmen or the sobs as the village physician crouched by Fairel’s prone form. Inches separated me from the Nizahl Heir. I stood close enough to see the dark victory eclipsing the frost in Arin’s eyes. I had done it—given him the evidence he needed. Horror thrilled down my spine. I tried to jerk back. When he spoke, the words brushed my temple. “If you wish to keep your head today, stay still.” His hand closed around my wrist. My livid magic danced beneath the surface of my skin but did not break through a second time. The Heir turned to ten of Felix’s guardsmen brandishing their swords in my direction. The villagers who weren’t occupied with moving Fairel’s splayed limbs onto a stretched calfskin watched with apprehension. Apprehension for me. They thought I had thrown the dagger. They hadn’t seen Arin knock it from my hand before it flew. A trickle of relief tempered some of the nausea churning in my gut. Congratulations, it was only the Nizahl Heir who saw you use magic! Hanim yelled. No one important. “Arrest her!” Felix screeched. “For her attack on the Heir of Omal! Where is the physician? Leave the girl! Can’t you see I’ve been stabbed?” Fairel’s sudden, strangled cry pierced through me. I tried to go to her, but Arin’s grip on my wrist didn’t falter. The Omalian guardsmen moved, but Arin’s men closed in front of us. Murmurs rose from the crowd. Heirs raising arms against one another was tantamount to a declaration of war. “What is this?” Felix asked, and though his retinue blocked him from sight, his voice pinched with bewilderment. “Instruct your guards to stand down! I am after the girl, not you.” I tried to yank my hand away. If I fled into the woods


he thought no - too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon. "So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he said. He paused. "Is that right?" Ford laughed a nervous laugh. "Well I mean yes," he said, "don't we all, deep down, you know ... er ..." The Vogon stood up. "No, well you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!" "What?" shouted Ford. A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms. "You can't throw us into space," yelled Ford, "we're trying to write a book." "Resistance is useless!" shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he'd learnt when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps. The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away. Arthur stared round him wildly. "I don't want to die now!" he yelled. "I've still got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and wouldn't enjoy it!" The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially towards his captain's back, hoiked them both protesting out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again. He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses. "Hmmmm," he said, "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor ..." He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile. "Death's too good for them," he said. The long steel-lined corridor echoed to the feeble struggles of the two humanoids clamped firmly under rubbery Vogon armpits. "This is great," spluttered Arthur, "this is really terrific. Let go of me you brute!" The Vogon guard dragged them on. "Don't you worry," said Ford, "I'll think of something." He didn't sound hopeful. "Resistance is useless!" bellowed the guard. "Just don't say things like that," stammered Ford. "How can anyone maintain a positive mental attitude if you're saying things like that?" "My God," complained Arthur, "you're talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven't even had your planet demolished today. I woke up this morning and thought I'd have a nice relaxed day, do a bit of reading, brush the dog ... It's now just after four in the afternoon and I'm already thrown out of an alien spaceship six light years from the smoking remains of the Earth!" He spluttered and gurgled as the Vogon tightened his grip. "Alright," said Ford, "just stop panicking." "Who said anything about panicking?" snapped Arthur. "This is still just the culture shock. You wait till I've settled down into the situation and found my bearings. Then I'll start panicking." "Arthur you're getting hysterical. Shut up!" Ford tried desperately to


it was actually in Granada. Tristán told himself it was like Polanco, except it wasn’t, not with the warehouses and ratty buildings nearby. Walk a few blocks and you’d be in a land of new sports cars and chic restaurants, but that was still a few blocks from him. Tristán’s building was five stories tall, painted green, and had been refurbished to serve a higher class of clientele in the past few years; he didn’t doubt in a decade or two developers would bulldoze the whole colonia and build it anew, making it as shiny and elegant as Polanco. But for now the prosperity that the building owner had expected had not manifested. Yet Tristán could not do any better. Already the new apartment was making his wallet bleed. He needed to line up more gigs. That was why he wanted to get his phone up and running again. He was trying to land an ad campaign. He kept staring at his pager forlornly and running to a pay phone a block away to make calls. The one good thing about this state of affairs was that the journalists might have a harder time getting hold of him. The anniversary of Karina’s death was coming up. Ten years since she’d died. A guy who worked over at a miserable rag had called him a few weeks before looking for an interview. At least this way Tristán wouldn’t be tempted to talk. Ten days was ridiculous, though. Tristán reached the pay phone and dialed the number for the apartment manager’s office. Because this was supposed to be a nicer building, there wasn’t the usual portera in a checkered apron, her hair in curlers, that people could harangue about a problem. You had to phone a number. The girl at the management office said she was aware of his phone issues, and no, there was no update on when that would be fixed and it was really Telmex’s fault anyway so maybe he should be harassing them instead. When he pointed out that the apartment had been offered to him with three months of free phone service the girl replied that she didn’t have his contract in front of her but it was still Telmex who had to fix his phone line. He hung up, muttered to himself, and began walking back to his apartment. Tristán was trying to cut down on his smoking, but frustration made him stop in front of a newsstand, where he bought a pack of cigarettes, some Chiclets, and an issue of Eres. He knew he shouldn’t grab the magazine. It only upset him when he saw the well-groomed faces of younger actors who had obtained roles he’d been up for. And there was the danger that they would be running a story on Karina. But he felt masochistic that afternoon. Karina. He managed to forget her for three quarters of the year, but eventually succumbed, took out her pictures—he carried one in his wallet, but he had many others, tucked away in a shoe box—and spent too many


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

back to how the enchantment had thwarted me every time I opened my mouth to reveal it, how often I had forgotten that I was enchanted at all. I had to admit he was probably right—well, no, I didn’t have to admit it. I tightened my hand into a fist. It was swathed in a white glove, cunningly tailored with elaborate folds and bunches to mask the absence of the third finger. It gave its ghost-ache, which was familiar to me by now. “And what is to be the queen’s role in this?” I said. “The king will not be worried about her, given that he thinks she was torn apart by wolves, and so she will sneak into the gift-giving ceremony in disguise. Once he has been distracted by the poison, she will kill him, aided and abetted by her allies among the nobility, of whom there are quite a few, though they’ve been temporarily cowed into subservience to their king.” My mouth was dry. “How?” He shrugged. “I’ve left that up to their fertile imaginations.” I lowered my head onto my hands. My mind had stopped whirling since Wendell’s arrival—I wondered if he was doing something to counteract the king’s enchantments—but I still felt too light, as if I might at any moment fade away. “Well, you will never fool me again.” “What?” “I will never again believe you to be incapable of hard work.” He shuddered. “Being capable is not the same as being inclined, Em.” “Could you free me without killing him?” I said. “Could you imprison him again?” “No,” he said, after a puzzled pause. “You can turn back time,” I said, frustrated. He shook his head. “Your belief in me is flattering. But at my age, most Folk have only begun to grasp the extent of their powers. This king is older than the mountains. And worse, we are in his realm, not mine. What does it matter? Surely you don’t pity him. He will starve everyone in Hrafnsvik, you know, burying them and their fields beneath yards of snow even at the height of summer, if left to his own devices.” I shook my head slowly. “The old queen and her court will go back to abducting mortals. Aud and the others will once again hear their music calling to them on a winter’s night.” “I daresay they’re used to that.” I quickly abandoned this line of argument—it was silly of me to expect him to care about the wickedness of the Folk when his own people are guilty of worse than the Hidden Ones, if the stories are to be believed. I tugged at a loose strand of hair—the servants had secured it with some contraption of ribbons and pins, but it seemed not even faerie magic could tame it. “Did they really plan this—this rescue?” He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it. Just because you have a heart filled with the dust of a thousand library stacks does not mean everybody does. Here.” He handed me a small book with a leather


too much freedom.” “I do not need you to give me my freedom,” Clytemnestra says. “I am free. But you are not. You are Agamemnon’s puppet now, because you are weak.” “Your husband was weak,” Tyndareus replies coolly. “Tantalus was a good man, a kind man. But you can’t see that, because in your world, only the brutes can live, and they do so by tearing down everything else.” “That is how life is. The weak have to die so that the rest may survive.” “You disgust me,” she says. Tyndareus stands and slaps her face before she can back away. She feels her father’s scar on the back of his hand scratch her cheek. She looks up into Tyndareus’s eyes and sneers. “What kind of father are you?” She turns to her mother, seated in her chair with her head lowered. “And you do not fight him. You forgive him. You are no better.” “There are laws to be respected,” Leda says quietly. “You don’t seek vengeance because you have become a coward,” Clytemnestra says. Her hands are trembling, and she clutches them tightly. “But know this. I will have my justice. I swear it here and now. I swear it by the Furies and every other goddess who has known vengeance. I will stalk the Atreidai and crush everything they hold dear until only ashes remain.” “You will avenge nothing,” Tyndareus says. “What would you have me do?” she mocks him. “Forget? Wish Agamemnon a happy life with that whore Cynisca?” Her mother shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a choking sound. Tyndareus turns to her, annoyed. “That will not happen,” he says slowly. “That will not happen,” he repeats, “because you will marry the man.” Her father’s voice feels distant. Clytemnestra tries to catch her mother’s eyes, but Leda is staring fixedly at the floor. Without meaning to, she thinks about all the times when she would be seated in the hall and, as her father was speaking, she would catch Helen’s or Castor’s eyes and bite her tongue trying not to laugh. They would always think the same thing at the same time—how funny this messenger’s voice is! How serious Father is! How scared this stranger is! How boring the priestess is!—and later, during dinner, they would tell Tyndareus, giggling, and he would say, “You are not to come to the megaron anymore.” But then he would let them come. Helen was right. Agamemnon would never marry someone like Cynisca. Clytemnestra isn’t surprised. She isn’t angry. She feels like a fool. Agamemnon has always wanted her for himself. “I won’t,” she says, her voice so quiet she can barely hear herself. “You live to honor Sparta and your king.” He recites the words he taught her as a child, when he wanted her to grow into a strong warrior, a free woman. “Or have you forgotten? Your loyalty is to me, not to a foreigner. If you think about yourself and not the good of the city . .


entangled again with the yoke of bondage. —Paul of Tarsus A LITTLE NIGHT WORK The stars are extinguished, and the drowned moon floats just under the surface of a translucent lake of clouds. Rats breed in the crowns of the phoenix palms, flea-tormented trespassers that mostly keep to their high nests and are seldom seen in this illustrious community where the masters of art and industry live sequestered on guarded estates, in denial of vermin. At 3:10 in the morning, as Michael Mace moves briskly through an elegant residential neighborhood, a plump long-tailed rat freezes in its descent of a palm bole, oil-drop eyes filmed with a yellowish reflection of the streetlamp light. He is no threat to the creature, but it decides otherwise and retreats at speed into the cascade of fronds from which it had ventured. Less than ten miles to the south, streets that were once as stately as this one are now dangerous to rat and man alike. The filthy sidewalks and parks are impassable in places, obstructed by ramshackle encampments of the addicts and mentally ill who give an undeserved bad name to the smaller number of sober, sane, genuinely homeless people whose needs authorities ignore. Those farther precincts crawl with feral cats that know where to find rodents, cockroaches, and other delectables in abundance. By contrast, this monied community has no tolerance for such dreary bacchanals. The city council recently added officers to the police department in response to a sharp increase in crime, which spills across borders from adjacent jurisdictions where those in the ruling class see themselves as admirably tolerant and enlightened. A Dodge Charger, the choice of police in this city, turns the corner half a block away. Shadows expand and arc and then contract as headlights sweep the avenue, which once carried frequent traffic at any hour. Now the lanes are deserted. The sidewalks accommodate but one pedestrian. Illuminated, Michael neither seeks the cover of shadows nor breaks his stride. He has an urgent task ahead of him, one that might remain urgent for as long as he walks the Earth. Past midnight, a man alone on foot is inevitably a subject of interest to law enforcement in a city as encrusted with wealth as this one. Yet the lightbar on the roof of the patrol car remains dark. The vehicle gains speed as it approaches him. Perhaps the man behind the wheel is distracted and sleepy as he nears the end of his shift. Or maybe he has received a call to go to the immediate assistance of a fellow officer. In the light of the car’s computer terminal and digital citation printer, as he flashes past, the driver seems like an apparition, less fact than form, his face a pale oval, spectral and without features. Two blocks later, Michael arrives in a commercial district. The engine noise of unseen trucks and other vehicles arises, perversely reflected through the ranks of tall buildings, so that it seems to issue from mysterious machinery deep underground. Here lampposts stand unlit. The city obtains


face. --Some time yesterday, Stephen said. --Yesterday! exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow Friday. Ah, you mean it's after twelve! --The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself. Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence Bloom reflected. Though they didn't see eye to eye in everything a certain analogy there somehow was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the one train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some score of years previously when he had been a QUASI aspirant to parliamentary honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in retrospect (which was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a sneaking regard for those same ultra ideas. For instance when the evicted tenants question, then at its first inception, bulked largely in people's mind though, it goes without saying, not contributing a copper or pinning his faith absolutely to its dictums, some of which wouldn't exactly hold water, he at the outset in principle at all events was in thorough sympathy with peasant possession as voicing the trend of modern opinion (a partiality, however, which, realising his mistake, he was subsequently partially cured of) and even was twitted with going a step farther than Michael Davitt in the striking views he at one time inculcated as a backtothelander, which was one reason he strongly resented the innuendo put upon him in so barefaced a fashion by our friend at the gathering of the clans in Barney Kiernan's so that he, though often considerably misunderstood and the least pugnacious of mortals, be it repeated, departed from his customary habit to give him (metaphorically) one in the gizzard though, so far as politics themselves were concerned, he was only too conscious of the casualties invariably resulting from propaganda and displays of mutual animosity and the misery and suffering it entailed as a foregone conclusion on fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the fittest, in a word. Anyhow upon weighing up the pros and cons, getting on for one, as it was, it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was a bit risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue (somebody having a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash altogether as on the night he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed unknown) with a lame paw (not that the cases were either identical or the reverse though he had hurt his hand too) to Ontario Terrace as he very distinctly remembered, having been there, so to speak. On the other hand it was altogether far and away too late for the Sandymount or Sandycove suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to which of the two alternatives. Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved him to avail himself to the full of the opportunity, all things considered. His initial impression was he was a shade standoffish or not over effusive but it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn't what you


behold animals of his own kind, and to learn more of their ways and view the strange lairs in which they lived. His savage life among the fierce wild brutes of the jungle left no opening for any thought that these could be aught else than enemies. Similarity of form led him into no erroneous conception of the welcome that would be accorded him should he be discovered by these, the first of his own kind he had ever seen. Tarzan of the Apes was no sentimentalist. He knew nothing of the brotherhood of man. All things outside his own tribe were his deadly enemies, with the few exceptions of which Tantor, the elephant, was a marked example. Chapter 10 And he realized all this without malice or hatred. To kill was the law of the wild world he knew. Few were his primitive pleasures, but the greatest of these was to hunt and kill, and so he accorded to others the right to cherish the same desires as he, even though he himself might be the object of their hunt. His strange life had left him neither morose nor bloodthirsty. That he joyed in killing, and that he killed with a joyous laugh upon his handsome lips betokened no innate cruelty. He killed for food most often, but, being a man, he sometimes killed for pleasure, a thing which no other animal does; for it has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death. And when he killed for revenge, or in self-defense, he did that also without hysteria, for it was a very businesslike proceeding which admitted of no levity. So it was that now, as he cautiously approached the village of Mbonga, he was quite prepared either to kill or be killed should he be discovered. He proceeded with unwonted stealth, for Kulonga had taught him great respect for the little sharp splinters of wood which dealt death so swiftly and unerringly. At length he came to a great tree, heavy laden with thick foliage and loaded with pendant loops of giant creepers. From this almost impenetrable bower above the village he crouched, looking down upon the scene below him, wondering over every feature of this new, strange life. There were naked children running and playing in the village street. There were women grinding dried plantain in crude stone mortars, while others were fashioning cakes from the powdered flour. Out in the fields he could see still other women hoeing, weeding, or gathering. All wore strange protruding girdles of dried grass about their hips and many were loaded with brass and copper anklets, armlets and bracelets. Around many a dusky neck hung curiously coiled strands of wire, while several were further ornamented by huge nose rings. Tarzan of the Apes looked with growing wonder at these strange creatures. Dozing in the shade he saw several men, while at the extreme outskirts of the clearing he occasionally caught glimpses of armed warriors apparently guarding the village against


receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could. I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful friendship. Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through the night, awaiting orders to advance. The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and nothing moved. I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said: 'I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?' 'I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.' 'Is anything the matter, sir? - Mr. James? -' 'Hush!' said I. 'Yes, something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?' The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now, even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs? Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more! The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, she


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

not so? Will you not speak? Answer!” “I prefer not to,” he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me that while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every statement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not gainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some paramount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did. “You are decided, then, not to comply with my request—a request made according to common usage and common sense?” He briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was sound. Yes: his decision was irreversible. It is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some unprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in his own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that, wonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the other side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. “Turkey,” said I, “what do you think of this? Am I not right?” “With submission, sir,” said Turkey, with his blandest tone, “I think that you are.” “Nippers,” said I, “what do you think of it?” “I think I should kick him out of the office.” (The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being morning, Turkey’s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but Nippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous sentence, Nippers’ ugly mood was on duty and Turkey’s off.) “Ginger Nut,” said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my behalf, “what do you think of it?” “I think, sir, he’s a little luny,” replied Ginger Nut with a grin. “You hear what they say,” said I, turning towards the screen, “come forth and do your duty.” But he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But once more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the consideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little trouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at every page or two, Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion that this proceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his chair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between his set teeth occasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the screen. And for his (Nippers’) part, this was the first and the last time he would do another man’s business without pay. Meanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but his own peculiar business there. Some days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy work. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be outside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about eleven o’clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger


there was an objection lurking somewhere, Mrs. King wanted it out in the open. Mrs. Bone put her hands behind her back, expression angelic. “Good Lord,” she said. “It’s not for me to say.” “The date?” “Any day’s a bad day for a bad job.” “The time?” “No.” Mrs. King transferred the sherbet to the other side of her mouth. “The crew?” Mrs. Bone shook her head. “No, they’re all right. Not an inch on my Janes, mind you.” “I can’t change your fee.” “Can’t you?” Another figure appeared on the pavement. Mrs. King offered the bag. “Sherbet?” Mrs. Bone batted her hand away. “You’ve got dirty fingers.” She rummaged into a jar of pear drops, drew out a fistful, shoved two in her mouth. “Go on.” “You go on.” Mrs. Bone stared at her, eyes bright, sucking hard. “I want an advance.” “You’ve got an advance.” “No, I’ve got one of Danny’s trinkets, which you stole from him, at no cost to yourself, bearing no value at all.” This was a bit rich. “It doesn’t have symbolic value?” said Mrs. King. “I chose it rather carefully.” “These aren’t the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, my girl. We aren’t in the pyramids. I ain’t painting symbols all over the walls. I don’t need gestures. You’re doing this whole job on credit. Good for you, I’d do the same. But then I’ve got decent lines. You want to spend on my account, on my good name, then I need cash up front, to cover my risks.” “Yes,” said Mrs. King, crunching her sherbet. “You do.” Mrs. Bone looked annoyed at that. “Well, then, you understand, don’t you?” she said. “I can’t be making big investments until trading gets a bit brisker.” Second move, thought Mrs. King. “Your trade’s not about to get any brisker,” she said. Mrs. Bone took another pear drop. “Says who?” “I’ve got eyes.” “And?” “I can read accounts.” There it was: a streak of anger. Startled you, didn’t I? thought Mrs. King. She felt almost sorry, prodding Mrs. Bone. Her aunt was the only person who’d ever kept an eye out for her when she was small. Gave her clean pinafores, sturdy boots, fresh stockings, when Mother couldn’t manage. But this wasn’t a time to be softhearted. “Not your accounts,” she added smoothly. “I never pry into a lady’s affairs. But I’ve paid a call on Mr. Murphy. His books are looking splendid, Mrs. Bone. Heaving with orders. Whereas all I smell around your place is a pile of old debts.” “Is that so?” Mrs. King nodded. “Debts and debtors, crawling all over your patch.” Mrs. Bone said nothing. The flesh around her neck was taut, as if she were holding her chin up with great effort, as if it were costing her dearly not to backhand Mrs. King. Then she mastered herself. Smiled, put the other pear drop into her mouth. “Shall I name the sum, dear? Or shall we bully each other till sundown?” Mrs. King crossed her arms. “You may name the sum.” Mrs. Bone did so.


care for her swag -- you may have it. But her husband was rough on me -- many times he was rough on me -- and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't a millionth part of it! He had me horsewhipped! -- horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger! -- with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED! -- do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I'll take it out of her." "Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!" "Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill him if he was here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her -- bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils -- you notch her ears like a sow!" "By God, that's -- " "Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing -- for MY sake -- that's why you're here -- I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her -- and then I reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business." "Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the better -- I'm all in a shiver." "Do it now? And company there? Look here -- I'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. --------------------------------------------------------- -268- No -- we'll wait till the lights are out -- there's no hurry." Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue -- a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and -- a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no sound -- the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes -- turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship -- and then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the Welshman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows. "What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?" "Let me in -- quick! I'll tell everything." "Why, who are you?" "Huckleberry Finn -- quick, let me in!" "Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name


its head--wings. The beast moved too--" "That was awful. It kind of sat up--" "The fire was bright--" "We'd just made it up--" "--more sticks on--" "There were eyes--" "Teeth--" "Claws--" "We ran as fast as we could--" "Bashed into things--" "The beast followed us--" "I saw it slinking behind the trees--" "Nearly touched me--" Ralph pointed fearfully at Eric's face, which was striped with scars where the bushes had torn him. "How did you do that?" Eric felt his face. "I'm all rough. Am I bleeding?" The circle of boys shrank away in horror. Johnny, yawning still, burst into noisy tears and was slapped by Bill till he choked on them. The bright morning was full of threats and the circle began to change. It faced out, rather than in, and the spears of sharpened wood were like a fence. Jack called them back to the center. "This'll be a real hunt! Who'll come?" Ralph moved impatiently. "These spears are made of wood. Don't be silly." Jack sneered at him. "Frightened?" "'Course I'm frightened. Who wouldn't be?" He turned to the twins, yearning but hopeless. "I suppose you aren't pulling our legs?" The reply was too emphatic for anyone to doubt them. Piggy took the conch. "Couldn't we--kind of--stay here? Maybe the beast won't come near us." But for the sense of something watching them, Ralph would have shouted at him. "Stay here? And be cramped into this bit of the island, always on the lookout? How should we get our food? And what about the fire?" "Let's be moving," said Jack relentlessly, "we're wasting time." "No we're not. What about the littluns?" "Sucks to the littluns!" "Someone's got to look after them." "Nobody has so far." "There was no need! Now there is. Piggy'll look after them." "That's right. Keep Piggy out of danger." "Have some sense. What can Piggy do with only one eye?" The rest of the boys were looking from Jack to Ralph, curiously. "And another thing. You can't have an ordinary hunt because the beast doesn't leave tracks. If it did you'd have seen them. For all we know, the beast may swing through the trees like what's its name." They nodded. "So we've got to think." Piggy took off his damaged glasses and cleaned the remaining lens. "How about us, Ralph?" "You haven't got the conch. Here." "I mean--how about us? Suppose the beast comes when you're all away. I can't see proper, and if I get scared--" Jack broke in, contemptuously. "You're always scared." "I got the conch--" "Conch! Conch!" shouted Jack. "We don't need the conch any more. We know who ought to say things. What good did Simon do speaking, or Bill, or Walter? It's time some people knew they've got to keep quiet and leave deciding things to the rest of us." Ralph could no longer ignore his speech. The blood was hot in his cheeks. "You haven't got the conch," he said. "Sit down." Jack's face went so white that the freckles showed as clear, brown flecks. He licked his


give my boys, and give 'em free.' "He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man and thought it too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me." "Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence. Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them. "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, `If only we had this,' or `If we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, `When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.) "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice." "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg. "I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion. "I don't complain near as much as the others


me into Quincy Hall, swept me upstairs and down a corridor that still smelled exactly like itself, like the dark, ancient wood of its windowsills. Only—what used to be the darkroom was a 3D printing lab; the water fountain was now a bottle-filling station with a digital counter. In the corner classroom where I once took art history, my five podcasters waited. They were the most adorable, wide-eyed babies. There was a tall, skinny boy with an old-school high-top fade and a David Bowie shirt. There was a pale kid with purple hair who looked like Lillian Gish. They were all beautiful, in a way we never were. I don’t mean this on some profound spiritual level. It took a few minutes, but then I had it: It was their skin and teeth. Not an acne mark among them. No one wore braces, but their teeth were straight, already aligned in middle school. The dermatologists and orthodontists have finally solved it. We went around the table doing names and pronouns and hometowns and aspirations, but I couldn’t stop fixating on their youth. Unlike my UCLA students, these were children. Seniors, all but one (the guy in the Bowie shirt, an ebullient half-Ghanaian, half-Irish junior from Connecticut, wanted to work in public radio), but so dough-faced, so unformed. You would have loved these kids, Mr. Bloch. They would’ve been yours for the molding. The Bowie kid was named Alder (“like the tree,” he clarified) and he kept apologizing for his sneezing, getting up to grab Kleenex from the chalkboard ledge. Eventually I handed him the whole box, and he looked mortified. “I want to make something about the 1930s,” he said. We were going around a second time, spitballing podcast ideas. “But I want to do it like it is the 1930s.” In the email I’d sent the week before, I’d asked them to brainstorm topics related to the past or present of Granby. This way, I wrote, you’ll have easy access to interview sources and archives. It also meant I wouldn’t have to deal with video game fancasts or vampires. I included a list of ideas, with links. The fire that destroyed the original gymnasium in 1940. The 1975 murder of a Granby teacher by her drug-addled boyfriend in her apartment in Kern, a story I’d been obsessed with as a student. The hazing situation in the late aughts, and the resulting expulsions. The recent fallout from the school ending its football team. The debate about AP classes. The 1995 death of Thalia Keith. If you’d asked me at the time why I included Thalia I’d have said I was just trying to get them thinking, trying to lay out as many different points on the Granby timeline as I could. I’d have believed it, too. Alder said, “My concept is, like, what if they’d had podcasts back then, so, sort of a cross between old radio and podcasts. So I’m a Granby student from the ’30s, talking about life. I’m basically the only Black kid at Granby and then there’s the


heard of Clifford Pyncheon?--that you know nothing of his history? Well, it is all right; and your mother has shown a very proper regard for the good name of the family with which she connected herself. Believe the best you can of this unfortunate person, and hope the best! It is a rule which Christians should always follow, in their judgments of one another; and especially is it right and wise among near relatives, whose characters have necessarily a degree of mutual dependence. But is Clifford in the parlor? I will just step in and see." "Perhaps, sir, I had better call my cousin Hepzibah," said Phoebe; hardly knowing, however, whether she ought to obstruct the entrance of so affectionate a kinsman into the private regions of the house. "Her brother seemed to be just falling asleep after breakfast; and I am sure she would not like him to be disturbed. Pray, sir, let me give her notice!" But the Judge showed a singular determination to enter unannounced; and as Phoebe, with the vivacity of a person whose movements unconsciously answer to her thoughts, had stepped towards the door, he used little or no ceremony in putting her aside. "No, no, Miss Phoebe!" said Judge Pyncheon in a voice as deep as a thunder-growl, and with a frown as black as the cloud whence it issues." Stay you here! I know the house, and know my cousin Hepzibah, and know her brother Clifford likewise.--nor need my little country cousin put herself to the trouble of announcing me!"--in these latter words, by the bye, there were symptoms of a change from his sudden harshness into his previous benignity of manner. "I am at home here, Phoebe, you must recollect, and you are the stranger. I will just step in, therefore, and see for myself how Clifford is, and assure him and Hepzibah of my kindly feelings and best wishes. It is right, at this juncture, that they should both hear from my own lips how much I desire to serve them. Ha! here is Hepzibah herself!" Such was the case. The vibrations of the Judge's voice had reached the old gentlewoman in the parlor, where she sat, with face averted, waiting on her brother's slumber. She now issued forth, as would appear, to defend the entrance, looking, we must needs say, amazingly like the dragon which, in fairy tales, is wont to be the guardian over an enchanted beauty. The habitual scowl of her brow was undeniably too fierce, at this moment, to pass itself off on the innocent score of near-sightedness; and it was bent on Judge Pyncheon in a way that seemed to confound, if not alarm him, so inadequately had he estimated the moral force of a deeply grounded antipathy. She made a repelling gesture with her hand, and stood a perfect picture of prohibition, at full length, in the dark frame of the doorway. But we must betray Hepzibah's secret, and confess that the native timorousness of her character even now developed itself in a quick tremor, which, to


It may be, however--oh, transporting and triumphant thought I--that the great-grandchildren of the present race may sometimes think kindly of the scribbler of bygone days, when the antiquary of days to come, among the sites memorable in the town's history, shall point out the locality of THE TOWN PUMP. Thesaurus abode: (n) dwelling, house, residence, genial: (adj) cheerful, bright, affable, ANTONYM: (n) conciseness. place, domicile, lodge, abidance, cordial, amiable, nice, friendly, ripen: (v) grow, ripe, age, season, mansion, lodging, address, seat. convivial, warm, agreeable, suave. fructify, elaborate, cultivate; (adj, v) antiquary: (n) antiquarian, expert, ANTONYMS: (adj) disagreeable, maturate; (n) maturation; (adj) archaeologist, antiquist. hostile, mean, discourteous, frosty, perfect, bring to perfection. disconnect: (v) divide, abstract, cut off, gloomy, reserved, unapproachable, scribbler: (n) writer, penman, pen, disengage, separate, deactivate, abominable. author, the scribbling race, hack, disjoin, divorce, dissociate, sever, killed: (n) casualty; (adj) fallen. scrivener, Augustin Eugene scribe, turn off. ANTONYMS: (v) attach, prolixity: (n) verbosity, verbiage, scribe, pamphleteer, journalist. associate, continue, link, hook, join, flatulence, prolixness, verbalization, townspeople: (n) town, borough, engage, couple, hitch, unite. lengthiness, verboseness, diffuseness, township, municipality. efforts: (n) pains. copiousness, length, circumlocution. unpicturesque: (adj) ugly. Nathaniel Hawthorne 43 CHAPTER I. THE PRISON DOOR A throng of bearded men, in sad-coloured garments and grey steeple- crowned hats, inter-mixed with women, some wearing hoods, and others bareheaded, was assembled in front of a wooden edifice, the door of which was heavily timbered with oak, and studded with iron spikes.% The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognised it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison. In accordance with this rule it may safely be assumed that the forefathers of Boston had built the first prison-house somewhere in the Vicinity of Cornhill, almost as seasonably as they marked out the first burial-ground, on Isaac Johnson's lot, and round about his grave, which subsequently became the nucleus of all the congregated sepulchres in the old churchyard of King's Chapel. Certain it is that, some fifteen or twenty years after the settlement of the town, the wooden jail was already marked with weather-stains and other indications of age, which gave a yet darker aspect to its beetle-browed and gloomy front. The rust on the ponderous iron-work of its oaken door looked more antique than anything else in the New Thesaurus accordance: (n) harmony, agreement, decorous, ceremonious. seasonably: (adv) early, patly, early conformity, unison, concordance, edifice: (n) building, structure, house, fruit, fitly, forth with, fortunately, coincidence, accordancy, admission, hall, fabric, aviary, bagnio, happily, incidentally, pat, timely, fitness, consensus, concent. bathhouse, abattoir, bawdyhouse, betimes. ANTONYM: (adv) allot: (v) assign, distribute, apportion, clubhouse. unseasonably. dispense, grant, deal, administer, oaken: (adj) woody. studded: (adj) muricated, bristling, portion, allow, set, split. ponderous: (adj) heavy, grave, peopled, crowded, manifold, ANTONYMS: (v) retain, disallow, onerous, burdensome, massive, multinominal, multiple, multiplied, keep, refuse, reject, take. unwieldy, bulky, stodgy, hard, multitudinous, populous; (v) bareheaded: (adj) hatless, bare, bald, tedious, dull. ANTONYMS: (adj)


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

the priesthood which pleased him by reason of their semblance of reality and of their distance from it. In that dim life which he had lived through in his musings he had assumed the voices and gestures which he had noted with various priests. He had bent his knee sideways like such a one, he had shaken the thurible only slightly like such a one, his chasuble had swung open like that of such another as he turned to the altar again after having blessed the people. And above all it had pleased him to fill the second place in those dim scenes of his imagining. He shrank from the dignity of celebrant because it displeased him to imagine that all the vague pomp should end in his own person or that the ritual should assign to him so clear and final an office. He longed for the minor sacred offices, to be vested with the tunicle of subdeacon at high mass, to stand aloof from the altar, forgotten by the people, his shoulders covered with a humeral veil, holding the paten within its folds or, when the sacrifice had been accomplished, to stand as deacon in a dalmatic of cloth of gold on the step below the celebrant, his hands joined and his face towards the people, and sing the chant ITE MISSA EST. If ever he had seen himself celebrant it was as in the pictures of the mass in his child's massbook, in a church without worshippers, save for the angel of the sacrifice, at a bare altar, and served by an acolyte scarcely more boyish than himself. In vague sacrificial or sacramental acts alone his will seemed drawn to go forth to encounter reality; and it was partly the absence of an appointed rite which had always constrained him to inaction whether he had allowed silence to cover his anger or pride or had suffered only an embrace he longed to give. He listened in reverent silence now to the priest's appeal and through the words he heard even more distinctly a voice bidding him approach, offering him secret knowledge and secret power. He would know then what was the sin of Simon Magus and what the sin against the Holy Ghost for which there was no forgiveness. He would know obscure things, hidden from others, from those who were conceived and born children of wrath. He would know the sins, the sinful longings and sinful thoughts and sinful acts, of others, hearing them murmured into his ears in the confessional under the shame of a darkened chapel by the lips of women and of girls; but rendered immune mysteriously at his ordination by the imposition of hands, his soul would pass again uncontaminated to the white peace of the altar. No touch of sin would linger upon the hands with which he would elevate and break the host; no touch of sin would linger on his lips in prayer to make him eat and drink damnation to himself not discerning the body of the Lord. He would


gives her a lime. If she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know." "How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse." "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?" "Not much. You may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know." "Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one." Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to treat circulated through her `set', and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about `some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed `that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in


the door wide open and with his ears cocked for footsteps or the sound of the lift, he set to work with a small screwdriver. Five minutes later he gave a last-minute survey to his handiwork, put some fresh cigarettes in his case, closed and locked the door and went off down the corridor and across the hall and out into the moonlight. CHAPTER 14 - 'LA VIE EN ROSE?' The entrance to the Roi Galant was a seven-foot golden picture-frame which had once, perhaps, enclosed the vast portrait of a noble European. It was in a discreet corner of the 'kitchen' - the public roulette and boule room, where several tables were still busy. As Bond took Vesper's arm and led her over the gilded step, he fought back a hankering to borrow some money from the caisse and plaster maximums over the nearest table. But he knew that this would be a brash and cheap gesture pour pater la bourgeoisie. Whether he won or lost, it would be a kick in the teeth to the luck which had been given him. The night-club was small and dark, lit only by candles in gilded candelabra whose warm light was repeated in wall mirrors set in more gold picture-frames. The walls were covered in dark red satin and the chairs and banquettes in matching red plush. In the far corner, a trio, consisting of a piano, an electric guitar and drums, was playing 'La Vie en Rose' with muted sweetness. Seduction dripped on the quietly throbbing air. It seemed to Bond that every couple must be touching with passion under the tables. They were given a corner table near the door. Bond ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and scrambled eggs and bacon. They sat for a time listening to the music and then Bond turned to Vesper: 'It's wonderful sitting here with you and knowing the job's finished. It's a lovely end to the day - the prize-giving.' He expected her to smile. She said: 'Yes, isn't it,' in a rather brittle voice. She seemed to be listening carefully to the music. One elbow rested on the table and her hand supported her chin, but on the back of her hand and not on the palm, and Bond noticed that her knuckles showed white as if her fist was tightly clenched. Between the thumb and first two fingers of her right hand she held one of Bond's cigarettes, as an artist holds a crayon, and though she smoked with composure, she tapped the cigarette occasionally into an ash-try when the cigarette had no ash. Bond noticed these small things because he felt intensely aware of her and because he wanted to draw her into his own feeling of warmth and relaxed sensuality. But he accepted her reserve. He thought it came from a desire to protect herself from him, or else it was her reaction to his coolness to her earlier in the evening, his deliberate coolness, which he knew had been taken as a rebuff. He was patient. He drank


dam is such that you cannot destroy it without destroying the river." The Emperor brushed a hand through his red hair, glanced at the backs of the two Guildsmen. "Even your Bene Gesserit Truthsayer is trembling," Paul said. "There are other poisons the Reverend Mothers can use for their tricks, but once they've used the spice liquor, the others no longer work." The old woman pulled her shapeless black robes around her, pressed forward out of the crowd to stand at the barrier lances. "Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam," Paul said. "It has been a long time since Caladan, hasn't it?" She looked past him at his mother, said: "Well, Jessica, I see that your son is indeed the one. For that you can be forgiven even the abomination of your daughter." Paul stilled a cold, piercing anger, said: "You've never had the right or cause to forgive my mother anything!" The old woman locked eyes with him. "Try your tricks on me, old witch," Paul said. "Where's your gom jabbar? Try looking into that place where you dare not look! You'll find me there staring out at you!" The old woman dropped her gaze. "Have you nothing to say?" Paul demanded. "I welcomed you to the ranks of humans," she muttered. "Don't besmirch that." Paul raised his voice: "Observe her, comrades! This is a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother, patient in a patient cause. She could wait with her sisters -- ninety generations for the proper combination of genes and environment to produce the one person their schemes required. Observe her! She knows now that the ninety generations have produced that person. Here I stand . . . but . . . I . . . will . . . never . . . do . . . her . . . bidding!" "Jessica!" the old woman screamed. "Silence him!" "Silence him yourself," Jessica said. Paul glared at the old woman. "For your part in all this I could gladly have you strangled," he said. "You couldn't prevent it!" he snapped as she stiffened in rage. "But I think it better punishment that you live out your years never able to touch me or bend me to a single thing your scheming desires." "Jessica, what have you done?" the old woman demanded. "I'll give you only one thing," Paul said. "You saw part of what the race needs, but how poorly you saw it. You think to control human breeding and intermix a select few according to your master plan! How little you understand of what --" "You mustn't speak of these things!" the old woman hissed. "Silence!" Paul roared. The word seemed to take substance as it twisted through the air between them under Paul's control. The old woman reeled back into the arms of those behind her, face blank with shock at the power with which he had seized her psyche. "Jessica, "she whispered. "Jessica." "I remember your gom jabbar," Paul said. "You remember mine. I can kill you with a word." The Fremen around the ball glanced knowingly at


and the wet smacks of the ball and Davin's voice crying out excitedly at each stroke. The three students halted round the box on which Davin sat to follow the game. Temple, after a few moments, sidled across to Stephen and said: --Excuse me, I wanted to ask you, do you believe that Jean-Jacques Rousseau was a sincere man? Stephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken stave of a cask from the grass at his feet, turned swiftly and said sternly: --Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word, do you know, to anybody on any subject, I'll kill you SUPER SPOTTUM. --He was like you, I fancy, said Stephen, an emotional man. --Blast him, curse him! said Cranly broadly. Don't talk to him at all. Sure, you might as well be talking, do you know, to a flaming chamber-pot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple. For God's sake, go home. --I don't care a damn about you, Cranly, answered Temple, moving out of reach of the uplifted stave and pointing at Stephen. He's the only man I see in this institution that has an individual mind. --Institution! Individual! cried Cranly. Go home, blast you, for you're a hopeless bloody man. --I'm an emotional man, said Temple. That's quite rightly expressed. And I'm proud that I'm an emotionalist. He sidled out of the alley, smiling slyly. Cranly watched him with a blank expressionless face. --Look at him! he said. Did you ever see such a go-by-the-wall? His phrase was greeted by a strange laugh from a student who lounged against the wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched in a high key and coming from a so muscular frame, seemed like the whinny of an elephant. The student's body shook all over and, to ease his mirth, he rubbed both his hands delightedly over his groins. --Lynch is awake, said Cranly. Lynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest. --Lynch puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life. Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said: --Who has anything to say about my girth? Cranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle. When their faces had flushed with the struggle they drew apart, panting. Stephen bent down towards Davin who, intent on the game, had paid no heed to the talk of the others. --And how is my little tame goose? he asked. Did he sign, too? David nodded and said: --And you, Stevie? Stephen shook his head. --You're a terrible man, Stevie, said Davin, taking the short pipe from his mouth, always alone. --Now that you have signed the petition for universal peace, said Stephen, I suppose you will burn that little copybook I saw in your room. As Davin did not answer, Stephen began to quote: --Long pace, fianna! Right incline, fianna! Fianna, by numbers, salute, one, two! --That's a different question, said Davin. I'm an Irish nationalist, first and foremost. But that's you all out. You're a born sneerer,