for MWD. But when I found out what had been done to you, even though it was Le Chiffre who did it and he turned out to be a traitor, I decided I couldn't go on. By that time I had begun to fall in love with you. They wanted me to find out things from you while you were recovering, but I refused. I was controlled from Paris. I had to ring up an Invalides number twice a day. They threatened me, and finally they withdrew my control and I knew my lover in Poland would have to die. But they were afraid I would talk, I suppose, and I got a final warning that SMERSH would come for me if I didn't obey them. I took no notice. I was in love with you. Then I saw the man with the black patch in the Splendide and I found he had been making inquiries about my movements. This was the day before we came down here. I hoped I could shake him off. I decided that we would have an affair and I would escape to South America from Le Havre. I hoped I would have a baby of yours and be able to start again somewhere. But they followed us. You can't get away from them. I knew it would be the end of our love if I told you. I realized that I could either wait to be killed by SMERSH, would perhaps get you killed too, or I could kill myself. There it is, my darling love. You can't stop me calling you that or saying that I love you. I am taking that with me and the memories of you. I can't tell you much to help you. The Paris number was Invalides 55200. I never met any of them in London. Everything was done through an accommodation address, a newsagent's at 450 Charing Cross Place. At our first dinner together you talked about that man in Yugoslavia who was found guilty of treason. He said: 'I was carried away by the gale of the world.' That's my only excuse. That, and for love of the man whose life I tried to save. It's late now and I'm tired, and you're just through two doors. But I've got to be brave. You might save my life, but I couldn't bear the look in your dear eyes. My love, my love. V. Bond threw the letter down. Mechanically he brushed his fingers together. Suddenly he banged his temples with his fists and stood up. For a moment he looked out towards the quiet sea, then he cursed aloud, one harsh obscenity. His eyes were wet and he dried them. He pulled on a shirt and trousers and with a set cold face he walked down and shut himself in the telephone booth. While he was getting through to London, he calmly reviewed the facts of Vesper's letter. They all fitted. The little shadows and question-marks of the past four weeks, which his instinct had noted but his


sis.” * * * A few hours go by and the cramps subside, but the ache is still there. I’m staring at Nia’s number when a message comes through. Ben I know we said we’d see each other tomorrow but can I come over? Work was rough Maddie Yes I get off the floor, clean the bathroom, wash my face, and wait. I think about how to tell Ben, whether I even should tell him, or if I can pretend for a little while longer that my dad is still alive. When Ben knocks on the door, I still haven’t decided, but I’ve barely got the latch off when he bursts through, loosening his tie. “They had to call me in on a Sunday—can you imagine? Incompetence will be that company’s ruin, mark my words,” he says. I immediately want to shrink his presence. To package him up and send him home. “I’m so glad to see you.” He kisses me, slamming the door shut, and presses me up against the wall. He’s heavy, and I can’t feel enough of myself to pull away. He’s had a rough day, and he’s glad to see me. Just like on our cinema date. He’s always glad to see me. I close my eyes and try to sink into his attention, and although rough and hard, there’s a bite to him that I enjoy, or at least need. It’s painful and Ben is sharp and quick with his pleasure. There’s a thin crack in the hallway ceiling that I never noticed before. I briefly wonder if it will suddenly stretch open and bury us both in rubble. I suck in my breath whilst Ben’s escapes in guttural grunts. I’m sore, again. I use the toilet, again. I sit on the bathroom floor, feeling nauseous but enjoying the cold tiles on my skin. Ben must hear me because he knocks and walks in to find me naked with my knees under my chin and my eyes wet, rocking gently with an empty head on tight shoulders, a weightless stomach, and a pressure building in my chest. On the floor of my bathroom in a rented flat is where I tell Ben that my father is gone and he won’t ever come back, and he says the expected: the exclamation to a God he probably doesn’t believe in (I still haven’t found out) and a subtle shift of accountability—he really wishes I’d told him earlier (maybe I should have). Still, I suppose the news was surprising to him, too. But he’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry, Maddie. * * * Ben is very sweet, kind, and delicate when he needs to be and they’re qualities I should be grateful for. He holds me on the bathroom floor for what feels like hours as I explain that although Dad was ill, it was unexpected. Ben kisses my forehead and says, “It will always be unexpected.” He wraps me in his shirt and stays with me until I’m ready to peel myself off the floor and get into bed.


known.-- "Jane," indeed!--You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.-- She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.-- She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.--This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and--may I add?-- too cheerful in my views to be captious.--We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.-- What was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.-- I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be


return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlor; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation. The vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me. Imust enter.     "Who could want me?" I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which for a second or two resisted my efforts. "What should I see besides aunt Reed in the apartment? a man or a woman? The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and courtesying low, I looked up at a black pillar! such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug; the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way of capital.     Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you."     He(for it was a man) turned his head slowly toward where I stood, and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking gray eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, "Her size is small; what is her age?"     "Ten years."     "So much?" was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he addressed me:     "Your name, little girl?"     "Jane Eyre, sir."     In uttering these words I looked up. He seemed to me a tall gentleman: but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.     "Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?"     Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative my little world held a contrary opinion I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, "Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst."     "Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;" and bending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm-chair, opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come here," he said.     I stepped across the rug; he placed me straight and square before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large, prominent teeth!     "No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?"     "They go to hell" was my ready and orthodox answer.     "And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"


hatches was seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and dictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin. Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the sea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at times by the ragged Elijah's diabolical incoherences uninvitedly recurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived of. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish prophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or uneasiness --to call it so --which I felt, yet whenever I came to look about me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to .. <p 120 > cherish such emotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew, were a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me acquainted with, still I ascribed this --and rightly ascribed it --to the fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was most forcibly calculated to allay these colorless misgivings, and induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage. Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed, gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension; Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck. There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when


Christmas as we are." -------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Chapter" I.3 The Laurence Boy "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the HEIR OF REDCLYFFE, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight. "`Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will


business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner. "Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last pa wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to pa. "The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank. "Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and


about Montero. She couldn’t remember when the woman had been born. Could she still be alive? If she was still around, it might be a good idea to interview her. “No chicken. Sushi Ito opened up a few blocks from here,” Tristán said as he rummaged inside the refrigerator and pushed containers aside. “Sushi Ito is no good. There are real sushi places in the city, you know?” “Well, I don’t want to go all the way to a decent place. I don’t have any proteins. Fuck. This milk expired.” Tristán took out a carton of Leche Lala and dumped its contents into the sink. Montserrat peered into his refrigerator. If she was guilty of not having enough food in her apartment, Tristán was guilty of having too much and always eating out anyway. Everything went bad in his refrigerator. He maintained a carefully curated collection of moldy tomatoes and overripe fruits. Montserrat didn’t know why he even bothered venturing into the supermarket if he was going to scarf down enchiladas at the Sanborns anyway. Nevertheless, when the fancy struck him, which, granted, was less and less these days, Tristán could cook a veritable feast. Montserrat knew how to make five dishes, and four of them she’d learned from Tristán’s mom. The lush red of pomegranates and saturated green of pistachios. The scent of rose water and warm bread. That was Tristán’s kitchen, and he hummed an old song as he chopped vegetables. It was usually one of the same melodies his mother used to sing to them. Montserrat checked the expiration date on a yogurt container. “Have you ever used those phone lines?” he asked. She handed him the yogurt, which had also expired, and he began scooping out its contents into the sink. “Have I asked an astrologer to draw my natal chart over the phone?” “No, the singles hotlines.” “They’re scams. I’d rather be alone than pretend someone cares about me when they don’t give a damn.” Tristán seemed to consider that, thoughtful, as he stood by the sink. The light from the refrigerator traced shadows and lines across his face, emphasizing the faint scar under the eye that worried him so much and that he thought marred his looks. A few hairs at his temples glinted silver. He could not have been photographed better if von Sternberg had brought reflectors and lamps into the apartment. She thought about what Urueta had said, that Ewers believed magic could be performed using film stock, and for a second she believed he wasn’t so off the mark. Maybe certain people could cast spells with one look and a line of dialogue. Tristán opened the tap, let the water flow, then closed it again and closed the refrigerator door, tearing away the wispy enchantment of light and shadow he’d conjured. On the refrigerator he had a magnet with the number of a pizza parlor. “Now here’s a truly important question: triple cheese or quadruple cheese?” She smiled and picked up the receiver. “Quadruple.” FEATURE FILM 6 Montserrat still missed the old Cineteca.


to The Rosary Killer.” “I’m not sure yet,” Kristi said, recovering. “I’m discussing it now with my agent.” “I’m sure it would be another best seller! Just like both the original book and The God Complex and Murder, the story about Dr. Hamilton Cooke, our last guest. These best sellers can be viewed through our sister station or by streaming. You won’t want to miss either one!” Again both book covers showed on the screen. “Thank you, Kristi Bentz,” the hostess said as the camera focused on her again. “You all will want to stick around because coming up we have one of New Orleans’s premier saxophone players, Tom Bigelow, here to play his most recent jazz composition, and later on I’ll interview Dana Metcalf, president of a local cat breeders club, and her prizewinning Persian cat, Mr. Precious. They are here to tell us all about the upcoming cat show this weekend, which would be the perfect outing for the whole family!” The program cut to commercial and Kristi’s microphone was unhooked by Jen, who then motioned Bigelow onto the set. Less than five minutes later, Kristi stepped into the parking lot and spied a black BMW idling at the exit to the lot. Hamilton Cooke was behind the wheel. He cast Kristi a look replete with hatred. As she stared at him, he raised his hand, pointed his finger like a gun and pretended to fire directly at Kristi. Then he trod hard on the accelerator and his Beemer roared into traffic. Kristi noticed that his wife wasn’t in the passenger seat. Instead Reggie Cooke was stepping out of the interior of a sleek, red Mercedes parked just two slots from Kristi’s Subaru. Reggie’s expression said it all: she was pissed. “We need to talk,” she said as Kristi approached. “Okay.” “I don’t like what happened in there.” She gestured to the building housing the television station. “Neither do I.” “You set it up.” “No.” She thought about trying to explain, but decided it would do no good. Reggie obviously thought she was lying, but Kristi didn’t care. She’d already said as much as she was going to. “I can’t believe that little bitch brought up Bethany and Aldo. Ancient history. Nothing to do with now.” She was nearly gnashing her teeth. “Anything for a buck, you know. To keep ratings in the stratosphere no matter what. No matter whom you hurt. And you—that’s your bread and butter, isn’t it? Exposing everyone’s little secrets, creating lies, all to sell a few more copies.” “I told you—” “I know what you said. So, what? Now you’re trying to tell me that this was what—random?” Kristi reached her car and opened the door. “No. I doubt that. I’m saying I had nothing to do with it.” She slid inside. “But it’s over now.” “Is it?” Reggie glanced back at the huge brick building housing the television station. “I hope so.” At this point, there was no reason to continue the conversation. Kristi closed the door and started the engine. She was still


have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inquiries; but the frown, the roughness of the traveler, set me at my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced: "I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse."     He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.     I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if you have a home in this neighborhood; where do you come from?"     "From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is moonlight; I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it; indeed, I am going there to post a letter."     "You live just below do you mean at that house with the battlements?" pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods, that, by contrast with the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.     "Yes, sir."     "Whose house is it?"     "Mr. Rochester's."     "Do you know Mr. Rochester?"     "No; I have never seen him."     "He is not resident, then?"     "No."     "Can you tell me where he is?"     "I cannot."     "You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are " He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple a black merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for a lady's maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was: I helped him.     "I am the governess."     "Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile; his face expressed pain when he tried to move.     "I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind."     "Yes, sir."     "You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?"     "No."     "Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me. You are not afraid!"     I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile and went up to the tall steed. I endeavored to catch


been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are YOU?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!' `Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar. `Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice. `Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began:-- `You are old, Father William,' the young man said, `And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?' `In my youth,' Father William replied to his son, `I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.' `You are old,' said the youth, `as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?' `In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey


“What are you apologizing for? Compared to you, all your little friends are deeply polite.” Little friends. She always says that, like they’re not real or they don’t count just because they aren’t Celine-approved. Or possibly because they’re dicks? My friends are not dicks! Donno’s just a poor representation of the group today. “Maybe I’d be polite to you,” I say, “if I thought you were even physically capable of being polite back.” She raises her left hand, flashing the cast beneath her coat. “There’s a lot I’m not physically capable of doing right now.” The and it’s your fault part is silent. I click my teeth together and drive. The meeting is being held in the Sherwood, a fancy hotel about twenty minutes away from school, in the center of Nottingham. I get nervous on busy roads, but if I let nerves stop me, I would never leave the house, so I do it anyway. Celine doesn’t comment when it takes me three tries to get into our parking space because I want to be perfectly central. But when I switch off the engine and open my door…she pipes up. “Where are you going?” I turn to find her eyeing me with alarm, her arms crossed over her chest. “What,” I say incredulously, “you want me to wait in the car?” “That was the plan, yes.” “What do you think this is, Driving Miss Daisy?” “Oh, get a grip, Bradley,” she mutters, as if I’m being unreasonable, and slips out, heading toward the hotel. I lock up and follow. “You’re not even interested in the meeting,” she says briskly. “I’d be bored in the car!” “God forbid, you absolute five-year-old. You don’t know how to entertain yourself?” “Do you enjoy pissing me off?” I ask. “Would you consider it, like, a hobby?” This week is the most time we’ve spent together in the last four years, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was a zing of satisfaction beneath all her dry insults. The worst part is, I’m starting to think I feel that same zing. Which is ridiculous because I’m a nice person! I don’t enjoy snapping at Celine. It just…happens. This girl would provoke the Pope. “Don’t flatter yourself. You are not nearly interesting enough to be a hobby,” she says with this scathing hint of amusement, and I find myself making a mental note of that exact tone so I can replicate it next time I tell her— Wait. No. Arguing with Celine is not a competitive sport. Instead, I focus on my surroundings as we move through the hotel. This place—the Sherwood—has pillars of gleaming, unsmudged glass, and puffy brown chairs all over the lobby, and tropical-looking flowers stuck in posh gold vases everywhere. The signs directing us to a conference hall where Katharine Breakspeare will be speaking are subtle but clear. We’re ten minutes early—that’s kind of my thing—but there’s a healthy trickle of teenagers heading in the same direction as us, and I find myself scoping them out. Most people are easy


that comes from not having had monthly moon water for many, many years. She’s known to have the best embroidery skills in the household, but it can also be said that her mind is even more nimble than her fingers. Although not a mother herself, she’s often called upon to bind feet if a mother is susceptible to her daughter’s tears, and she has assisted at the births of most children in the household. “Shall I tell it?” she asks. This is greeted with a chorus of yeses, although I notice that Fourth Aunt looks far from enthusiastic. Spinster Aunt begins. “There once was a woman who beat her husband so badly that he ran to the bedchamber to hide. ‘Come out! Come out!’ she hollered. But he didn’t—” “The husband believed he had the will of a tiger. He cried, ‘No, no, no!’ ” This comes from Lady Kuo’s great-aunt, whose face is as wrinkled as a salted plum. The family she married into died out, leaving her nowhere to go. That Lady Kuo and Master Yang took her in is considered a great benevolence. “He was insistent, yelling, ‘When a brave man says no, he means no!’ ” “His words were indeed formidable,” Spinster Aunt agrees. “But wait! What is that mewling?” She leans forward and cups a hand to her ear. From around the room come the plaintive mews and whines of kittens. “The wife narrowed her eyes and opened her ears. Ah!” Spinster Aunt exclaims. “The sounds were coming from under the bed. It turned out that the brave tiger was nothing but a kitten when faced with his wife’s venom. Is there a man anywhere who does not quail before a woman who has become a terror of the back apartments?” The end of the story is met with appreciative laughter. The positions of these old ones are tenuous, but today they have earned their keep. They live, even more than I do, under the rule of Lady Kuo, and I do not have a place among them. “Yunxian, you want to know how best to please a man? Come sit with us. We know every wile and ploy.” The speaker is Miss Chen, Master Yang’s newest concubine and current favorite, which gives her a surprising amount of power over the other concubines. She’s my age and flawless in her beauty and comportment. She and the other concubines paint their faces, dress in elegant gowns, and nibble from trays laden with pears, nuts, dates, and persimmons. She has nothing to gain from having me join her circle, but her offer is even less appealing than sitting with the high-ranking wives. I look around for the final category of women who live here and find them sitting together in a corner. My husband’s three sisters have their heads together as they embroider bound-foot shoes for their future husbands’ mothers and revered aunties. Miss Zhao’s warnings about them could not have been more accurate. I’m lucky when they ignore me. Too often I’ve been the target of their pranks,


told is that finding a suitable replacement has been a problem.” “Is the patient . . .” I pause. I can’t say difficult, even though it’s the word I most want to use. “In need of specialized care?” “I don’t think the trouble is her condition, as delicate as it might be,” Mr. Gurlain says. “The issue, quite frankly, is the patient’s reputation.” I shift in my seat. “Who’s the patient?” “Lenora Hope.” I haven’t heard that name in years. At least a decade. Maybe two. Hearing it now makes me look up from my lap, surprised. More than surprised, actually. I’m flabbergasted. An emotion I’m not certain I’ve experienced before. Yet there it is, a sort of anxious shock fluttering behind my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. “The Lenora Hope?” “Yes,” Mr. Gurlain says with a sniff, as if offended to be even slightly misunderstood. “I had no idea she was still alive.” When I was younger, I hadn’t even understood that Lenora Hope was real. I had assumed she was a myth created by kids to scare each other. The schoolyard rhyme, forgotten since childhood, worms its way back into my memory. At seventeen, Lenora Hope Hung her sister with a rope Some of the older girls swore that if you turned out all the lights, stood in front of a mirror, and recited it, Lenora herself might appear in the glass. And if that happened, look out, because it meant your family was going to die next. I never believed it. I knew it was just a variation on Bloody Mary, which was completely made up, which meant Lenora Hope wasn’t real, either. It wasn’t until I was in my teens that I learned the truth. Not only was Lenora Hope real, but she was local, living a privileged life in a mansion several miles outside of town. Until one night, she snapped. Stabbed her father with a knife Took her mother’s happy life “She is very much alive,” Mr. Gurlain says. “God, she must be ancient.” “She’s seventy-one.” That seems impossible. I’d always assumed the murders occurred in a different century. An era of hoop skirts, gas lamps, horse-drawn carriages. But if Mr. Gurlain is correct, that means the Hope family massacre took place not too long ago, all things considered. I do the math in my head, concluding that the killings were in 1929. Only fifty-four years ago. As the date clicks into place, so do the final lines of the rhyme. “It wasn’t me,” Lenora said But she’s the only one not dead Which is apparently still the case. The infamous Lenora Hope is alive, not so well, and in need of care. My care, if I want the assignment. Which I don’t. “There’s nothing else available? No other new patients?” “I’m afraid not,” Mr. Gurlain says. “And none of the other caregivers are available?” “They’re all booked.” Mr. Gurlain steeples his fingers. “Do you have a problem with the assignment?” Yes, I have a problem. Several of them, starting with the fact


the locality, quite independent of any charm in the scenery or moral circumstances that surround him. It is not love but instinct. The new inhabitant--who came himself from a foreign land, or whose father or grandfather came--has little claim to be called a Salemite; he has no conception of the oyster--like tenacity with which an old settler, over whom his third century is creeping, clings to the spot where his successive generations have been embedded. It is no matter that the place is joyless for him; that he is weary of the old wooden houses, the mud and dust, the dead level of site and sentiment, the chill east wind, and the chillest of social atmospheres;--all these, and whatever faults besides he may see or imagine, are nothing to the purpose. The spell survives, and just as powerfully as if the natal spot were an earthly paradise. So has it been in my case. I felt it almost as a destiny to make Salem my home; so that the mould of features and cast of character which had all along been familiar here--ever, as one representative of the race lay down in the grave, another assuming, as it were, his sentry-march along the main street--might still in my little day be seen and recognised in the old town. Nevertheless, this very sentiment is an evidence that the connexion, which has become an unhealthy one, should at least be severed. Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and re-planted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birth-places, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into accustomed earth.% On emerging from the Old Manse, it was chiefly this strange, indolent, unjoyous attachment for my native town that brought me to fill a place in Uncle Sam's brick edifice, when I might as well, or better, have gone somewhere else. My doom was on me, It was not the first time, nor the second, that I had gone Thesaurus connexion: (n) conjunction, connector, (adj) active, industrious, vigorous, squatter, planter, newcomer, connective, connection, association, diligent. colonizer, sockdolager, standish. bond, concatenation, join, linkage, joyless: (adj) cheerless, gloomy, ANTONYM: (n) native. link, junction. dreary, dark, sad, melancholy, sire: (v) generate, engender, beget, grandsire: (n) grandfather, ancestor. funereal, comfortless, dolorous, procreate, mother, get, make; (n) homestead: (n, v) farm; (n) home, doleful, desolate. ANTONYMS: (adj) forefather, ancestor, patriarch, pater. abode, farmhouse, farmstead, joyous, happy. tempestuous: (adj, n) rough, dwelling, habitation, estate, demesne, kindred: (adj) cognate, akin, similar, boisterous, severe; (adj) raging, homestall, house. allied, related; (n) kin, consanguinity, furious, wild, angry, windy, fierce, indolent: (adj) idle, lazy, slothful, relation, folk, folks, kin group. gusty; (adj, v) turbulent. sluggish, careless, slow, dull, torpid, settler: (n) migrant, colonist, ANTONYMS: (adj) mild, moderate, inert, drowsy, listless. ANTONYMS: immigrant, inhabitant, homesteader, relaxed. Nathaniel Hawthorne 15 away--as it seemed, permanently--but yet returned, like the bad halfpenny, or as if Salem were for me the inevitable centre of the universe.


field – and from its highest turret flew the True Sword, the sign of royal authority. Together, they proclaimed that the Lord Protector was in residence. The wind blew hard. Wulf coughed into a gloved hand. Inys might not be half as icy as Hróth in late winter, but their hideaway was damp and cold, and they dared not risk a fire. As the sun rose, Mara returned from her scouting, coming on foot from the hills. Wulf stared when he saw who was with her. While Thrit slept on, he stood aside to let them in. Lord Mansell folded him straight into his arms. ‘Wulf,’ he breathed. ‘Saint, I can’t believe it. You don’t even look hurt.’ ‘I missed you, Pa.’ When Lord Mansell finally drew back, his eyes were stony with resolve. ‘I came from Langarth,’ he said to them both. ‘Father brought me abreast of your doubts.’ He set down a basket. ‘Last night, a messenger arrived from Lady Helisent – she paid him for his haste. Queen Glorian had word that Lord Robart means to stay here until the Feast of Early Spring.’ ‘How does he explain that?’ Wulf folded his arms. ‘The regent should be with the queen.’ ‘He claims to be taking stock of the trees in the haithwood. To see how much timber Inys has for weapons.’ Wulf rubbed his stubbled jaw. ‘By the Saint.’ ‘The Saint wants nothing to do with this, son.’ Lord Mansell went to the window. ‘We all have our orders in the north. There’s no reason he can’t return to Queen Glorian.’ ‘Has the plague reached this province?’ ‘In one village, at least. Its inhabitants have sealed themselves off, so Roland and I have been leaving supplies at its boundary stone.’ ‘They all mean to die there?’ ‘If needs must.’ Lord Mansell nodded to the basket. ‘I brought you some more food.’ Mara passed Wulf a loaf of seeded bread. For now, it could still be made in the province, but when the wyrms returned, once the mills stopped and the flour ran dry, there would certainly be famine. People were already hungry after the poor harvest. ‘If Lord Robart does go into the haithwood on that night, we’ll need a member of the Virtues Council to act as witness,’ Lord Mansell continued. ‘The Dowager Earl of Goldenbirch has agreed to speak on behalf of his foresters, but one of the Dukes Spiritual should help us investigate, someone of the same rank as Lord Robart. I must ride to Lady Gladwin.’ He kissed Wulf on the cheek. ‘Be careful, all of you. Don’t be seen.’ When he was gone, Mara took out a pear. ‘I had an idea,’ she said. ‘If Lord Robart does leave on the Feast of Early Spring, I was thinking I might stay behind and have a look through Parr Castle.’ ‘Sneak inside the home of the regent?’ Wulf sat opposite her. ‘Why would you do that?’ ‘To see what I can see.’ She tossed him the pear. ‘You did tell me to find a pursuit


of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying: --Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his name? He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. --Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox. --Ay. Where's Monks? --Monks! Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out. --Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a good place I know. --Monks! --Yes, sir. Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show. A DAYFATHER He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage ALLELUIA. SHEMA ISRAEL ADONAI ELOHENU. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher. And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers. Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there. He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that


"So do we," said Julian. "We may not like you, of course." "Oh!" said George, as if that thought hadn't occurred to her. "Well- you may not, of course. Lots of people don't like me, now I come to think of it." Anne was staring out over the blue bay. At the entrance to it lay a curious rocky island with what looked like an old ruined castle on the top of it. "Isn't that a funny place?" she said. "I wonder what it's called." "It's called Kirrin Island," said George, her eyes as blue as the sea as she turned to look at it. "It's a lovely place to go to. If I like you, I may take you there some day. But I don't promise. The only way to get there is by boat." "Who does the funny island belong to?" asked Julian. George made a most surprising answer. "It belongs to me," she said. "At least, it will belong to me- some day! It will be my very own island- and my very own castle!" Chapter Three A QUEER STORY - AND A NEW FRIEND Contents- Prev/Next The three children stared at George in the greatest surprise. George stared back at them. "What do you mean?" said Dick, at last. "Kirrin Island can't belong to you. You're just boasting." "No, I'm not," said George. "You ask Mother. If you're not going to believe what I say I won't tell you another word more. But I don't tell untruths. I think it's being a coward if you don't tell the truth- and I'm not a coward." Julian remembered that Aunt Fanny had said that George was absolutely truthful, and he scratched his head and looked at George again. How could she be possibly telling the truth? "Well, of course we'll believe you if you tell us the truth," he said. "But it does sound a bit extraordinary, you know. Really it does. Children don't usually own islands, even funny little ones like that." "It isn't a funny little island," said George, fiercely. "It's lovely. There are rabbits there, as tame as can be- and the big cormorants sit on the other side- and all kinds of gulls go there. The castle is wonderful too, even if it is all in ruins." "It sounds fine," said Dick. "How does it belong to you, Georgina?" George glared at him and didn't answer. "Sorry," said Dick, hastily. "I didn't mean to call you Georgina. I meant to call you George." "Go on, George- tell us how the island belongs to you," said Julian, slipping his arm through his sulky little cousin's. She pulled away from him at once. "Don't do that," she said. "I'm not sure that I want to make friends with you yet." "All right, all right," said Julian, losing patience. "Be enemies or anything you like. We don't care. But we like your mother awfully, and we don't want her to think we won't make friends with you." "Do you like my mother?" said George, her bright blue eyes softening


what?” said Mrs. King, voice taut. Mrs. Bone let out a short bark of laughter. “What sort of person doesn’t know what’s going on under her own roof?” “Winnie?” said Mrs. King. Winnie sagged against the wall, closing her eyes. “I only found out three years ago.” “Found out what?” “Girls,” said Mrs. Bone. “They’ve been meddling with the girls.” Mrs. King’s face went very still. She took this in, assessed it. Clearly, she understood what that word meant, what meddling was: of course she did. Everyone did. “No,” she said, her voice growing cold. “That’s not correct.” Mrs. Bone snapped her fingers at Winnie. “You. Tell us. What do you know?” Winnie rubbed her hand over her face. Her voice was low, hoarse. “I was here. I mean...here, in the garden. The mews house has a loft above it. There’s a little staircase that comes down to the stables. They used to keep a carriage there, but it’s empty now. I saw a man, someone I didn’t recognize. He had a beautiful coat on. It was... I don’t know. Seal gray. Sealskin.” She took a shuddering breath. “It was very smooth, like silk. I thought: Oh, what a lovely coat.” She paused, frowning. “He was walking a girl down the stairs. I mean, he had his hand on her shoulder. He was pressing her down. Pushing her along. Like he was shoving her out. I knew at once it was wrong. I mean, my whole body felt it.” Mrs. King watched her the whole time she was speaking. Her face changed, grew ashen. “It was Ida,” said Winnie. “One of the kitchen girls. And I didn’t know the man at all.” Mrs. Bone knew that mews house. She’d seen it every time she crossed the yard. Pale gray plasterwork, ivy beginning to climb the walls. One small window. “How old?” she said. “I don’t know.” “How old, Winnie?” said Mrs. King, voice hard. “Not old, not old enough. She looked...” Winnie screwed up her face. “Sick. As if he’d made her sick. She looked like she was going to...to throw up.” Silence. Mrs. Bone absorbed this, felt the knowledge shifting in her gut. Mrs. King asked, “Did they see you?” “No.” “What happened to that girl?” Winnie clasped her hands together. Didn’t reply. Mrs. King took a step closer. “Winnie.” Winnie squeezed her eyes shut, as if to hide from it. “Shepherd told me one of the housemaids had given notice. That I’d better let the agency know. I must have asked him who it was. Just to...test him. And he must have told me—he must have said it was Ida.” Winnie looked at the ceiling. “He just told me as if it was nothing, as if it meant nothing at all.” “Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone. Her mind was working quickly. “Mr. Shepherd. So Danny might not have known, either. He might not have had a thing to do with it.” Winnie lowered her voice. “Oh, he knew.” Mrs. Bone pictured her house in Deal. The treasures she’d stockpiled. The banker’s


you only could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions and passions and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the human form. "My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings. "I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me. "I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid


our way downstairs in the pitch dark,--as it might be so.' Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his chair. The cook and housemaid screamed. 'It was a knock,' said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. 'Open the door, somebody.' Nobody moved. 'It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the morning,' said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, and looking very blank himself; 'but the door must be opened. Do you hear, somebody?' Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the question. 'If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,' said Mr. Giles, after a short silence, 'I am ready to make one.' 'So am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep. Brittles capitualated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely. These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker's arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timourously over each other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion. 'A boy!' exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. 'What's the matter with the--eh?--Why--Brittles--look here--don't you know?' Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof. 'Here he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; 'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.' '--In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the


shop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had been intending to alter the name over the window, but had never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston's head. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing. He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval--a month, say--he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted. However----! Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement Danes, take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington's memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming to an improvised tune Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the---- Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not seen him. For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. It was


he had always been searching for someone, and for the first time, he had an impression: kindness, a voice singing low, love that crushed the breath from him. Then another face, pale and terrified. The memories were far away, so far they no longer held a clear shape, and ran like water. But he knew he had been to this part of the wood before. How had he escaped, the first time? He was laughing and the sun was bright, and he tasted honey like a prayer on his lips. Who are you? He stopped, a stitch ripping into his side. His hand shook so hard the candle guttered in the lantern. Light was glimmering through the trees. He stepped towards it, so entranced that all fear left his bones. Above him, a long mark was daubed on an oak, silver and faded, sending a sickly glow over the trunks. Even though its shape was strange, it was familiar. He knew, then, to turn north. A few more paces, to another tree. As he approached, more marks flared to life on the trees, each one extending his path through the blackness. At the end, there was light, both white and gold. Wulf glanced over his shoulder. He had thought Lord Robart would have heard the commotion with the wolves, but the wood was so gathered and dense, there was no trace of anyone else. It occurred to him that he might not find any of them again. There must be thousands of skeletons in these woods. Keeping low, he moved into the undergrowth. He bent a branch aside, and it was suddenly there, the place he had sought – a clearing surrounded by hulking oaks and beeches. In front of them grew smaller trees, their branches heavy with white blossom. Hawthorns. Growing them had been forbidden since the days of the Saint, who had ordered them all uprooted. Instinctively, Wulf knew this was the heart of the haithwood. Its very oldest part, its cradle. Two layers of memory were purling over one another, both so distant as to be almost unreachable. The honeybees and the dark wood. Two faces and two voices. Cold and warm light. He shook himself and kept watching. Lord Robart wore a green tunic, like a sanctarian, and the brown pelt of a cave bear over his broad shoulders. He, too, was crowned with flowers, though his circlet was also home to twigs and antlers and acorns. He stood before a yew that looked as old as Inys itself – twenty armspans wide, at least. Corpulent branches reached across the clearing, hung with hundreds of straw figures – some that looked coarsely human, others braided into wreaths or intricate loops and knots. Below, the Lord Protector of Inys was intoning in a tongue Wulf knew. The realisation soured in him. Even if the song was nonsense to his ear, it was a salve to his heart. He had heard it before. Across the clearing, barefoot dancers circled among the blossom trees, moving widdershins to the beat of a


the battle lines today. They might be working together for a greater cause in public. In private, his favorite pastime was scorning her for being born into privilege while he’d done life the hard way. Although . . . she didn’t know a lot about the path he’d taken. Maybe she should find out. Just in case anyone asked. She should probably know at least the basics about her fake fiancé. “Psst,” came a hiss from the darkness. Natalie lurched for the knife block, pausing only when Hallie stepped into the dim kitchen wearing a Stanford shirt that went well past her knees. “Jesus,” Natalie breathed, slapping a hand to the middle of her chest, positive her heart was about to explode straight out of her rib cage. “What are you doing sneaking up on me like an old Victorian ghost or something? I almost hurled a butcher knife at you.” Hallie pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Natalie tilted her head. “Now you’re really freaking me out.” “Sorry,” Hallie whispered, creeping forward barefoot, each of her toes painted a different color, an ankle bracelet jangling softly. “I don’t want to wake up Julian.” “Really? You seem to love waking him up. Along with the dead.” Her brother’s girlfriend pinkened slightly, but she wasn’t thwarted by the innuendo. No, she appeared to be extremely focused for six A.M. “Can we chat?” “Um . . .” What was going on here? Natalie picked up her freshly brewed coffee and sipped it black for an initial kick before heading to the fridge for milk. “Sure. What’s on your mind?” Whatever the reason for this predawn rendezvous, Hallie was deadly serious about it. “I’m here to offer my services.” Natalie did a double take while adding a splash of milk to her coffee. “In what way?” Hallie frowned as if the answer should be obvious. “Why, for your fake wedding, of course. I’m here to help.” “Don’t get comfortable calling it that. There are eyes and ears everywhere in St. Helena, you know.” Natalie mock shivered. “We’re just going to exchange vows at the courthouse, but I suppose if you want to make me a bouquet—?” Hallie’s giggle stopped her short. “The courthouse. That’s adorable. Didn’t you hear your mother demand a proper wedding?” Natalie’s smile vanished, dread curling in her stomach. “Yes, but there’s no way she could plan a wedding within the time frame we need. Right? What do you know?” “Your mother told Julian to have a tuxedo rented by this Saturday.” Hallie took her time continuing. “And then she had to get off the phone because the caterer was calling on the other line.” “Caterer?” Natalie choked out. She should have seen this coming. No way Corinne could get down with a courthouse ceremony. Not with the pageantry and tradition of the Vos name to uphold. What was August going to say about this? And why did his very name transport her back to the wine train, where he’d wrapped her in warmth and slowed the rate of her heart


me in that way that makes me melt. “Hand to God, the grocery store was a coincidence.” He pauses. “Now, did I ‘run into you’ in the Coffee Cove, where I happen to know you go get a pick-me-up at two every afternoon? Maybe not.” I laugh, marveling at this spark that is still between us, even seven years after we broke up. I have also marveled at it, my heart racing a mile a minute, in the frozen foods section at the Piggly Wiggly and during a “quick” catch-up-over-coffee that lasted three hours. “Well, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t just happen to be in Little Washington last week at the boat ramp either. I may or may not have overheard that you were trout fishing.” Huff gasps as if in shock. He is not in shock at all. I obviously had no business being an hour and a half from home at a boat ramp on a Saturday while Steven had Henry at a baseball game. But four hours later, we were still riding around the river, totally lost in each other, and Huff hadn’t so much as baited a hook, making me think that was the only place I had any business being after all. I take in his imperfectly tied bow tie and, as if by impulse, untie it. I begin to tie it back, neater, and Huff asks, “How’s Henry? I stalk you relentlessly on Instagram, so, I mean, I saw him in his new police uniform. I know he’s here to protect and serve. But in general.” I laugh, pulling the ends of the tie tight. “He’s cute, isn’t he?” He nods. “He looks shockingly like you.” “Well, when you meet Steven, you might change your mind.” His face falls, and I realize mentioning Steven is a misstep. I let my fingers linger on his tie, so close to that face I loved for so long. So I add, “But he does look like me. And thank goodness. Let’s face it: I’m the one who did all the hard work to get him here.” “I can’t wait to finally meet him,” Huff says. “He is all Lanier talks about.” Shit. Lanier. I smile a little uncomfortably, reminding myself to breathe, reminding myself of all the reasons we cannot, should not, will not be together. But trying to convince myself of all that when Huff is in a tux just isn’t fair. “Huff!” Mary Stuart calls from somewhere behind the swirling mass of bridesmaids and groomsmen and assorted family members waiting for their turn in front of the lens. I have forgotten any of them are there. For a solid minute or so, it was just Huff and me. I will myself to stop it as Mary Stuart hugs Huff. “So excited for you, Mar,” Huff says. “And don’t let Ted forget we have a big game next week.” He walks toward the door. Mary Stuart sidles as close to me as she can get in her giant gown. “Big game?” I ask her. “Yeah. Ted


own thoughts. She was not allowed much time for meditation; a monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up, exclaiming in a strong Cumberland accent:     "Helen Burns, if you don't go and put your drawer in order, and fold up your work this minute, I'll tell Miss Scatcherd to come and look at it!"     Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay.       |Go to Contents |               Chapter VII     MY FIRST quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age either: it comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot, though these were no trifles.     During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from the severe cold; we had no boots, the snow got into our shoes and melted there; our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet; I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was distressing; with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse which pressed hardly on the younger pupils; whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the exigency of hunger.     Sunday were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder; during the morning service we became almost paralyzed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served round between the services.     At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.


shouldered through the crowd to the ledge, leaped lightly up to it and faced the people. "Do it!" someone shrieked. Murmurs and whispers arose behind the shriek. Paul waited for silence. It came slowly amidst scattered shufflings and coughs. When it was quiet in the cavern, Paul lifted his chin, spoke in a voice that carried to the farthest corners. "You are tired of waiting," Paul said. Again, he waited while the cries of response died out. Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier. The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements! Again, Paul raised his voice: "You think it's time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!" Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: "Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?" There was stunned silence. He's accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it! "It's the way!" someone shouted. Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. "Ways change." An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: "We'll say what's to change!" There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng. "As you wish," Paul said. And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him. "You will say," he agreed. "But first you will hear my say." Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. "That is the way, too," he said. "The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad'Dib is a Fremen." "The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?" Paul asked. Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: "Thus our steps are guided." "All right," Paul said. "Then, who rules this troop of our tribe -- and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we've trained in the weirding way?" Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came. Presently, he said: "Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council." There was shuffling silence among the crowd. "So," Paul said. "Does my mother rule?" He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. "Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?" Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs. This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul's intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

tonsils were painful from the cabman's fingers, and the skin of my neck had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent and quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me. "Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my lodging burning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed, except my cheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats--if ever a man did! The place was blazing." The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the window. "Yes?" he said. "Go on." Chapter 22 In the Emporium "So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air about me--and if it settled on me it would betray me!--weary, cold, painful, inexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced of my invisible quality, I began this new life to which I am committed. I had no refuge, no appliances, no human being in the world in whom I could confide. To have told my secret would have given me away--made a mere show and rarity of me. Nevertheless, I was half minded to accost some passer-by and throw myself upon his mercy. But I knew too clearly the terror and brutal cruelty my advances would evoke. I made no plans in the street. My sole object was to get shelter from the snow, to get myself covered and warm; then I might hope to plan. But even to me, an Invisible Man, the rows of London houses stood latched, barred, and bolted impregnably. "Only one thing could I see clearly before me, the cold exposure and misery of the snowstorm and the night. "And then I had a brilliant idea. I turned down one of the roads leading from Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road, and found myself outside Omniums, the big establishment where everything is to be bought--you know the place--meat, grocery, linen, furniture, clothing, oil paintings even--a huge meandering collection of shops rather than a shop. I had thought I should find the doors open, but they were closed, and as I stood in the wide entrance a carriage stopped outside, and a man in uniform--you know the kind of personage


but gliding across the open land at between fourteen and sixteen miles per hour. In the moonlight, their exquisitely engineered bodies are as silvery and seem almost as liquid as if they are shapes of coherent mercury. Although the F-150 is capable of far greater speed than their quarry currently exhibit, Walter says, “Don’t lose them.” “I won’t lose them,” Juan declares. “They’re probably scouts.” “Yeah. I’m hoping they’ll lead us to the ship.” “Is that a good thing?” Walter wonders. “Why wouldn’t it be a good thing?” “What if the aliens are evil?” “They aren’t evil.” Walter says, “You would know—how?” “I’m more with Spielberg than Ridley Scott.” “So it’s an issue of faith with you.” “No. Logic. The ETs in Alien were just bugs. They weren’t able to build robots, spaceships. ETs with spaceships are advanced beyond violence.” At the top of a hill, the robots halt and turn and rear up on their hind legs, mantis-like in the headlights, and something about their posture suggests they might be equipped with weapons. In the lightless attic with Nina and John to his left, sitting with his back to the wall, Michael Mace takes over control of Gog and Magog out there in the night, while he also enters the universal service network that all telecom companies share. He locates the provider of service to Juan Louis Gainza, who was earlier identified in the DMV files as the owner of the F-150. Perhaps because she is sitting shoulder to shoulder against Michael, Nina senses him reacting to the crisis. “What’s wrong?” she whispers. He murmurs, “Stay calm. I’ve got to make a call. I’ll explain later.” Once he has Juan Gainza’s number, he is able to identify the maker of the phone in six seconds. Apple. He’s been there before. Easy to enter their system. From Apple’s ocean of data, he siphons the transponder code built into that particular iPhone. He departs Apple and trampolines from the internet to an orbiting navigation-service satellite from which he seeks the current location of the signal being emitted by Gainza’s phone. He finds it, funnels down the microwave linkage into that device, and switches it on. Mindful that Calaphas is searching the house below them, he keeps his voice as low as he can without whispering, while nonetheless sounding authoritative. “Juan Gainza, stop.” Evidently, the trap ladder was retracted from above. Calaphas isn’t so foolish as to pull it down and use it. The noise will alert them. Mace will be in the most advantageous position he could find. Calaphas can’t climb a steep ladder quickly, with a rifle in both hands. No one can. Impossible. That’s Hollywood action. He isn’t John Wick or Jason Bourne or Harry Callahan. Neither were Keanu Reeves nor Matt Damon nor Clint Eastwood, not for real. The bennies have pumped him up. He’s wound so tight with rage that his ears are ringing. He feels the arteries throbbing in his neck. The taste of blood is in his mouth because he’s bitten his lip in frustration, such is


shivering. It was no use. He was brutally shoved down. They held him in place, making him kneel next to the porcelain bowl, and he bowed his head, whimpering. “What are they doing?” Tristán asked softly. She knew, of course. She remembered what José had said about the runes, the chickens sacrificed, the natural next step after that: the blood of a man. “Don’t look now,” she said, like she did when they went to the movies and she warned Tristán about certain scenes. Don’t look now, like when they had been small and Tristán grabbed her hand, except it was not the movies and she could not look away after all. Slowly, almost gently, Clarimonde took out a dagger from between the folds of her clothes and sliced the man’s neck with an expert hand. The sight of the spray of blood sent Montserrat reeling against Tristán’s chest, clutching his shirt. Her fingers felt unnaturally warm, blistering almost, and in her mouth there was a sour taste. The blood dripped into the bowl, turning it crimson. Clarimonde Bauer motioned to her assistants, signaling for them to come closer. Tristán and Montserrat were pushed forward. She moved mechanically, one foot in front of the other, heart thumping, until Clarimonde stepped behind the projectors and greeted them with a half smile. The woman extended her hands, and one of the men gave her the can of film and the book Montserrat had been carrying in her purse. Clarimonde looked at the objects reverently. “I’m so pleased you could come,” Clarimonde said, carefully handing back the film and the book to one of her men. “Wilhelm has given me exact instructions as to how we should proceed.” Now that they had approached the projectors, Montserrat could smell the blood that was dripping into the bowl, as well as another sickly, pungent, almost sickeningly sweet scent. The aroma of rotting meat. “The three of you must be present to cast the spell,” Clarimonde said. “All six runes must be drawn using fresh blood, while the nitrate print plays. The dubbed copy you made will play at the same time, mixing sound and image. There are a few words to be said: we shall speak them. Then we will coax Wilhelm back from the dead.” Clarimonde motioned to one of the women who had walked with her into the room, and who now drifted toward the low table with the yellow cloth. The woman slipped the cloth aside, revealing the corpse of Abel Urueta. This was the source of the stench in the room. “That…my god, you are all insane,” Tristán said, shaking his head. He turned, looking at Ewers’s congregation. “All of you! Bunch of crazies!” As Tristán spoke, Montserrat tilted her head and looked at one of the mirrors decorating the ballroom. She’d caught sight of a blurred reflection there, a swift, subtle movement that made her swallow. Ewers. Behind the glass. Watching and listening. Her hands were trembling, but she clasped them together. “I said all three,” Clarimonde replied, her half smile now


Bingleys they both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone. Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth. Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. __ FINIS __ Addendum: According to the _Memoir_of_Jane_Austen_, published in 1870 by her nephew James Edward Austen-Leigh, Jane Austen told her family that Kitty (Catherine) Bennet was ``satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley'', while Mary Bennet ``obtained nothing higher than one of her uncle Philips' clerks'' in marriage, and ``was content to be considered a star in the society of Meryton''. ================================================================ Chronology of _Pride_and_Prejudice_, according to MacKinnon and Chapman 1811 Before Michaelmas (Sept. 29): Bingley takes possession of Netherfield. Tues 15 Oct. Mr. Collins's letter. Tues 12 Nov. Jane is invited to dine at Netherfield Wed 13 Nov. Her illness. Thurs 14 Nov. Mrs. Bennet at Netherfield. Elizabeth remains.


foolish attempt, which can only end in your death." Tarzan laughed, and in another moment the jungle had swallowed him. The men stood silent for some moments and then slowly turned and walked back to the hotel veranda. Tarzan had no sooner entered the jungle than he took to the trees, and it was with a feeling of exultant freedom that he swung once more through the forest branches. This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance. At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. How easy it would be to circle back to the coast, and then make toward the south and his own jungle and cabin. Now he caught the scent of Numa, for he was traveling up wind. Presently his quick ears detected the familiar sound of padded feet and the brushing of a huge, fur-clad body through the undergrowth. Chapter 26 148 Tarzan came quietly above the unsuspecting beast and silently stalked him until he came into a little patch of moonlight. Then the quick noose settled and tightened about the tawny throat, and, as he had done it a hundred times in the past, Tarzan made fast the end to a strong branch and, while the beast fought and clawed for freedom, dropped to the ground behind him, and leaping upon the great back, plunged his long thin blade a dozen times into the fierce heart. Then with his foot upon the carcass of Numa, he raised his voice in the awesome victory cry of his savage tribe. For a moment Tarzan stood irresolute, swayed by conflicting emotions of loyalty to D'Arnot and a mighty lust for the freedom of his own jungle. At last the vision of a beautiful face, and the memory of warm lips crushed to his dissolved the fascinating picture he had been drawing of his old life. The ape-man threw the warm carcass of Numa across his shoulders and took to the trees once more. The men upon the veranda had sat for an hour, almost in silence. They had tried ineffectually to converse on various subjects, and always the thing uppermost in the mind of each had caused the conversation to lapse. "MON DIEU," said the wagerer at length, "I can endure it no longer. I am going into the jungle with my express and bring back that mad man." "I will go with you," said one. "And I"--"And I"--"And I," chorused the others. As though the suggestion had broken the spell of some horrid nightmare they hastened to their various quarters, and presently were headed toward the jungle--each one heavily armed. "God! What was that?" suddenly cried one of the party, an Englishman, as Tarzan's savage cry came faintly to their ears. "I heard the same thing once before," said a Belgian, "when I was in the gorilla country. My carriers said it was the cry of a


a woman. At his age I was already fending for myself. No, my friend, he is not too young. A chick that will grow into a cock can be spotted the very day it hatches. I have done my best to make Nwoye grow into a man, but there is too much of his mother in him." "Too much of his grandfather," Obierika thought, but he did not say it. The same thought also came to Okonkwo's mind. But he had long learned how to lay that ghost. Whenever the thought of his father's weakness and failure troubled him he expelled it by thinking about his own strength and success. And so he did now. His mind went to his latest show of manliness. "I cannot understand why you refused to come with us to kill that boy," he asked Obierika. "Because I did not want to," Obierika replied sharply. "I had something better to do." "You sound as if you question the authority and the decision of the Oracle, who said he should die." "I do not. Why should I? But the Oracle did not ask me to carry out its decision." "But someone had to do it. If we were all afraid of blood, it would not be done. And what do you think the Oracle would do then?" "You know very well, Okonkwo, that I am not afraid of blood and if anyone tells you that I am, he is telling a lie. And let me tell you one thing, my friend. If I were you I would have stayed at home. What you have done will not please the Earth. It is the kind of action for which the goddess wipes out whole families." "The Earth cannot punish me for obeying her messenger," Okonkwo said. "A child's fingers are not scalded by a piece of hot yam which its mother puts into its palm." "That is true," Obierika agreed. "But if the Oracle said that my son should be killed I would neither dispute it nor be the one to do it." They would have gone on arguing had Ofoedu not come in just then. It was clear from his twinkling eyes that he had important news. But it would be impolite to rush him. Obierika offered him a lobe of the kola nut he had broken with Okonkwo. Ofoedu ate slowly and talked about the locusts. When he finished his kola nut he said: "The things that happen these days are very strange." "What has happened?" asked Okonkwo. "Do you know Ogbuefi Ndulue?" Ofoedu asked. "Ogbuefi Ndulue of Ire village," Okonkwo and Obierika said together. "He died this morning," said Ofoedu. "That is not strange. He was the oldest man in Ire," said Obierika. "You are right," Ofoedu agreed. "But you ought to ask why the drum has not beaten to tell Umuofia of his death." "Why?" asked Obierika and Okonkwo together. "That is the strange part of it. You know his first wife who walks with a stick?" "Yes. She is called Ozoemena." "That is so,"


in the hansom, the loss of the new brown boot, the loss of the old black boot, and now the return of the new brown boot. Holmes sat in silence in the cab as we drove back to Baker Street, and I knew from his drawn brows and keen face that his mind, like my own, was busy in endeavouring to frame some scheme into which all these strange and apparently disconnected episodes could be fitted. All afternoon and late into the evening he sat lost in tobacco and thought. Just before dinner two telegrams were handed in. The first ran: Have just heard that Barrymore is at the Hall. BASKERVILLE. The second: Visited twenty-three hotels as directed, but sorry, to report unable to trace cut sheet of Times. CARTWRlGHT. "There go two of my threads, Watson. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. We must cast round for another scent." "We have still the cabman who drove the spy." "Exactly. I haw wired to get his name and address from the Official Registry. I should not be surprised if this were an answer to my question." The ring at the bell proved to be something even more satis- factory than an answer, however, for the door opened and a rough-looking fellow entered who was evidently the man himself. "I got a message from the head office that a gent at this address had been inquiring for No. 2704," said he. "I've driven my cab this seven years and never a word of complaint. I came here straight from the Yard to ask you to your face what you had against me." "I have nothing in the world against you, my good man," said Holmes. "On the contrary, I have half a sovereign for you if you will give me a clear answer to my questions." "Well, I've had a good day and no mistake," said the cabman with a grin. "What was it you wanted to ask, sir?" "First of all your name and address, in case I want you again." "John Clayton, 3 Turpey Street, the Borough. My cab is out of Shipley's Yard, near Waterloo Station." Sherlock Holmes made a note of it. "Now, Clayton, tell me all about the fare who came and watched this house at ten o'clock this morning and afterwards followed the two gentlemen down Regent Street." The man looked surprised and a little embarrassed. "Why there's no good my telling you things, for you seem to know as much as I do already," said he. "The truth is that the gentleman told me that he was a detective and that I was to say nothing about him to anyone." "My good fellow; this is a very serious business, and you may find yourself in a pretty bad position if you try to hide anything from me. You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his


and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then"-- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window. "In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion"-- He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"-- He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, "It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"-- He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.-- He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. "I shall hear about you all," said he; that is my chief consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again." A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him