day early, and that’s the last thing I want. “It’s okay,” Tasha chimes in. “It’ll be like a big sleepover. It’ll be fun.” “You gonna kick us out of here, too, so you and Javier can have the place to yourselves?” Paige asks. Tasha bum-rushes Paige and wraps her up in a bear hug. “Don’t be mad at me. I love you, and if you be nice to me, I’ll let you tell me some scary stories in front of the fireplace.” Paige tries to act like she’s still mad but gives up almost immediately. Her and Tasha are like sisters. They can’t stay mad at each other for too long, and Paige can never pass up an opportunity to share her encyclopedic knowledge of scary stories. “I’m gonna tell you a story that’ll make you want to sleep with one eye open,” Paige says. “And it’s about this place.” I glance at her. “What do you mean?” Paige presses her lips together. “Let’s just say I did a little digging before I came up here, and there are some really messed up stories about Mirror Lake.” Tasha lays her head on Paige’s shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. Just as long as you’re not mad at me anymore. Honestly, I should have booted him, not you.” She rolls her eyes, but Javier is too busy trying to go back to sleep to notice. Tasha waltzes over to him and snatches her hair tie off his wrist and slides it onto her own. “I think we can shut down all the staff and guest cabins today,” I say. “We’ll leave the showers, kitchen, and main lodge for tomorrow. Then all that’ll be left is locking everything up and closing the office and control center. Everybody pitches in. We get it done and get home. Deal?” “Deal,” says Kyle. “I’m ready to get up outta here.” “Same,” says Porter. “Let’s go.” CHAPTER 7 We spend the morning cleaning cabins—stripping the sheets and blankets and stuffing them into watertight storage bags, making sure all the windows are closed and locked. When I shut off the main breaker, the electricity to the whole place will go out, so that gets saved for last. Me and Bezi drag canoes out of the lake and stack them against the side of the boathouse. I can’t help but think about what I saw by the lakeside, but the sooner we get everything done the sooner we can leave. Porter helps Kyle take out the trash; Tasha and Paige cover the firepit and sweep out the stripped-down cabins. Javier helps us bring all our personal belongings into the Western Lodge. I’m helping Bezi sweep out the storage shed when Javier waltzes past with an armful of blankets and pillows. “What about the big cabin?” he asks. I tilt my head back and let a long breath hiss out from between my lips. “I completely forgot about that,” I say. “We gotta strip down another staff cabin?” Bezi asks. “Jordan, Heather, and Felix were bunking together in one of the bigger


blasted room for who knows how long, Si. I will not spend my life confined to my bed.” “You can’t even stand on your own,” Simon guessed. William sighed. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days. Broth only goes so far. How bad was it, really? Mother won’t tell me.” That question softened Simon’s mood a little, and he sank slowly onto the bed next to William. As angry as he was with his brother for the whole Lucy situation, he had to remind himself that William had been in danger of never waking this time. All things considered, he should have been overjoyed to be having this conversation in the first place. “Dr. Pritchard thinks you’ve had worse,” he said quietly. “But I wasn’t very optimistic.” No matter what he had told Lucy about William always pulling through, the fever this time had lasted longer than Simon was comfortable with. William rolled his neck around, stretching the soreness that always lingered after his fevers. “This is what I get for being chivalrous,” he grumbled. Simon frowned. “Care to explain how you ended up shot? And why you thought it was a good idea to ride through a storm? You should have taken your carriage, especially being wounded like that!” William grunted. “It doesn’t matter why I was shot. I made it through. Besides, I needed my carriage for . . . something else.” Simon narrowed his eyes. William was hiding something from him, and he didn’t like it. Was it something Lucy knew about? Maybe she would tell him. He cursed under his breath. Was he really considering using Lucy to spy on her own betrothed? The notion was absurd, and she would never do it. He needed to change the subject, but he had only one thought running through his mind. Now was as good a time as any to try to find out the truth. “You got engaged.” William gave him an odd look. “I did.” Simon was fairly certain there was no lie in that answer. “Lucy’s lovely.” “Is she? I mean, yes, she is. Of course she is.” William nodded to emphasize his point, even if he had slipped up with something. Simon had no idea what that slip meant, and he had the sudden fear this conversation would only make things worse. He decided to keep probing anyway. “I didn’t think you had plans to marry.” William laughed a little. “I didn’t. Not soon, anyway. But when you find someone like her, you can’t let her go. Love is funny that way.” “I will have to believe you,” Simon mumbled. “Simon, have you never been in love?” How had the conversation suddenly turned onto him? “I am not you, Brother.” “You need to spend more time in London before you’re too old to attract a young wife and too bitter to entice a sweet one.” Laughing without any real amusement, Simon shook his head. “I hardly have time to dally about Town like you. Father’s business ventures are—” “Why do you keep those?” “What?” It


differently than he did that first night in Seattle, and even the next day at lunch. There’s almost a swagger to him, a confidence that only hundreds of screaming fans can buy. Is he taller, or am I just farther away? His face is clean-shaven, the bright overhead lights glinting off his auburn hair as he takes a seat in a plush pink chair, stretching out his long legs. I may have watched those Mexley clips and one whole episode of The Nocturnals, but this is Finn performing right in front of me, or at least from a dozen yards away. And he’s good. The moderator introduces the other two panelists: Lizzy Woo, who starred as a government agent in a superhero TV adaptation, but who I’m more familiar with as a lovelorn barista in an ensemble romantic comedy Noemie and I were obsessed with a few years ago, and Jermaine Simmons, from a mermaid show on HBO we watched a season of before getting frustrated by how sexy it surprisingly wasn’t. “It’s HBO,” Noemie had said. “Why is no one getting naked?” Until this point, I’ve never considered myself someone who would get particularly starstruck. I was a little intimidated by Maddy, mainly because of how minimal our interactions were, but my Bachelor contestant, Amber Yanofky, who went professionally by Amber Y after being one of a record number of Ambers on her season, made me feel comfortable right away. And yet here, watching Lizzy and Jermaine, I’m struck by the fact that they are simply gorgeous human beings. Almost supernaturally so, which is fitting, given the panel is about the enduring power of the supernatural in pop culture. Finn, Lizzy, and Jermaine are all properly charming, drawing numerous laughs from the audience. I open up a floral notebook, part of a Rifle Paper Co. set Noemie got me for my birthday last year and I haven’t used yet because it’s just too pretty. Since this trip is all about taking risks, it seemed right to bring it. As I drum the matching pen on the pages, I can’t help wondering why this guy wants to write a memoir that he’s not even technically writing. The reason he was so cryptic about during lunch. Of course, everyone wants to believe they’re special enough, that they’ve acquired enough life experience to fill a book. They assume their deeply profound story will fly off the shelves. In my experience, that’s just not true. The publisher had too high of hopes for Amber’s Don’t Ask Y: And Other Things I’m Sick of Talking About. They printed too many copies, thousands of which wound up getting pulped. “What is your story,” I murmur to myself as I stare down at the blank page. When the panel ends after a Q & A, I fight my way to the stage, where Finn disappeared through a red curtain. “Hi, sorry—I’m press?” I hold up my badge. A man in a security T-shirt leans in to scrutinize my badge. “Go right ahead,” he says. Backstage, Finn is leaning


going up into their horns," replied Dairyman Crick dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited by anatomical possibilities, "I couldn't say; I certainly could not. But as nott cows will keep it back as well as the horned ones, I don't quite agree to it. Do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, Jonathan? Why do nott cows give less milk in a year than horned?" "I don't!" interposed the milkmaid, "Why do they?" "Because there bain't so many of 'em," said the dairyman. "Howsomever, these gam'sters do certainly keep back their milk today. Folks, we must lift up a stave or two--that's the only cure for't." Songs were often resorted to in dairies hereabout as an enticement to the cows when they showed signs of withholding their usual yield; and the band of milkers at this request burst into melody--in purely business-like tones, it is true, and with no great spontaneity; the result, according to their own belief, being a decided improvement during the song's continuance. When they had gone through fourteen or fifteen verses of a cheerful ballad about a murderer who was afraid to go to bed in the dark because he saw certain brimstone flames around him, one of the male milkers said-- "I wish singing on the stoop didn't use up so much of a man's wind! You should get your harp, sir; not but what a fiddle is best." Tess, who had given ear to this, thought the words were addressed to the dairyman, but she was wrong. A reply, in the shape of "Why?" came as it were out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had been spoken by a milker behind the animal, whom she had not hitherto perceived. "Oh yes; there's nothing like a fiddle," said the dairyman. "Though I do think that bulls are more moved by a tune than cows--at least that's my experience. Once there was an old aged man over at Mellstock--William Dewy by name--one of the family that used to do a good deal of business as tranters over there, Jonathan, do ye mind?--I knowed the man by sight as well as I know my own brother, in a manner of speaking. Well, this man was a coming home-along from a wedding where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and for shortness' sake he took a cut across Forty-acres, a field lying that way, where a bull was out to grass. The bull seed William, and took after him, horns aground, begad; and though William runned his best, and hadn't MUCH drink in him (considering 'twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he'd never reach the fence and get over in time to save himself. Well, as a last thought, he pulled out his fiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, turning to the bull, and backing towards the corner. The bull softened down, and stood still, looking hard at William Dewy, who fiddled on and on; till a sort of a


Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.' 'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily, 'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.' THE GLOW-WORM How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar! But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play. To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves. Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend. When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near! Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray; And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound! But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn. Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can free. And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute. O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil, And knew like fays to draw


jackdaws made such a noise, they said 'Chack, chack, chack,' all the time." "Well, really, you sound like jackdaws yourselves, talking all at once like this!" said Aunt Fanny, with a laugh. "Now, have you all finished? Very well, then, go and wash your sticky hands- yes, George, I know they're sticky, because I made that gingerbread, and you've had three slices! Then you had better go and play quietly in the other room, because it's raining, and you can't go out. But don't disturb your father, George. He's very busy." The children went to wash. "Idiot!" said Julian to Anne. "Nearly gave us away twice!" "I didn't mean what you thought I meant the first time!" began Anne indignantly. George interrupted her. "I'd rather you gave the secret of the wreck away than my secret about Tim," she said. "I do think you've got a careless tongue." "Yes, I have," said Anne, sorrowfully. "I think I'd better not talk at meal-times any more. I love Tim so much I just can't seem to help wanting to talk about him." They all went to play in the other room. Julian turned a table upside down with a crash. "We'll play at wrecks," he said. "This is the wreck. Now we're going to explore it." The door flew open and an angry, frowning face looked in. It was George's father! "What was that noise?" he said. "George! Did you overturn that table?" "I did," said Julian. "I'm sorry, sir. I quite forgot you were working." "Any more noise like that and I shall keep you all in bed tomorrow!" said his Uncle Quentin. "Georgina, keep your cousins quiet." The door shut and Uncle Quentin went out. The children looked at one another. "Your father's awfully fierce, isn't he?" said Julian. "I'm sorry I made that row. I didn't think." "We'd better do something really quiet," said George. "Or he'll keep his word- and we'll find ourselves in bed tomorrow just when we want to explore the wreck." This was a terrible thought. Anne went to get one of her dolls to play with. She had managed to bring quite a number after all. Julian fetched a book. George took up a beautiful little boat she was carving out of a piece of wood. Dick lay back on a chair and thought of the exciting wreck. The rain poured down steadily, and everyone hoped it would have stopped by the morning. "We'll have to be up most awfully early," said Dick, yawning. "What about going to bed in good time tonight? I'm tired with all that rowing." In the ordinary way none of the children liked going to bed early- but with such an exciting thing to look forward to, early-bed seemed different that night. "It will make the time go quickly," said Anne, putting down her doll. "Shall we go now?" "Whatever do you suppose Mother would say if we went just after tea?" said George. "She'd think we were all ill. No, let's go after supper. We'll just say we're tired with


"We can utilize the morrow in recovering the chest, Professor," suggested Mr. Philander. "Quite so, quite so, Mr. Philander, I had almost forgotten the treasure," exclaimed Professor Porter. "Possibly we can borrow some men from Captain Dufranne to assist us, and one of the prisoners to point out the location of the chest." "Most assuredly, my dear Professor, we are all yours to command," said the captain. And so it was arranged that on the next day Lieutenant Charpentier was to take a detail of ten men, and one of the mutineers of the Arrow as a guide, and unearth the treasure; and that the cruiser would remain for a full week in the little harbor. At the end of that time it was to be assumed that D'Arnot was truly dead, and that the forest man would not return while they remained. Then the two vessels were to leave with all the party. Professor Porter did not accompany the treasure-seekers on the following day, but when he saw them returning empty-handed toward noon, he hastened forward to meet them --his usual preoccupied indifference entirely vanished, and in its place a nervous and excited manner. "Where is the treasure?" he cried to Clayton, while yet a hundred feet separated them. Clayton shook his head. "Gone," he said, as he neared the professor. Chapter 24 136 "Gone! It cannot be. Who could have taken it?" cried Professor Porter. "God only knows, Professor," replied Clayton. "We might have thought the fellow who guided us was lying about the location, but his surprise and consternation on finding no chest beneath the body of the murdered Snipes were too real to be feigned. And then our spades showed us that SOMETHING had been buried beneath the corpse, for a hole had been there and it had been filled with loose earth." "But who could have taken it?" repeated Professor Porter. "Suspicion might naturally fall on the men of the cruiser," said Lieutenant Charpentier, "but for the fact that sub-lieutenant Janviers here assures me that no men have had shore leave--that none has been on shore since we anchored here except under command of an officer. I do not know that you would suspect our men, but I am glad that there is now no chance for suspicion to fall on them," he concluded. "It would never have occurred to me to suspect the men to whom we owe so much," replied Professor Porter, graciously. "I would as soon suspect my dear Clayton here, or Mr. Philander." The Frenchmen smiled, both officers and sailors. It was plain to see that a burden had been lifted from their minds. "The treasure has been gone for some time," continued Clayton. "In fact the body fell apart as we lifted it, which indicates that whoever removed the treasure did so while the corpse was still fresh, for it was intact when we first uncovered it." "There must have been several in the party," said Jane, who had joined them. "You remember that it took four men to carry it." "By


the forest.” “Vic,” the Coachman said. “You already look the part of a machine, but I need you to act like one. Act like you’ve never acted before! Let’s see what you’ve got! You are a machine. You are an inspector. Show me what you’ve got. Make me believe.” Vic shifted awkwardly, the helmet sliding down on his forehead. He pushed it back up and cleared his throat. “Um. These crates contain exactly what they’re supposed to?” “Brava!” the Coachman cried. “Encore! Encore! Oh, I believed it. Yes, you will do quite well. Keep that energy. Never let anyone take it from you.” Vic blinked. “But I didn’t—” “How long will we be in the crates?” Nurse Ratched said. “Not long, not long. A few hours at most. Bernard will make sure they’ll be sent to a warehouse closed for renovations. The work is set to begin next month, so it should be empty. When you feel as if you’ve stopped moving, wait at least another hour before climbing out of the crates to be safe.” “This plan is filled with holes,” Nurse Ratched said. “The best plans often are,” the Coachman agreed. “Rambo, stop picking up rocks, you delightful fellow. You won’t have time to do anything with them and—” A horn blared from somewhere in the warehouse. The Coachman’s eyes widened. “Shift change! We need to move now.” He spun on his heels and began to march toward the warehouse. The blocky machines moved single file toward a door at the back of the warehouse that flashed green as each one went through. They didn’t speak, nor did they pay Vic and the others any mind. It was as if they weren’t aware of anything else. The warehouse itself was cavernous, the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the eerie quiet. Crates were stacked almost to the ceiling, each with a small screen that displayed a series of green numbers and letters. Nothing gave away the contents inside or what their destination would be. Bernard led them toward the side of the warehouse, his steps heavy against the cement floor. The Coachman walked next to him, keeping up a one-sided conversation about nothing in particular. Vic and Hap pretended to look at the crates as if inspecting them, though it was nothing more than a cursory glance at best. Bernard never slowed, keeping a quick pace. It was Rambo who almost got them caught. One moment, he was next to Nurse Ratched in front of Vic and Hap, and the next, he squealed and was off like a shot to their right. “Rambo,” Vic hissed, looking around to make sure they weren’t being watched. “Rambo. Get back here!” Rambo didn’t listen. He stopped in front of a machine parked between the crates against a wall. The machine was big and blue with black trim and a large circular brush at its base. “Oh dear,” the Coachman said as Bernard’s head spun toward Rambo. But Rambo didn’t pay any mind. He stopped in front of the machine. “Oh. My. Goodness. You’re


few days that Peter had mentioned, since more than that was unthinkable. Then she left, locking the door behind her. 20 She sat in her sister’s living room, cross-legged on the floor. Next to her, Annette was pressing her thumbs into Maud’s palm, having said something about acupressure points. Sage burned in a ceramic dish next to a geode. Annette kept telling her to breathe. “We need to calm you down,” she said. “I can’t calm down.” For the last two nights that she had been at her sister’s condo, Maud had been texting Ella every few hours—I’m so sorry. I love you—the messages piling on top of each other. She called Peter again, leaving voice mails that became increasingly frantic. Finally, last night, he’d called her back and agreed that she could pick up Louise from school today, in an hour. “I don’t think this is working,” she told Annette, starting to cry again. “Do you want some pot?” “I have to drive.” “Let’s try something else, then.” Annette stood up. “You can’t pick up Louise like this. Come on.” In the bathroom mirror, Maud’s eyes were so swollen, she could barely make out the pupils. Her nose was raw and chapped. I’m falling apart, she thought. I can’t handle this. Annette opened the makeup drawer. Closing her eyes, Maud surrendered her face to her sister, whose fingertips glided over her skin, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. Two days ago, when she had arrived at Annette’s door with her suitcase, she rang the doorbell and burst into tears. Annette took one look at her and pulled her inside. Maud blurted everything between sobs. “I never told you I slept with him because I thought you were right about him. And I messed everything up. I messed Ella up. She’ll never get over this. She’ll never forgive me. Peter’s so mad, he might do something crazy. Try to take custody. You know how he can be when he’s angry.” Annette had put her hands on Maud’s cheeks and held her face. “Listen to your big sister. You are not going to lose your girls. We are going to figure this out. I am here. Hold on to me.” Now Annette told her to look up. “You’ll need a lot of this,” she said, as she patted concealer under Maud’s eyes. Maud remembered that night with the policeman at Montgomery Place, how he’d said Ella was hyperventilating. Peter had stood right there with them, and Ella thought he’d been betrayed. “There,” Annette said. “You look less like a corpse. I’m going to say something again until you hear it. You didn’t cheat on Peter. Peter cheated on you.” “I can’t tell Ella that. The girls can’t know that about him.” “Well, he can’t make you into the villain. Don’t give him all the power.” After walking Maud to the door, she took down a horseshoe that hung on the wall. “Go get Louise,” she said. “Bring this with you. It can’t hurt.” “Where do I put it?” “Keep it in the car.


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

did. The child’s eyes were wholly black—no white, no iris. Darkened veins stood out around them, like the veins around her own, like the scars around Gabe’s eye patch. The child opened an empty, yawning mouth. And though his lips didn’t move, he began to whisper. CHAPTER THIRTEEN To reach for power beyond what has been given to you is the greatest sin. —The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 78 At first, the whispering was just a soft susurrus, the bare suggestion of language without any detail filled in. The sound reminded Lore of flies buzzing, of suffocating dirt, the soft fall of flesh rotted from bone. But after a moment, words conjured themselves from the shapeless noise. Just one phrase, over and over and stopping abruptly, stuck in a replicating loop. The words started slurred, then grew sharper edges, became crisp as an elocution exercise despite the stillness of dead tongue, dead lips. “They’ve awakened,” the unmoving corpse whispered. “They’ve awakened they’ve awakened they’ve awakened—” The King’s face was pale. He looked surprised, almost, surprised and nervous, like he hadn’t entirely expected this to work. His head swung to his twin. “Does that mean—” Anton held up a hand, and his brother closed his mouth, swallowing the end of his sentence. The Priest Exalted’s gaze flickered from the corpse to Lore’s face, calculating. Lore stared into the not-dead child’s black eyes, the gape of that unmoving, whispering mouth. “Stop,” she rasped. “Please stop.” The body fell back, eyes still open, limbs slack. She snapped her hands closed, just like she’d done with Horse, just like she’d done with Cedric, breaking the threads of Mortem that bound her to the corpse. Then Lore bolted. August’s voice chased her out the door, echoing in all that stone, but Lore paid the King no mind. She tripped over her hem, hit her knees, skinning them beneath her skirt. A heaving breath in and another out, trying her best to keep the bile in her throat from surging. The white, necrotic skin on her fingers slowly leached back to living warmth, the gray of her veins fading with each breath. Her heart lurched in her chest, beating so hard it almost hurt. “Get up, girl.” Anton’s voice was as cold as the stone against her palms. Lore rubbed the back of her wrist over her mouth, deliberately taking her time before she straightened and glared up at the Priest Exalted. The sun through the skylight blazed his gray hair into a halo, obscured his features. “Ready for round two?” Lore nearly spat it. As humanity suffused her again, chasing out death, so did a righteous anger she couldn’t totally explain—the thought of that child, of how she’d disturbed his peaceful rest after something terrible happened to him, made shame prick up and down her spine. “Are there any other corpses you want to disturb while we have the time? Maybe we can climb up to the top and see if I can get some dead marquess to sing the national anthem—” “That’s quite enough,” Anton


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus. Ere revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I first simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent departure. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his careful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to meditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination remained the same in short, that he still preferred to abide with me. What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you. Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser. Acting accordingly, next day I thus addressed him: “I find these chambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word, I propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require your services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another place.” He made no reply, and nothing more was said. On the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers, and having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few hours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen, which I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and being folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of a naked


disaster, calamity, death, decrepitude, faintness, imbecility, festival, cheery, joyous, jovial, mishap, demise, misadventure, fragility, tenuity, languor, frailness; merry, gay, ceremonious, happy lethality, adversity, loss, decease, (adj, n) infirmity; (adj) feeble. festoon: (n) swag, wreath, festoonery, dead ANTONYMS: (n) perseverance, decoration, bouquet, catenary; (v) fated: (adj) inevitable, destined, success, effectiveness, competence decorate, deck, adorn, ornament, certain, predestined, damned, feebly: (adv) faintly, beautify unavoidable, predestinate, cursed, unenthusiastically, dimly, feverish: (adj) febrile, feverous, fiery, intended, forthcoming, sure hopelessly, unproductively, frenzied, fevered, excited, sick, fateful: (adj) decisive, fatal, unpersuasively, unconvincingly, fanatical; (adj, v) hot, flushed; (adj, disastrous, crucial, foreboding, uncertainly, reluctantly, n) hysterical. ANTONYMS: (adj) ominous, black, conclusive, powerlessly, insipidly. calm, afebrile, collected, composed, calamitous, inauspicious, ANTONYMS: (adv) robustly, mellow momentous. ANTONYMS: (adj) confidently, domineeringly, fictitious: (adj) bogus, assumed, healthy, trivial, unimportant, vehemently, stubbornly, strongly, fictional, counterfeit, artificial, fake, auspicious, fortunate, lucky, effectively, convincingly, fabulous, sham, fabricated, fanciful, favorable competently, admirably, apocryphal. ANTONYMS: (adj) fathomless: (adj) immeasurable, wholeheartedly true, honest, historical, factual soundless, unfathomable, feigned: (adj) false, affected, fiddler: (n) Fiddler's money, incomprehensible, abysmal, assumed, dummy, unnatural, trumpeter, fifer, instrumentalist, profound, unintelligible, deep, fictitious; (adj, v) sham, counterfeit, musician, player, piper, violin infinite, boundless, incalculable. spurious, mock, pretended. player, twiddler, tinkerer, drummer ANTONYM: (adj) fathomable ANTONYMS: (adj) sincere, genuine, fidelity: (n) constancy, devotion, faultless: (adj) blameless, correct, natural, wholehearted, heartfelt, real faithfulness, adherence, allegiance, immaculate, clean, spotless, fellows: (n) fellow, membership, loyalty, faith, dedication, exactness; innocent, flawless, unblemished, faculty (adj, n) honesty, truth. absolute, infallible, consummate. fellowship: (n) community, ANTONYMS: (n) infidelity, ANTONYMS: (adj) blemished, company, companionship, unfaithfulness, disloyalty, imperfect, faulty, shameful, soiled, communion, camaraderie, society, inaccuracy, faithlessness, blameworthy comradeship, association, body; dishonesty, unreliability faun: (n) Faunus; (adj) sylvan (adj, n) familiarity, acquaintance. fiend: (n) monster, devil, fanatic, favourably: (adv) advantageously, ANTONYMS: (n) unsociability, brute, deuce, incubus, goblin, ogre, well unfriendliness, hostility enthusiast, daemon, addict. fearful: (adj, n) afraid; (adj, v) feminine: (adj) effeminate, womanly, ANTONYM: (n) angel dreadful, cowardly; (adj) terrible, maidenly, delicate, not male, fierceness: (n) ferocity, violence, apprehensive, awful, timid, anxious, pistillate, wifely, mild; (n) girl, lady, cruelty, force, brutality, rage, craven, frightful, eerie. gender. ANTONYMS: (adj) male, intensity, strength, vehemence, ANTONYMS: (adj) rational, calm, unwomanly, neuter wildness, ferociousness. confident, bold, unimpressed, ferocity: (n) violence, cruelty, ANTONYMS: (n) friendliness, charming, fearless, courageous, ferociousness, fury, rage, truculence, calmness, meekness reassuring, unafraid, wonderful atrocity, fierceness, wildness, fiery: (adj, n) burning, passionate, fearfully: (adv) timidly, timorously, vehemence, anger. ANTONYMS: (n) glowing; (adj) fervent, ablaze, hot, awfully, apprehensively, meekness, friendliness, serenity fervid, impassioned, peppery; (adj, horrendously, hideously, anxiously, fervent: (adj) ardent, eager, earnest, v) fierce, violent. ANTONYMS: (adj) appallingly, terribly; (adj, adv) enthusiastic, intense, cordial, calm, passionless, dispassionate, shockingly, dreadfully. passionate, hot, emotional, torrid, indifferent, placid, gentle, cool; ANTONYMS: (adv) bravely, calmly, strong. ANTONYMS: (adj) (adv) easygoing confidently, wonderfully, rationally, apathetic, unenthusiastic, cool, fife: (n) flute, whistle, flageolet, unconcernedly weak, unexcited, dispirited, piccolo, pipe feather: (n) pen, feathering, pinion, dispassionate, flippant, impassive, figurative: (adj) metaphorical, nib, plumage, quill, kind, spline; (n, lukewarm, mild figural, emblematic, representative, v) plume; (adj, n, v) fringe; (v) fledge fervently: (adv) fierily, fervidly, florid, flowery, symbolic, allusive, feathers: (n) plumage, fur, indument,


away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly. "Which way do you reckon Zaphod?" said Ford. "At a wild guess, I'd say down here," said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall. A voice on a loud hailer said, "OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered." "Cops!" hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. "You want to try a guess at all, Ford?" "OK, this way," said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks. At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and space- suited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun. "We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!" shouted the figure. "Suits me fine!" shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units. The others swerved in behind him. "There are two of them," said Trillian. "We're cornered." They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall. They held their breath and waited. Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously. "Hey, they're shooting at us," said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball, "I thought they said they didn't want to do that." "Yeah, I thought they said that," agreed Ford. Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment. "Hey," he said, "I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!" and ducked again. They waited. After a moment a voice replied, "It isn't easy being a cop!" "What did he say?" whispered Ford in astonishment. "He said it isn't easy being a cop." "Well surely that's his problem isn't it?" "I'd have thought so." Ford shouted out, "Hey listen! I think we've got enough problems on our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!" Another pause, and then the loud hailer again. "Now see here, guy," said the voice on the loud hailer, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially! I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterwards in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterwards for hours to my girlfriend!" "And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop. "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!" Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets. "Who are these guys?"


of them, in a serious sense; but there was, or had been, a chance of one or the other inspiring him with a passing fancy for her, and enjoying the pleasure of his attentions while he stayed here. Such unequal attachments had led to marriage; and she had heard from Mrs Crick that Mr Clare had one day asked, in a laughing way, what would be the use of his marrying a fine lady, and all the while ten thousand acres of Colonial pasture to feed, and cattle to rear, and corn to reap. A farm-woman would be the only sensible kind of wife for him. But whether Mr Clare had spoken seriously or not, why should she, who could never conscientiously allow any man to marry her now, and who had religiously determined that she never would be tempted to do so, draw off Mr Clare's attention from other women, for the brief happiness of sunning herself in his eyes while he remained at Talbothays? XXII They came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking were proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast. Dairyman Crick was discovered stamping about the house. He had received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter had a twang. "And begad, so 't have!" said the dairyman, who held in his left hand a wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck. "Yes--taste for yourself!" Several of them gathered round him; and Mr Clare tasted, Tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and last of all Mrs Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table. There certainly was a twang. The dairyman, who had thrown himself into abstraction to better realize the taste, and so divine the particular species of noxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed-- "'Tis garlic! and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead!" Then all the old hands remembered that a certain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, in years gone by, spoilt the butter in the same way. The dairyman had not recognized the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched. "We must overhaul that mead," he resumed; "this mustn't continny!" All having armed themselves with old pointed knives they went out together. As the inimical plant could only be present in very microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to find it seemed rather a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich grass before them. However, they formed themselves into line, all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and the married dairywomen--Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water-meads--who lived in their respective cottages. With eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slowly across a strip of the field,


was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;-- but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it. CHAPTER XIII There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short. In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party. How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also. Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in every thing. The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears. Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

bawling at his mother, "I don't want him in there...I need that room...make him get out..." Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it. *** Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly. When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -- ' " With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go." Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. *** The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door -- "AAAAARRRGH!" Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat -- something alive! Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry


seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, " I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm good." There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind. If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby,Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself. "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls. Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming. "My only comfort," she said


My voice was thin. It dawned on me, sickeningly, that my saying your name in court might make absolutely nothing happen. Whatever fire I started might be immediately squelched. “So based on this assumption, and based on your theory of these small marks in Thalia’s planner, you feel you could have contributed more to the initial investigation?” Could I have? Would I have managed, at eighteen, to say any of this to investigators—about periods, about sex with a teacher? Would I have implicated you, my favorite teacher, in a murder? But I knew the correct answer: “Yes.” “In fact this hearing has a lot to do with your intervention in the case, does it not?” “I can’t speak to that.” “You’ve certainly spoken plenty about the case publicly, haven’t you?” Liz was leaning into this, to the point that I was starting to think she genuinely hated me, that she’d never believed a word I’d said. “What I’ve spoken about publicly, and here in court, are the same things I knew in 1995, and these are the things I would have told investigators had I been asked.” I said this with a good show of the certainty I lacked. “That’s good,” Hector said. “Remember how you phrased that.” “But you were not asked,” Liz said. “Did you approach investigators with the information?” “No. I was sent to meet with them because I’d been Thalia’s roommate the previous year. But they didn’t ask about her love life. And I never saw the planner. Their focus was entirely on whether I knew anything about the night she died. And I hadn’t seen her that night, except onstage.” Hector nodded vigorously. Liz said, “It was on your suggestion that Britt Gwynne instigated the search of the athletic equipment shed on the Granby campus, was it not?” “Yes.” “That’s awfully specific. Did you suggest any other place to search?” “I suggested the equipment shed, the press box on top of that same building, and the bleachers serving the track and the lacrosse field, which used to be the football field.” “Those are all quite close together. You just happened to suggest that they look in the one place where there was indeed blood evidence?” My mouth fell open. I said, “Are they really going to do that?” Liz shrugged. “They could.” “But if they imply that I had some knowledge of what happened, wouldn’t that mean they definitely should have questioned me back in ’95?” “They could imply that the evidence was planted there later. Staged.” “That makes no sense. Does it? Is that even possible?” “All they need to do is vaguely suggest it. They’re likely to paint you as a nosy person, overinvolved, trying to make a name for yourself. Their goal is to get the judge to dislike you.” It would be easy to do, I imagined: Just look at her smug little face, this meddling fame whore. She barely even knew these people. Liz asked if I wanted to take a break. Yes, I did. I very much did. 10 I’d been


scared I glance again to the page beside the typewriter, onto which Lenora had typed the same answer to a different question. As I do, a thought occurs to me. Something I should have considered sooner but was likely too scared myself to contemplate. But now there’s no avoiding it. “Lenora, did you really think Mary left?” I study her face—the key to all her emotions. Even the ones she’s trying to hide. This time, though, she doesn’t even attempt to disguise the way she feels. Sadness clouds her features as she taps once against the typewriter. No. “You thought she jumped?” Another single tap. One that kicks my pulse up a notch. “Do—” I swallow. My mouth, suddenly dry from fear, can barely get the word out. “Do you think what happened to Mary is because of what you told her?” Two taps from Lenora confirm my worst fear. She thinks Mary was murdered. Swirling within that dreadful realization is another, smaller thought. One brought about by another quick glimpse of the page next to the typewriter. “What did Mary do with the pages the two of you typed?” Lenora responds with a confused look. “She helped you write the whole story.” I think about the pages the two of us have typed, now sitting with Lenora’s pill bottles in the lockbox under my bed. If Mary and Lenora had typed for weeks, why haven’t I seen any evidence of it? Every piece of paper inside the desk is blank, and I saw no sign of typed pages anywhere else in Lenora’s room or mine. “That must have been a thick stack. What did Mary do with them?” Lenora’s reply—she hid them—doesn’t help me. “Do you know where?” This time, her response provides a bit more clarity. in her room A bad feeling skitters down my back. What had once been Mary’s room is now my room—and the truth about the murders has been hidden there all this time. A truth that might have gotten Mary killed. The rest of the evening passes with agonizing slowness. I bathe, dress, and lift Lenora into bed, the whole time telling myself that we could be mistaken. Maybe Mary really did jump. Maybe she had deep wells of despair within her that she could no longer control. Maybe this is just another sad chapter in the overall tragic story of Hope’s End. Or maybe she was murdered because she knew that story. After leaving Lenora with the call button, I go to my room and conduct a thorough search. Since all of Mary’s belongings are here, it stands to reason that whatever she and Lenora typed is still in here as well. Where, I have no clue. But I’m determined to find out. I begin with the dresser, removing Mary’s clothes until every drawer is empty. I even check behind the dresser and beneath it. There’s nothing. Next is the bed, both under it and between the mattress and the box spring. The only item of interest is my lockbox. I open it with


But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know-good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery-the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; here eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we ill conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather go back to the asylum than go to live with her," said Anne passionately. "She looks exactly like a-like a gimlet." Marilla smothered a smile under the conviction that Anne must be reproved for such a speech. "A little


shapes. Ah, they were his old friends, but badly crippled. Then he began to make out a word here and a word there. His heart leaped for joy. He could read it, and he would. In another half hour he was progressing rapidly, and, but for an exceptional word now and again, he found it very plain sailing. Chapter 18 Here is what he read: WEST COAST OF AFRICA, ABOUT 10X DEGREES SOUTH LATITUDE. (So Mr. Clayton says.) February 3 (?), 1909. DEAREST HAZEL: It seems foolish to write you a letter that you may never see, but I simply must tell somebody of our awful experiences since we sailed from Europe on the ill-fated Arrow. If we never return to civilization, as now seems only too likely, this will at least prove a brief record of the events which led up to our final fate, whatever it may be. As you know, we were supposed to have set out upon a scientific expedition to the Congo. Papa was presumed to entertain some wondrous theory of an unthinkably ancient civilization, the remains of which lay buried somewhere in the Congo valley. But after we were well under sail the truth came out. It seems that an old bookworm who has a book and curio shop in Baltimore discovered between the leaves of a very old Spanish manuscript a letter written in 1550 detailing the adventures of a crew of mutineers of a Spanish galleon bound from Spain to South America with a vast treasure of "doubloons" and "pieces of eight," I suppose, for they certainly sound weird and piraty. The writer had been one of the crew, and the letter was to his son, who was, at the very time the letter was written, master of a Spanish merchantman. Many years had elapsed since the events the letter narrated had transpired, and the old man had become a respected citizen of an obscure Spanish town, but the love of gold was still so strong upon him that he risked all to acquaint his son with the means of attaining fabulous wealth for them both. The writer told how when but a week out from Spain the crew had mutinied and murdered every officer and man who opposed them; but they defeated their own ends by this very act, for there was none left competent to navigate a ship at sea. They were blown hither and thither for two months, until sick and dying of scurvy, starvation, and thirst, they had been wrecked on a small islet. The galleon was washed high upon the beach where she went to pieces; but not before the survivors, who numbered but ten souls, had rescued one of the great chests of treasure. This they buried well up on the island, and for three years they lived there in constant hope of being rescued. One by one they sickened and died, until only one man was left, the writer of the letter. The men had built a boat from the wreckage of the galleon, but having no


had looked distressed ever since talking to the director of Cryptology on the phone. After hanging up, he had marched over to Collet and demanded he get Agent Neveu on the line. Now Collet had failed, and Fache was pacing like a caged lion. "Why did Crypto call?" Collet now ventured. Fache turned. "To tell us they found no references to Draconian devils and lame saints." "That's all?" "No, also to tell us that they had just identified the numerics as Fibonacci numbers, but they suspected the series was meaningless." Collet was confused. "But they already sent Agent Neveu to tell us that." Fache shook his head. "They didn't send Neveu." "What?" "According to the director, at my orders he paged his entire team to look at the images I'd wired him. When Agent Neveu arrived, she took one look at the photos of Saunire and the code and left the office without a word. The director said he didn't question her behavior because she was understandably upset by the photos." "Upset? She's never seen a picture of a dead body?" Fache was silent a moment. "I was not aware of this, and it seems neither was the director until a coworker informed him, but apparently Sophie Neveu is Jacques Saunire's granddaughter." Collet was speechless. "The director said she never once mentioned Saunire to him, and he assumed it was because she probably didn't want preferential treatment for having a famous grandfather." No wonder she was upset by the pictures. Collet could barely conceive of the unfortunate coincidence that called in a young woman to decipher a code written by a dead family member. Still, her actions made no sense. "But she obviously recognized the numbers as Fibonacci numbers because she came here and told us. I don't understand why she would leave the office without telling anyone she had figured it out." Collet could think of only one scenario to explain the troubling developments: Saunire had written a numeric code on the floor in hopes Fache would involve cryptographers in the investigation, and therefore involve his own granddaughter. As for the rest of the message, was Saunire communicating in some way with his granddaughter? If so, what did the message tell her? And how did Langdon fit in? Before Collet could ponder it any further, the silence of the deserted museum was shattered by an alarm. The bell sounded like it was coming from inside the Grand Gallery. "Alarme!" one of the agents yelled, eyeing his feed from the Louvre security center. "Grande Galerie! Toilettes Messieurs!" Fache wheeled to Collet. "Where's Langdon?" "Still in the men's room!" Collet pointed to the blinking red dot on his laptop schematic. "He must have broken the window!" Collet knew Langdon wouldn't get far. Although Paris fire codes required windows above fifteen meters in public buildings be breakable in case of fire, exiting a Louvre second-story window without the help of a hook and ladder would be suicide. Furthermore, there were no trees or grass on the 57 western end of the Denon Wing to


don't get ye landed pretty quick they may even change their minds about giving ye that much show. I'll put all yer stuff ashore with ye as well as cookin' utensils an' some old sails for tents, an' enough grub to last ye until ye can find fruit and game. "With yer guns for protection, ye ought to be able to live here easy enough until help comes. When I get safely hid away I'll see to it that the British gover'ment learns about where ye be; for the life of me I couldn't tell 'em exactly where, for I don't know myself. But they'll find ye all right." After he had left them they went silently below, each wrapped in gloomy forebodings. Clayton did not believe that Black Michael had the slightest intention of notifying the British government of their whereabouts, nor was he any too sure but that some treachery was contemplated for the following day when they should be on shore with the sailors who would have to accompany them with their belongings. Once out of Black Michael's sight any of the men might strike them down, and still leave Black Michael's conscience clear. And even should they escape that fate was it not but to be faced with far graver dangers? Alone, he might hope to survive for years; for he was a strong, athletic man. But what of Alice, and that other little life so soon to be launched amidst the hardships and grave dangers of a primeval world? The man shuddered as he meditated upon the awful gravity, the fearful helplessness, of their situation. But it was a merciful Providence which prevented him from foreseeing the hideous reality which awaited them in the grim depths of that gloomy wood. Early next morning their numerous chests and boxes were hoisted on deck and lowered to waiting small boats for transportation to shore. There was a great quantity and variety of stuff, as the Claytons had expected a possible five to eight years' residence in their new home. Thus, in addition to the many necessities they had brought, there were also many luxuries. Black Michael was determined that nothing belonging to the Claytons should be left on board. Whether out of compassion for them, or in furtherance of his own self-interests, it would be difficult to say. There was no question but that the presence of property of a missing British official upon a suspicious vessel Chapter 2 16 would have been a difficult thing to explain in any civilized port in the world. So zealous was he in his efforts to carry out his intentions that he insisted upon the return of Clayton's revolvers to him by the sailors in whose possession they were. Into the small boats were also loaded salt meats and biscuit, with a small supply of potatoes and beans, matches, and cooking vessels, a chest of tools, and the old sails which Black Michael had promised them. As though himself fearing the very thing which Clayton had suspected, Black Michael accompanied them to


get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?" Harry didn't say anything. "Where is this school, anyway?" "I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket. "I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o'clock," he read. His aunt and uncle stared. "Platform what?" "Nine and three-quarters." "Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform nine and three-quarters." "It's on my ticket." "Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to King's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother." "Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep things friendly. "Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings." *** Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn't want to walk into the station in his wizard's robes -- he'd change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off. They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face. "Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine -- platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?" He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all. "Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He'd have to ask someone. He stopped a passing guard, but didn't dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. In the end the guard strode away,


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown, and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk downstairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting's tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept up Mr. Bunting's courage: the persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village. They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found the housekeeping reserve of gold--two pounds ten in half- sovereigns altogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action. Gripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by Mrs. Bunting. "Surrender!" cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then stopped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty. Yet their conviction that they had, that very moment, heard somebody moving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a minute, perhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and looked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse, peered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the window-curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and probed it with the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste-paper basket and Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the coal-scuttle. Then they came to a stop and stood with eyes interrogating each other. "I could have sworn--" said Mr. Bunting. "The candle!" said Mr. Bunting. "Who lit the candle?" "The drawer!" said Mrs. Bunting. "And the money's


his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief. When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the evening shut in. St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow valley screened by Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled. As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

board.” This makes her grin widely, brightly. “I know you are. You said yes to all my ridiculous requests.” “If you thought they were ridiculous,” I say, setting my glass down, “why did you make them?” “Because they’re hilarious. They’ll make the show different. Fun. We could all use a little more fun.” I can’t disagree there. “You said at our first meeting that one of the reasons you’ve brought me on is because our audiences intersect almost entirely. Tell me a little about this audience.” “About eighty percent of the people watching dating shows identify as female ages eighteen to fifty-five, but about half of them are over forty-five. This is similar to the readership of romance novels. A third of all fiction sales are romance, and about forty percent of that market is women over forty-five, meaning a whopping twelve percent of all pure fiction sales are women over forty-five reading romance.” I pause, wondering what else she wants me to say. “It hasn’t been my demographic, historically, but I’m trying to learn.” Fizzy’s gaze has an intensity I’ve seen in some of the most powerful executives in Hollywood. “What does that mean?” She isn’t being harsh, but I still don’t like being put on the defensive, don’t like how carefully I need to tread here because she hasn’t officially signed the contract yet and I need this before I let her leave today. After going over Fizzy’s ideas, Blaine gave me two months of preproduction, with five weeks of filming, the finished episodes airing at the end of each week. That means crash editing every week. I’ve never made something with this kind of editorial pressure before. We’ve already spent so much time waiting for her terms and running everything through our legal department. I can’t start over again. “It means I’m learning this the way I learn about any new audience,” I tell her. “Market research. In this case, studying what other things that audience does in their free time.” She stifles a smirk and I lean back in my chair, inhaling deeply, getting my bearings. “Ask what you really want to ask me, Fizzy.” “I don’t want to sign up to do this if your only research here is reading Nielsen reports. The documentaries you’ve made help convince me that your heart is in the right place, but why you? Why this? Why you for this?” “It seems the company is taking a new direction.” I shrug, choosing transparency: “We’re small. There are only a few of us. That’s probably why me.” “Have you read anything I’ve written, or did you ask me because your ex-wife had some of my books on her shelf?” “I’m finishing Base Paired right now. It’s funny, sexy, creative, and…” I trail off, searching for the word that eludes me. I began reading per Nat’s instructions, looking for what it is about romance she loves so much, trying to find that kernel that has built such a huge following for Fizzy. If I can understand it, I think, I’ll be able to


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

of all those who shall yet be born, all the sons and daughters of Adam, all are assembled on that supreme day. And lo, the supreme judge is coming! No longer the lowly Lamb of God, no longer the meek Jesus of Nazareth, no longer the Man of Sorrows, no longer the Good Shepherd, He is seen now coming upon the clouds, in great power and majesty, attended by nine choirs of angels, angels and archangels, principalities, powers and virtues, thrones and dominations, cherubim and seraphim, God Omnipotent, God Everlasting. He speaks: and His voice is heard even at the farthest limits of space, even In the bottomless abyss. Supreme Judge, from His sentence there will be and can be no appeal. He calls the just to His side, bidding them enter into the kingdom, the eternity of bliss prepared for them. The unjust He casts from Him, crying in His offended majesty: DEPART FROM ME, YE CURSED, INTO EVERLASTING FIRE WHICH WAS PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS. O, what agony then for the miserable sinners! Friend is torn apart from friend, children are torn from their parents, husbands from their wives. The poor sinner holds out his arms to those who were dear to him in this earthly world, to those whose simple piety perhaps he made a mock of, to those who counselled him and tried to lead him on the right path, to a kind brother, to a loving sister, to the mother and father who loved him so dearly. But it is too late: the just turn away from the wretched damned souls which now appear before the eyes of all in their hideous and evil character. O you hypocrites, O, you whited sepulchres, O you who present a smooth smiling face to the world while your soul within is a foul swamp of sin, how will it fare with you in that terrible day? And this day will come, shall come, must come: the day of death and the day of judgement. It is appointed unto man to die and after death the judgement. Death is certain. The time and manner are uncertain, whether from long disease or from some unexpected accident: the Son of God cometh at an hour when you little expect Him. Be therefore ready every moment, seeing that you may die at any moment. Death is the end of us all. Death and judgement, brought into the world by the sin of our first parents, are the dark portals that close our earthly existence, the portals that open into the unknown and the unseen, portals through which every soul must pass, alone, unaided save by its good works, without friend or brother or parent or master to help it, alone and trembling. Let that thought be ever before our minds and then we cannot sin. Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has walked in the right path, fulfilling the duties of his station in life, attending to his morning and evening prayers,


glanced at everyone else in the room as though expecting to hear an explanation from them. When he turned back to Ẹniọlá, his face was creased with something like rage. “Where did you get the money?” “Honourable Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé.” Ẹniọlá took off his socks and school sandals. “The politician? My God, Mrs. Okon is right.” Ẹniọlá slid his feet into his slippers. He would go to Aunty Caro’s in his school shorts. “Sàámú introduced me to him.” “The same Sàámú that has been repeating for almost a decade introduced you to a politician? Fẹ̀sọ̀jaiyé? Why is an Honourable giving you money? Are you one of his thugs now?” “I’m going to Aunty Caro’s place. Please let me pass.” Ẹniọlá trained his gaze at a spot beside his father’s ear. “Oh, you now think you can talk to your father anyhow in this house, àbí?” “What did I say?” Ẹniọlá glanced at his mother. “I just asked him to let me pass. Is that a crime?” “You’ve not answered his question. Are you a thug now?” “Why didn’t you ask me this when I gave you the foodstuff, ehn? You didn’t ask, but let me tell you now, the foodstuff I brought home? It’s from Honourable. What are you going to do about that now? Are you going to vomit the food?” “Ìyá Ẹniọlá, I’m disappointed in you too.” Ẹniọlá’s father turned to his mother. “Your son brought food into this house, and you didn’t ask him how he got it? When did that start? You know there is no legitimate way for him to have gotten foodstuff, and you took it from him.” “You? You are disappointed in me? When was the last time you dropped one naira for food in this house?” Ẹniọlá’s mother’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “Tell me, when?” The room was quiet. In all the years since Ẹniọlá’s father had lost his job, his mother had never accused him of failing the family. At least, it had never happened when Ẹniọlá was present. There had been times when he wanted his mother to say something like this, worse things, sure her cutting words might push him out of whatever it was he had sunk into after he was sacked. Now that it was happening, he wished he could be elsewhere. Why had it taken both of them so long to become the parents he needed? “You’re disappointed? Answer me now. When was the last time you gave me one naira—no, one kobo—for our upkeep in this house?” “Abọ́sẹ̀dé,” Ẹniọlá’s father said. “Abọ́sẹ̀dé, please.” It was strange to hear his father call her anything other than Ìyá Ẹniọlá, to watch them stare at each other across the room as tears spilled down his father’s cheeks. He felt as if he had walked in on them as they undressed, witnessed something he was not meant to see. Ẹniọlá headed towards the door. This time, his father stepped aside and let him go. In Aunty Caro’s shop, Ẹniọlá had to clear his throat twice before he could greet anyone. His


minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time -- just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music -- the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony --------------------------------------------------------- -21- and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet -- no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer. The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger was before him -- a boy a shade larger than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too -- well dressed on a week-day. This was simply astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on -- and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved -- but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said: "I can lick you!" "I'd like to see you try it." "Well, I can do it." "No you can't, either." "Yes I can." "No you can't." --------------------------------------------------------- -22- "I can." "You can't." "Can!" "Can't!" An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said: "What's your name?" "'Tisn't any of your business, maybe." "Well I 'low I'll make it my business." "Well why don't you?" "If you say much, I will." "Much -- much -- much. There now." "Oh, you think you're mighty smart, don't you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to." "Well why don't you do it? You say you can do it." "Well I will , if you fool with me." "Oh yes -- I've seen whole families in the same fix." "Smarty! You think you're some


to be bad." She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very honestly, adopted an attitude. "Oh, never known him-- I don't pretend THAT!" I was upset again. "Then you HAVE known him--?" "Yes indeed, miss, thank God!" On reflection I accepted this. "You mean that a boy who never is--?" "Is no boy for ME!" I held her tighter. "You like them with the spirit to be naughty?" Then, keeping pace with her answer, "So do I!" I eagerly brought out. "But not to the degree to contaminate--" "To contaminate?"--my big word left her at a loss. I explained it. "To corrupt." She stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh. "Are you afraid he'll corrupt YOU?" She put the question with such a fine bold humor that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match her own, I gave way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule. But the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I cropped up in another place. "What was the lady who was here before?" "The last governess? She was also young and pretty-- almost as young and almost as pretty, miss, even as you." "Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helped her!" I recollect throwing off. "He seems to like us young and pretty!" "Oh, he DID," Mrs. Grose assented: "it was the way he liked everyone!" She had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. "I mean that's HIS way--the master's." I was struck. "But of whom did you speak first?" She looked blank, but she colored. "Why, of HIM." "Of the master?" "Of who else?" There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I merely asked what I wanted to know. "Did SHE see anything in the boy--?" "That wasn't right? She never told me." I had a scruple, but I overcame it. "Was she careful--particular?" Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. "About some things--yes." "But not about all?" Again she considered. "Well, miss--she's gone. I won't tell tales." "I quite understand your feeling," I hastened to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: "Did she die here?" "No--she went off." I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck me as ambiguous. "Went off to die?" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. "She was taken ill, you mean, and went home?" "She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman-- a nursemaid who had stayed


people checking that I was alive. I hope this isn’t too weird of a question, but what’s a “day in the life” for you now? Are you living with anyone besides your stepdad and his dog? Congrats on signing on for another TNO season! I remember you telling me in 2018 that you thought you’d leave in a year or two, but it sounds like you changed your mind. Did you consider staying in Kansas City? So…I’m scared to broach this subject but since it seems like we are being honest…the thing I know I should apologize for is hanging out with Annabel L. that week after the show. I’m not sure if I owe you or Danny Horst an apology, but it wasn’t cool on my part. There was nothing going on between Annabel and me, but I know it may have looked like there was and…well…I wish I could go back and change that impression. (I’m sweating bullets here because one, this topic! And two, I first wrote “Annabel and I” but the 47 grammar websites I just checked suggested the other way. But I’m still not sure.) I bet you look awesome in your yellow jersey. I’ve heard those never go out of style. from: Sally Milz <Smilz@TNOshow.com> to: Noah Brewster <NoahRBrewster@gmail.com> date: Jul 23, 2020, 7:40 PM subject: Actually It’s weirdly gratifying that I’ve infected you with my grammar anxiety. Sorry? Congratulations? It actually (actually actually actually) could be a funny sketch to have various people explaining why they think they personally caused the pandemic. You’re not the first person I’ve heard express this sentiment. The mom in the family who lives next door to my stepdad told me her 11-year-old daughter was worried she had caused it by telling the mom she traveled too much for work, and Henrietta’s father-in-law told her he felt like he caused it because he was dreading a retirement party being held for him at the end of March. I mean, clearly, the combination of the 11-year-old, Henrietta’s father-in-law, and you DID cause it, and you owe the entire world an apology. It had nothing to do with a bat at a market in Wuhan. One of the weird things about working for TNO is that it’s such a feast or famine schedule—either a ninety-hour week or I don’t even go to the office for weeks or for the entire summer. Before things shut down, I would have said that I’m excellent at keeping myself busy outside the show, but maybe the pandemic has called all of our bluffs. I would NEVER stay permanently in Kansas City. I realize that might sound snobby and that smart, interesting people live everywhere and all that shit but still—never. Even when there’s not a pandemic, restaurants are cleared out by 7:45 at night, the sidewalks all are empty, and sure, there ARE smart, interesting people here but not in the proportions there are in NY. That said, knowing that I’m staying with Jerry and Sugar temporarily makes it pleasant, if slow-paced. Jerry is very nice,


long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I've loved many others since. My children are dearer to me than she was, and at death I shall not re- joice that I am going to her; I shall be sorry that I must leave them.' Will you say so, Heathcliff?" "Don't torture me till I'm as mad as yourself," cried he, wrenching his head free and grinding his teeth. The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her, unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her pres- ent countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a bloodless lip and a scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her companion, while rais- ing himself with one hand, he had taken her arm with the other, and so inadequate was his stock of gentle- ness to the requirements of her condition that on his letting go I saw four distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin. "Are you possessed with a devil," he pursued sav- agely, "to talk in that manner to me when you are dy- ing? Do you reflect that all those words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after you have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you; and, Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is it not sufficient for your in- fernal selfishness that, while you are at peace, I shall writhe in the torments of hell?" "I shall not be at peace," moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said nothing further till the paroxysm was over, then she continued more kindly,--- "I'm not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted; and should a word of mine distress you hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own sake forgive me! Come here and kneel down again. You never harmed me in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember than my harsh words. Won't you come here again? Do!" Heathcliff went to the back of her chair and leant over, but not so far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent round to look at him. He would not permit it. Turning abruptly, he walked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards us. Mrs. Linton's glance followed him suspiciously. Every movement woke a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze she resumed, addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment,--- "Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the grave!


dad the plan: give it all to her, make her the executor; she’d sell the house and put Mark’s half in a trust. Mark would be upset at first, but once the monthly checks started arriving, he’d calm down. And it would give her a nice tax break. Her dad approved of tax breaks. How much is it worth? A lot. Everyone in Mount Pleasant knew that anything with four walls and a roof that didn’t leak could get half a million dollars, easy. Half a million dollars. Louise didn’t want to be thinking about money so soon after her parents had died, but without even trying she started thinking about Poppy’s college education, a bigger house with an actual yard where they could get a dog and she could even have another baby, a brother or a sister for Poppy. No. She’d seen what had happened between her and Mark, and she’d promised not to do that to Poppy. She saw the damage done to her mom by her brother and he’d been dead for over sixty-five years. Her dad’s brothers hated her mom and she knew the rift that had caused left her dad feeling eternally incomplete. It was too late for her and Mark to be brother and sister anymore, but she didn’t have to repeat the same mistake with Poppy. One child was more than enough. But this house where they’d grown up could fund a better future for Poppy. It could— The TV was on again. Louise hit the brakes and her Kia lurched to a stop in the middle of the street. Through the big bay window in the living room, behind the drawn curtains, a blue light pulsed and flickered. Someone was inside. Louise cut her headlights and pulled up. She got out and quietly closed her car door, eyes on the curtains and the blue light dancing behind them. She crept onto the front porch and tried the door, but Mark had locked it again. She snuck around back and tried the rear garage door, but he’d locked that, too. She looked through the sliding glass doors that opened into the dining room and could see the TV light in the hall, shifting on the carpet, but she couldn’t see who was inside. She had unplugged the TV. Someone had come into their house, probably a neighbor with a spare key, and plugged it back in and settled into her dad’s chair to watch. It made her furious. She wanted them out right now. She examined the lock on the garage door but it wasn’t one she could pick, and a strip of wood kept her from jimmying the latch with her library card. She’d have to do this the hard way. She found the chunk of the Berlin Wall her dad had brought back from their trip to Germany and picked it up with both hands, centered its pointiest point in the middle of a pane of glass above the doorknob, and gave it a poke. The pane made a silvery splitting sound