mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful. Stephen laughed. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down. --The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to murder you. --Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature. Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping ceiling. --Murder you! he laughed. Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts. In words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. C'EST VENDREDI SAINT! Murthering Irish. His image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the forest. --Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar. -- ... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his DIARY OF MASTER WILLIAM SILENCE has found the hunting terms ... Yes? What is it? --There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and offering a card. From the FREEMAN. He wants to see the files of the KILKENNY PEOPLE for last year. --Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman? ... He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked, asked, creaked, asked: --Is he? ... O, there! Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim. --This gentleman? FREEMAN'S JOURNAL? KILKENNY PEOPLE? To be sure. Good day, sir. KILKENNY ... We have certainly ... A patient silhouette waited, listening. --All the leading provincial ... NORTHERN WHIG, CORK EXAMINER, ENNISCORTHY GUARDIAN, 1903 ... Will you please? ... Evans, conduct this gentleman ... If you just follow the atten ... Or, please allow me ... This way ... Please, sir ... Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels. The door closed. --The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried. He jumped up and snatched the card. --What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom. He rattled on: --Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her. LIFE OF LIFE, THY LIPS ENKINDLE. Suddenly he turned to Stephen: --He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove. Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! THE GOD PURSUING THE MAIDEN HID. --We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome. --Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took


incredulously across the luncheon- table at his wife, who, adjusting her gold eye-glasses, read aloud, in the tone of high comedy: "Professor and Mrs. Emerson Sillerton request the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Welland's company at the meeting of the Wednesday Afternoon Club on August 25th at 3 o'clock punctually. To meet Mrs. and the Misses Blenker. "Red Gables, Catherine Street. R. S. V. P." "Good gracious--" Mr. Welland gasped, as if a second reading had been necessary to bring the monstrous absurdity of the thing home to him. "Poor Amy Sillerton--you never can tell what her husband will do next," Mrs. Welland sighed. "I suppose he's just discovered the Blenkers." Professor Emerson Sillerton was a thorn in the side of Newport society; and a thorn that could not be plucked out, for it grew on a venerable and venerated family tree. He was, as people said, a man who had had "every advantage." His father was Sillerton Jackson's uncle, his mother a Pennilow of Boston; on each side there was wealth and position, and mutual suitability. Nothing--as Mrs. Welland had often remarked-- nothing on earth obliged Emerson Sillerton to be an archaeologist, or indeed a Professor of any sort, or to live in Newport in winter, or do any of the other revolutionary things that he did. But at least, if he was going to break with tradition and flout society in the face, he need not have married poor Amy Dagonet, who had a right to expect "something different," and money enough to keep her own carriage. No one in the Mingott set could understand why Amy Sillerton had submitted so tamely to the eccentricities of a husband who filled the house with long- haired men and short-haired women, and, when he travelled, took her to explore tombs in Yucatan instead of going to Paris or Italy. But there they were, set in their ways, and apparently unaware that they were different from other people; and when they gave one of their dreary annual garden-parties every family on the Cliffs, because of the Sillerton-Pennilow-Dagonet connection, had to draw lots and send an unwilling representative. "It's a wonder," Mrs. Welland remarked, "that they didn't choose the Cup Race day! Do you remember, two years ago, their giving a party for a black man on the day of Julia Mingott's the dansant? Luckily this time there's nothing else going on that I know of--for of course some of us will have to go." Mr. Welland sighed nervously. "`Some of us,' my dear--more than one? Three o'clock is such a very awkward hour. I have to be here at half-past three to take my drops: it's really no use trying to follow Bencomb's new treatment if I don't do it systematically; and if I join you later, of course I shall miss my drive." At the thought he laid down his knife and fork again, and a flush of anxiety rose to his finely-wrinkled cheek. "There's no reason why you should go at all, my dear," his wife answered with a cheerfulness that


daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, `Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT- POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled `ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. `Well!' thought Alice to herself, `after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!' (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! `I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. `I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) `--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or


"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 to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I fell that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow skyrockets on it." Meg was Amy's confidante and monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, `playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women. "Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening. "I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once. "I wish I could, and be done with it," said I, trying not to be saucy. "Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just `lost' herself for a moment. She never finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I'd just got to where they all tumbled


hotter. ‘Can you last?’ Even though Esbar looked weary, she nodded. They climbed back into their saddles. Now they rode almost without stopping. It rained for the first time: cold, hard rain. Tunuva tilted back her head and relished the feel of it on her skin. At last, on the cusp of a burnished sunset, hulking forms rose from a plain east of the road. Here the grouts of a crushed dome, and a line of pillars, all shortened like candles; there a crumbling archway, high and stern, or the face of a god whose name was forgotten. Tunuva stopped her mount to behold the Buried City. Gulthaga. Once it had been a shining cauldron of knowledge and trade – a city of secrets, marvels and horrors, which might one day have grown into a cruel and thirsty empire. Now it lay in piles of stone, waiting for time to reduce it to dust, and then to memory. At the same time, Tunuva and Esbar looked up in silence. Above were the terrible slopes of the Dreadmount. Eleven thousand feet of rock, armoured in black glass from the only day it was known to have erupted – the day it birthed the Nameless One. Where the ancient Yscals had worshipped all mountains, the Ments had only feared this one. They had seen it as the lair of an earthbound god, the Smith of the World, enemy of the Smith of the Heavens. They had brought offerings to its slopes to appease him, sacrificed people to his boiling springs – though Tunuva suspected the second part was an untruth, peddled by the Vatten to justify their forced conversion of the Ments. In fifty years, she had never seen anything that disturbed her more than the Dreadmount. Each sister came to behold it after her kindling, to remember what the Mother had defeated, and to understand the monumental heights of her courage. She had faced the vile spawn of this mountain alone. Proof of its violence scattered the ruins – bones by the thousand, left where the heat had baked them centuries before. Crops would usually be grown in the rich soil around fire mountains, vineyards raised to make fine wines, but no one dared sow here. After all, it was arrogance that had doomed the Gulthaganians. They had taunted the mountain with their glorious city, and the Dreadmount had answered, smothering its splendour. Tunuva looked past the tragic remains, towards a shape on the stump of a pillar. With Esbar behind, she spurred the horse off the salt road, down the incline to the skeleton of Gulthaga. As she drew close, the shape resolved into a girl, wrapped in a green cloak, staring at the mountain. ‘Yeleni Janudin,’ Esbar seethed. ‘You’ve led us on a merry chase. Get down from there.’ ‘Esbar. Tuva.’ Yeleni climbed off the column, face slick with tears. ‘You came. I hoped it would be you.’ Tunuva called out, ‘Is Siyu here, too?’ ‘No.’ ‘You little fool.’ Esbar was already off her horse. ‘You are very fortunate that I


four o'clock Bond was about to call for the bill when the matre d'htel appeared at their table and inquired for Miss Lynd. He handed her a note which she took and read hastily. 'Oh, it's only Mathis,' she said. 'He says would I come to the entrance hall. He's got a message for you. Perhaps he's not in evening clothes or something. I won't be a minute. Then perhaps we could go home.' She gave him a strained smile. 'I'm afraid I don't feel very good company this evening. It's been rather a nerve-racking day. I'm so sorry.' Bond made a perfunctory reply and rose, pushing back the table. 'I'll get the bill,' he said, and watched her take the few steps to the entrance. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He felt flat. He suddenly realized that he was tired. The stuffiness of the room hit him as it had hit him in the Casino in the early hours of the previous day. He called for the bill and took a last mouthful of champagne. It tasted bitter, as the first glass too many always does. He would have liked to have seen Mathis's cheerful face and heard his news, perhaps even a word of congratulation. Suddenly the note to Vesper seemed odd to him. It was not the way Mathis would do things. He would have asked them both to join him at the bar of the Casino or he would have joined them in the night-club, whatever his clothes. They would have laughed together and Mathis would have been excited. He had much to tell Bond, more than Bond had to tell him. The arrest of the Bulgarian, who had probably talked some more; the chase after the man with the stick; Le Chiffre's movements when he left the Casino. Bond shook himself. He hastily paid the bill, not waiting for the change. He pushed back his table and walked quickly through the entrance without acknowledging the good-nights of the matre d'htel and the doorman. He hurried through the gaming-room and looked carefully up and down the long entrance hall. He cursed and quickened his step. There were only one or two officials and two or three men and women in evening clothes getting their things at the vestiaire. No Vesper. No Mathis. He was almost running. He got to the entrance and looked along the steps to left and right down and amongst the few remaining cars. The commissionaire came towards him. 'A taxi, monsieur?' Bond waved him aside and started down the steps, his eyes staring into the shadows, the night air cold on his sweating temples. He was half-way down when he heard a faint cry, then the slam of a door way to the right. With a harsh growl and stutter from the exhaust a beetle-browed Citron shot out of the shadows into the light of the moon, its front wheel drive dry-skidding through the loose pebbles of the forecourt. Its tail rocked on its soft springs as if a violent struggle was


she needed to do was get fake married. Just get through today, stay married for one month to make the union believable and not blemish the Vos name with a scandal. Then she’d be on her way. It took Natalie several moments to realize she was scanning the yard for August. Shouldn’t he be here, with only an hour to go before the ceremony? Had he changed his mind? When they’d parted ways two nights ago after axe throwing, everything had seemed fine. Meaning she’d called him a lumbering twat and he’d made kissing noises at her until she’d slammed the door of her Uber on him. All perfectly normal. Funny, while pondering the possibility that August had gone AWOL, she didn’t immediately think of her trust fund. She was kind of . . . worried? That maybe he was having a hard time going through with the wedding without Sam? She reached into the pocket of her robe and took out her phone, smoothing her thumb over the glass screen. Should she call him? See if he needed to chat? As little as a week ago, the very idea of holding a conversation of any length with the world’s worst winemaker would have been laughable. And hey, they weren’t best friends now or anything. Ha! That would be the day. But talking to him didn’t quite suck as much as it had before? It was kind of nice how she could be as mean and sarcastic as she wanted and he simply rose to the occasion. She didn’t have to pretend. She’d even been honest with him about her family woes and afterward, she’d been just a little bit lighter. Maybe pretending to be married to him wouldn’t end in World War III. It wouldn’t be a walk in the park, either. But they might not kill each other. Right as Natalie was preparing to call her missing fiancé, his truck roared into the parking lot and skidded to a halt, kicking up a dust cloud. Everyone on the lawn stopped and turned to watch the giant groom climb out of his truck—carefully cradling a marmalade-colored cat to his chest, patting its head soothingly. Menace was here. Wearing a cat tuxedo. Natalie ducked back behind the tent to laugh, getting it out of her system as quickly as possible, before schooling her features. When she heard August exchange a hello with Hallie, she stepped out into the open. August spotted her, jerked back, and held the cat up in front of his face. “Jesus Christ, Natalie. I’m not supposed to see you.” She implored the sky for patience. “You’re not supposed to see me in the dress, August.” Still he didn’t lower the cat. “That’s not the dress?” “It’s a robe.” “Ahhh.” Finally, the cat was back against his chest. “Whatever it is, you look hot in it.” Natalie shook her head at him. Too bad so many locals were within earshot, setting up tables inside the tent, caterers arranging champagne flutes and place settings. “You look very nice in your


of the result it satisfied Anne, and she tripped gaily down the road, holding her ruddy head with its decoration of pink and yellow very proudly. When she had reached Mrs. Lynde's house she found that lady gone. Nothing daunted Anne proceeded onward to the church alone. In the porch she found a crowd of little girls, all more or less gaily attired in whites and blues and pinks, and all staring with curious eyes at this stranger in their midst, with her extraordinary head adornment. Avonlea little girls had already heard queer stories about Anne. Mrs. Lynde said she had an awful temper; Jerry Buote, the hired boy at Green Gables, said she talked all the time to herself or to the trees and flowers like a crazy girl. They looked at her and whispered to each other behind their quarterlies. Nobody made any friendly advances, then or later when theopening exercises were over and Anne found herself in Miss Rogerson's class. Miss Rogerson was a middle-aged lady who had taught a Sunday school class for twenty years. Her method of teaching was to ask the printed questions from the quarterly and look sternly over its edge at the particular little girl she thought ought to answer the question. She looked very often at Anne, and Anne, thanks to Marilla's drilling, answered promptly; but it may be questioned if she understood very much about either question or answer. She did not think she liked Miss Rogerson, and she felt very miserable; every other little girl in the class had puffed sleeves. Anne felt that life was really not worth living without puffed sleeves. "Well, how did you like Sunday school?" Marilla wanted to know when Anne came home. Her wreath having faded, Anne had discarded it in the lane, so Marilla was spared the knowledge of that for a time. "I didn't like it a bit. It was horrid." "Anne Shirley!" said Marilla rebukingly. Anne sat down on the rocker with a long sigh, kissed one of Bonny's leaves, and waved her hand to a blossoming fuchsia. "They might have been lonesome while I was away," she explained. "And now about the Sunday school. I behaved well, just as you told me. Mrs. Lynde was gone, but I went right on myself. I went into the church, with a lot of other little girls, and I sat in the corner of a pew by the window while the opening exercises went on. Mr. Bell made an awfully long prayer. I would have been dreadfully tired before he got through if I hadn't been sitting by that window. But it looked right out on the Lake of Shining Waters, so I just gazed at that and imagined all sorts of splendid things." "You shouldn't have done anything of the sort. You should have listened to Mr. Bell." "But he wasn't talking to me," protested Anne. "He was talking to God and he didn't seem to be very much interested in it, either. I think he thought God was too far off though.


where Matthew was coiling hay, and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Lynde was talking to Marilla at the lane fence. "Oh, Matthew," exclaimed Anne, "I've passed and I'm first-or one of the first! I'm not vain, but I'm thankful." "Well now, I always said it," said Matthew, gazing at the pass list delightedly. "I knew you could beat them all easy." "You've done pretty well, I must say, Anne," said Marilla, trying to hide her extreme pride in Anne from Mrs. Rachel's critical eye. But that good soul said heartily: "I just guess she has done well, and far be it from me to be backward in saying it. You're a credit to your friends, Anne, that's what, and we're all proud of you." That night Anne, who had wound up the delightful evening with a serious little talk with Mrs. Allan at the manse, knelt sweetly by her open window in a great sheen of moonshine and murmured a prayer of gratitude and aspiration that came straight from her heart. There was in it thankfulness for the past and reverent petition for the future; and when she slept on her white pillow her dreams were as fair and bright and beautiful as maidenhood might desire. 33. The Hotel Concert Put on your white organdy, by all means, Anne," advised Diana decidedly. They were together in the east gable chamber; outside it was only twilight-a lovely yellowish-green twilight with a clear-blue cloudless sky. A big round moon, slowly deepening from her pallid luster into burnished silver, hung over the Haunted Wood; the air was full of sweet summer sounds-sleepy birds twittering, freakish breezes, faraway voices and laughter. But in Anne's room the blind was drawn and the lamp lighted, for an important toilet was being made. The east gable was a very different place from what it had been on that night four years before, when Anne had felt its bareness penetrate to the marrow of her spirit with its inhospitable chill. Changes had crept in, Marilla conniving at them resignedly, until it was as sweet and dainty a nest as a young girl could desire. The velvet carpet with the pink roses and the pink silk curtains of Anne's early visions had certainly never materialized; but her dreams had kept pace with her growth, and it is not probable she lamented them. The floor was covered with a pretty matting, and the curtains that softened the high window and fluttered in the vagrant breezes were of pale-green art muslin. The walls, hung not with gold and silver brocade tapestry, but with a dainty apple-blossom paper, were adorned with a few good pictures given Anne by Mrs. Allan. Miss Stacy's photograph occupied the place of honor, and Anne made a sentimental point of keeping fresh flowers on the bracket under it. Tonight a spike of white lilies faintly perfumed the room like the dream of a fragrance. There was no "mahogany furniture," but there was a white-painted bookcase filled with books, a cushioned wicker rocker, a toilet table befrilled with white


while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL. CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight


you like being with Jack?” So much. So, so much. So, so, so much. “I like it. But maybe I still shouldn’t.” “There are things like that. That feel nice but are bad for you. Like MDMA, or Q-tips for ear cleanings. I don’t think Jack qualifies, though.” “Why?” Cece’s eyes are earnest. Her fingers reach out for mine. “You know me, Elsie: I hate giving credit to a dude who probably went to kindergarten at a French château. But you’ve been seeing him for, what, weeks? And I don’t know what it is precisely that you two have been doing for each other. But he just let go of a very shitty thing he’s been carrying around for half his life. And you . . . I feel like I know you better than I ever did before. And I’m thinking that maybe, I owe it a little bit to him.” I look at Cece, letting her words swirl around me in messy, complicated, unpredictable patterns. Then they settle inside my brain, and I can taste their truth. Four weeks ago I was a different person. No: four weeks ago I was an infinite number of different people. I’ve put myself in a hundred tiny boxes, played a thousand roles, sculpted myself in a million smooth lines. But for the first time in memory I’m fighting against that, and . . . What do you want, Elsie? I squeeze my hand tight around Cece’s. Then I stand, pick up my coat, and run out the door. • • • T HERE ’ S SOMETHING NEW ON THE DOOR OF J ACK ’ S OFFICE . Under the “Jonathan Smith-Turner, Ph.D.” plaque and the “Physics Institute, Director” subplaque, someone taped a printout of the Annals article Cece showed me earlier today. All two pages. Including the citations. One of which is an article of mine. “Dr. Hannaway?” I turn to Michi walking down the hallway. “Oh—hi.” “Hi!” She smiles widely at me. “Can I help you?” “Oh, I was . . .” I point at the door, which looks a lot like I’m pointing at the paper. I quickly lower my hand. “I was looking for Jack.” “I think he went straight home after the faculty meeting.” Shit. No. Not shit. This is good. I can go to his place. I know where he lives. I’ve basically lived there, too, for a couple of weekends. So this is perfect—it gives me more time to think about what I’m going to tell him, since I have no idea. Why am I here? Just swept by the currents, like a salmon during mating season. I shoot Michi a quick smile and speed-walk down the hallway. I think she yells after me that she followed me on Twitter, but I don’t stop to investigate. Instead I rehearse my conversation with Jack. Hi. Hey. Oh, hello. I’ve seen the article sounds like a good beginning. But I could also start softer. I was just in the area, and my dog ran away. Will you help me


needs Christ more than you and I," said Mr. Kiaga. "Then I shall go back to the clan," said the convert. And he went. Mr. Kiaga stood firm, and it was his firmness that saved the young church. The wavering converts drew inspiration and confidence from his unshakable faith. He ordered the outcasts to shave off their long, tangled hair. At first they were afraid they might die. "Unless you shave off the mark of your heathen belief I will not admit you into the church," said Mr. Kiaga. "You fear that you will die. Why should that be? How are you different from other men who shave their hair? The same God created you and them. But they have cast you out like lepers. It is against the will of God, who has promised everlasting life to all who believe in His holy name. The heathen say you will die if you do this or that, and you are afraid. They also said I would die if I built my church on this ground. Am I dead? They said I would die if I took care of twins. I am still alive. The heathen speak nothing but falsehood. Only the word of our God is true." The two outcasts shaved off their hair, and soon they were the strongest adherents of the new faith. And what was more, nearly all the osu in Mbanta followed their example. It was in fact one of them who in his zeal brought the church into serious conflict with the clan a year later by killing the sacred python, the emanation of the god of water. The royal python was the most revered animal in Mbanta and all the surrounding clans. It was addressed as "Our Father," and was allowed to go wherever it chose, even into people's beds. It ate rats in the house and sometimes swallowed hens' eggs. If a clansman killed a royal python accidentally, he made sacrifices of atonement and performed an expensive burial ceremony such as was done for a great man. No punishment was prescribed for a man who killed the python knowingly. Nobody thought that such a thing could ever happen. Perhaps it never did happen. That was the way the clan at first looked at it. No one had actually seen the man do it. The story had arisen among the Christians themselves. But, all the same, the rulers and elders of Mbanta assembled to decide on their action. Many of them spoke at great length and in fury. The spirit of wars was upon them. Okonkwo, who had begun to play a part in the affairs of his motherland, said that until the abominable gang was chased out of the village with whips there would be no peace. But there were many others who saw the situation differently, and it was their counsel that prevailed in the end. "It is not our custom to fight for our gods," said one of them. "Let us not presume to do so now. If a man kills the sacred


the first place. My lead line cook suggested a GoFundMe page, but everyone in the industry was suffering. How could I ask for money to keep my restaurant afloat? Finally, my accountant advised me to declare bankruptcy. It would mean I could walk away from all my debts, leaving a trail of spurned and angry suppliers, staff, and investors. That’s when Damon crushed my finger with a meat mallet. What had I expected of him? Forgiveness for the money I owed? Understanding at least? Damon was a gangster. Violence was his currency. But still, I was shocked by the cruelty, the ruthlessness. He promised to break a finger a week until I paid. I’d lose my ability to cook. There was no choice but to run. I kept moving, from city to town, ensuring that I never stayed in one place for too long. Damon had other avenues of income, other businesses that would be making their payments on time. He didn’t need my money badly enough to send his thugs chasing me across the country. But still… I pushed onward, until I reached Seattle. The Pacific. The end of the line. One of the farthest geographical points from New York in the country. With my elbow, I pump the lemon-scented soap into my hand, wash my body, and use it as shampoo. The harsh detergent will dry my skin, make my hair stiff and frizzy, but all my toiletries were in my backpack. I try to wash away the fear, the loss, the utter sense of desolation that threatens to overwhelm me. Because I have no choice but to keep trying, keep moving forward, keep existing. Stepping from the shower, I dig a towel from my bag. It smells musty, but I pat at the droplets on my skin, hoping the scent won’t cling to me. Clean laundry has become a luxury I can afford only once a week. A woman with a toddler on her hip enters and gives me a side-eyed glance. I see her brow furrow as she spots the angry red scratches on my arm, clocks my pile of belongings, puts the pieces together. I need to hurry. I used to wear makeup—just a little concealer and mascara, a pop of color on my lips and cheeks, but it’s all gone now, taken with my purse. I finger-comb my tangle of dark hair, the highlights grown down to my chin, pressing it into some semblance of a style. It’s not really working, but at least I’m clean and presentable if not attractive. I’ve let that go. In some worlds, you trade on good looks; in others, you hide them. Eventually, they abandon you anyway. Just a lot quicker when you’re homeless. Hurriedly, I slip on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, my work “uniform.” Thankfully, the diner’s dress code is extremely casual. The protective mother is still watching me as she steps out of her clothes, eyes alert and wary. Does she think I’m crazy? Dangerous? That I might steal from her? I’m not interested


that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but `It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.' `She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: `fetch her here.' And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Dutchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX The Mock Turtle's Story `You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!' said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen. `When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone though), `I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,' she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of rule, `and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know--' She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. `You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.' `Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark. `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke. Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could. `The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up the conversation a little. `'Tis so,' said the Duchess: `and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!"' `Somebody said,' Alice whispered, `that it's done by everybody minding their own business!' `Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, `and the moral of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves."' `How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice


Prophet and

knew me only as BillandBaz.

I hid in the basement beneath Highgrove, usually with Willy.

We called it Club H. Many assumed the H stood for Harry, but in fact it

stood for Highgrove.

The basement had once been a bomb shelter. To get down to its depths

you went through a heavy white ground-level door, then down a steep flight

of stone stairs, then groped your way along a damp stone floor, then

descended three more stairs, walked down a long damp corridor with a low

arched roof, then past several wine cellars, wherein Camilla kept her fanciest

bottles, on past a freezer and several storerooms full of paintings, polo gear,

and absurd gifts from foreign governments and potentates. (No one wanted

them, but they couldn’t be regifted or donated, or thrown out, so they’d been

carefully logged and sealed away.) Beyond that final storeroom were two

green doors with little brass handles, and on the other side of those was Club

H. It was windowless, but the brick walls, painted bone white, kept it from

feeling claustrophobic. Also, we kitted out the space with nice pieces from

various royal residences. Persian rug, red Moroccan sofas, wooden table,

electric dartboard. We also put in a huge stereo system. It didn’t sound great,

but it was loud. In a corner stood a drinks trolley, well stocked, thanks to

creative borrowing, so there was always a faint aroma of beer and other

booze. But thanks to a big vent in good working order, there was also the

smell of flowers. Fresh air from Pa’s gardens was pumped in constantly, with

hints of lavender and honeysuckle.

Willy and I would start a typical weekend evening by sneaking into a

nearby pub, where we’d have a few drinks, a few pints of Snake Bite, then

round up a group of mates and bring them back to Club H. There were never

more than fifteen of us, though somehow there were never less than fifteen

either.

Names float back to me. Badger. Casper. Nisha. Lizzie. Skippy. Emma.

Rose. Olivia. Chimp. Pell. We all got on well, and sometimes a bit more than

well. There was plenty of innocent snogging, which went hand in hand with<span


you are not serious now.'' ``I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw -- and if he becomes really attached to me -- I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. -- Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! -- My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honor; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.'' ``Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.'' ``As I did the other day,'' said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; ``very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you are satisfied.'' Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point without being resented. Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that she ``_wished_ they might be happy.'' Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said, ``I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.'' ``_That_ you certainly shall.'' ``And I have


it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular attention, and consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment who treated her with more distinction again became her favourites.'' ____ It may be easily believed that, however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and, sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations. The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs from her mother's apartment, immediately met her. Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been heard of the fugitives. ``Not yet,'' replied Jane. ``But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope every thing will be well.'' ``Is my father in town?'' ``Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.'' ``And have you heard from him often?'' ``We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention.'' ``And my mother -- How is she? How are you all?'' ``My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank Heaven! are quite well.'' ``But you -- How are you?'' cried Elizabeth. ``You look pale. How much you must have gone through!'' Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to


revengeful. I don't remember who was there, except Dora. I have not the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My impression is, that I dined off Dora, entirely, and sent away half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was rather diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought. When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone (no other ladies were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only disturbed by the cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone would disparage me to her. The amiable creature with the polished head told me a long story, which I think was about gardening. I think I heard him say, 'my gardener', several times. I seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but I was wandering in a garden of Eden all the while, with Dora. My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of my engrossing affection were revived when we went into the drawing-room, by the grim and distant aspect of Miss Murdstone. But I was relieved of them in an unexpected manner. 'David Copperfield,' said Miss Murdstone, beckoning me aside into a window. 'A word.' I confronted Miss Murdstone alone. 'David Copperfield,' said Miss Murdstone, 'I need not enlarge upon family circumstances. They are not a tempting subject.' 'Far from it, ma'am,' I returned. 'Far from it,' assented Miss Murdstone. 'I do not wish to revive the memory of past differences, or of past outrages. I have received outrages from a person - a female I am sorry to say, for the credit of my sex - who is not to be mentioned without scorn and disgust; and therefore I would rather not mention her.' I felt very fiery on my aunt's account; but I said it would certainly be better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to mention her. I could not hear her disrespectfully mentioned, I added, without expressing my opinion in a decided tone. Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and disdainfully inclined her head; then, slowly opening her eyes, resumed: 'David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the fact, that I formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your childhood. It may have been a mistaken one, or you may have ceased to justify it. That is not in question between us now. I belong to a family remarkable, I believe, for some firmness; and I am not the creature of circumstance or change. I may have my opinion of you. You may have your opinion of me.' I inclined my head, in my turn. 'But it is not necessary,' said Miss Murdstone, 'that these opinions should come into collision here. Under existing circumstances, it is as well on all accounts that they should not. As the chances of life have brought us together again, and may bring us together on other occasions, I would say, let us meet here


endeavored to become such, grew conscious of a circle round about the Maules, within the sanctity or the spell of which, in spite of an exterior of sufficient frankness and good-fellowship, it was impossible for any man to step. It was this indefinable peculiarity, perhaps, that, by insulating them from human aid, kept them always so unfortunate in life. It certainly operated to prolong in their case, and to confirm to them as their only inheritance, those feelings of repugnance and superstitious terror with which the people of the town, even after awakening from their frenzy, continued to regard the memory of the reputed witches. The mantle, or rather the ragged cloak, of old Matthew Maule had fallen upon his children. They were half believed to inherit mysterious attributes; the family eye was said to possess strange power. Among other good-for-nothing properties and privileges, one was especially assigned them,--that of exercising an influence over people's dreams. The Pyncheons, if all stories were true, haughtily as they bore themselves in the noonday streets of their native town, were no better than bond-servants to these plebeian Maules, on entering the topsy-turvy commonwealth of sleep. Modern psychology, it may be, will endeavor to reduce these alleged necromancies within a system, instead of rejecting them as altogether fabulous. A descriptive paragraph or two, treating of the seven-gabled mansion in its more recent aspect, will bring this preliminary chapter to a close. The street in which it upreared its venerable peaks has long ceased to be a fashionable quarter of the town; so that, though the old edifice was surrounded by habitations of modern date, they were mostly small, built entirely of wood, and typical of the most plodding uniformity of common life. Doubtless, however, the whole story of human existence may be latent in each of them, but with no picturesqueness, externally, that can attract the imagination or sympathy to seek it there. But as for the old structure of our story, its white-oak frame, and its boards, shingles, and crumbling plaster, and even the huge, clustered chimney in the midst, seemed to constitute only the least and meanest part of its reality. So much of mankind's varied experience had passed there,--so much had been suffered, and something, too, enjoyed,--that the very timbers were oozy, as with the moisture of a heart. It was itself like a great human heart, with a life of its own, and full of rich and sombre reminiscences. The deep projection of the second story gave the house such a meditative look, that you could not pass it without the idea that it had secrets to keep, and an eventful history to moralize upon. In front, just on the edge of the unpaved sidewalk, grew the Pyncheon Elm, which, in reference to such trees as one usually meets with, might well be termed gigantic. It had been planted by a great-grandson of the first Pyncheon, and, though now fourscore years of age, or perhaps nearer a hundred, was still in its strong and broad maturity, throwing its shadow from side to


future time? He tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image of O'Brien. 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' O'Brien had said to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But with the voice from the telescreen nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into his mind, displacing that of O'Brien. Just as he had done a few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache? Like a leaden knell the words came back at him: WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH PART TWO Chapter 1 It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go to the lavatory. A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were 'roughed in'. It was a common accident in the Fiction Department. They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain. A curious emotion stirred in Winston's heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (58 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body. 'You're hurt?' he said. 'It's nothing. My arm. It'll be all right in a second.' She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale. 'You haven't broken anything?' 'No, I'm all right. It hurt for a


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

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 murmured, his expression still hidden in shadow. “This is exactly what we brought you here for. Don’t start having a conscience now.” “Rich, coming from a priest.” “I told you before. The Bleeding God understands that sometimes the rules must be bent for the greater good. For the glory of His promises to be fulfilled.” Anton’s hand lifted, a finger tracing over one of the golden rays on his pendant. “He forgives His faithful, always. For everything.” Lore swallowed. Tightened her fists in her skirt. The shame didn’t dissipate, but she managed to shove it down, push it somewhere to stay until she dealt with it later. “I failed,” she said, shaking her head, returning to the matter at hand instead of an existential one she couldn’t parse yet. “We learned absolutely nothing about what’s happening in the villages.” They’ve awakened. It still reverberated in her head, that awful whisper from a dead mouth. They’ve awakened. She’d asked the dead boy what happened to him, and she didn’t think the dead could lie. It was an answer of some kind, but not one that made any sense. “It doesn’t matter, on this first attempt.” August waved a hand as he stepped through the small door of the vault, ducking so his crown didn’t knock into the lintel. Despite his look of confused near-terror when he heard the corpse speak, he looked in good spirits


are,” he cried, “and the doctor came last night from London. Bravo! The ship’s company complete!” “Oh, sir,” cried I, “when do we sail?” “Sail!” says he. “We sail tomorrow!” Chapter 8. At the Sign of the Spy-glass. WHEN I had done breakfasting the squire gave me a note addressed to John Silver, at the sign of the Spy-glass, and told me I should easily find the place by following the line of the docks and keeping a bright lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for sign. I set off, overjoyed at this op- portunity to see some more of the ships and seamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and bales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in question. It was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The Contents sign was newly painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly sanded. There was a street on each side and an open door on both, which made the large, low room Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 64 65 pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of tobacco smoke. “Yes, my lad,” said he; “such is my name, to be sure. And The customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked who may you be?” And then as he saw the squire’s letter, he so loudly that I hung at the door, almost afraid to enter. seemed to me to give something almost like a start. As I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a “Oh!” said he, quite loud, and offering his hand. “I see. glance I was sure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut You are our new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you.” off close by the hip, and under the left shoulder he carried a And he took my hand in his large firm grasp. crutch, which he managed with wonderful dexterity, hop- Just then one of the customers at the far side rose sud- ping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall and strong, denly and made for the door. It was close by him, and he was with a face as big as a ham—plain and pale, but intelligent out in the street in a moment. But his hurry had attracted and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits, my notice, and I recognized him at glance. It was the tallow- whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come first to the word or a slap on the shoulder for the more favoured of his Admiral Benbow. guests. “Oh,” I cried, “stop him! It’s Black Dog!” Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of “I don’t care two coppers who he is,” cried Silver. “But he Long John in Squire Trelawney’s letter I had taken a fear in hasn’t paid his score. Harry,


a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you had left the hamlet, it did


key to his origin--the answer to the strange riddle of his strange life. It was the diary of John Clayton, Lord Greystoke--kept in French, as had always been his custom. Tarzan replaced the box in the cupboard, but always thereafter he carried the features of the strong, smiling face of his father in his heart, and in his head a fixed determination to solve the mystery of the strange words in the little black book. At present he had more important business in hand, for his supply of arrows was exhausted, and he must needs journey to the black men's village and renew it. Early the following morning he set out, and, traveling rapidly, he came before midday to the clearing. Once more he took up his position in the great tree, and, as before, he saw the women in the fields and the village street, and the cauldron of bubbling poison directly beneath him. For hours he lay awaiting his opportunity to drop down unseen and gather up the arrows for which he had come; but nothing now occurred to call the villagers away from their homes. The day wore on, and still Tarzan of the Apes crouched above the unsuspecting woman at the cauldron. Presently the workers in the fields returned. The hunting warriors emerged from the forest, and when all were within the palisade the gates were closed and barred. Chapter 11 Many cooking pots were now in evidence about the village. Before each hut a woman presided over a boiling stew, while little cakes of plantain, and cassava puddings were to be seen on every hand. Suddenly there came a hail from the edge of the clearing. Tarzan looked. It was a party of belated hunters returning from the north, and among them they half led, half carried a struggling animal. As they approached the village the gates were thrown open to admit them, and then, as the people saw the victim of the chase, a savage cry rose to the heavens, for the quarry was a man. As he was dragged, still resisting, into the village street, the women and children set upon him with sticks and stones, and Tarzan of the Apes, young and savage beast of the jungle, wondered at the cruel brutality of his own kind. Sheeta, the leopard, alone of all the jungle folk, tortured his prey. The ethics of all the others meted a quick and merciful death to their victims. Tarzan had learned from his books but scattered fragments of the ways of human beings. When he had followed Kulonga through the forest he had expected to come to a city of strange houses on wheels, puffing clouds of black smoke from a huge tree stuck in the roof of one of them--or to a sea covered with mighty floating buildings which he had learned were called, variously, ships and boats and steamers and craft. He had been sorely disappointed with the poor little village of the blacks, hidden away in his own jungle, and with not a single house as


for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly,--that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one's [14] self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion,--these are the two things that govern us. And yet--" "Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said Hallward, deep in his work, and conscious only that a look had come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before. "And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream,--I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal,-- to something finer, richer, than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" "Stop!" murmured Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't speak. Let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think." For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within


moor. It was well he did, for the whole hill- back was one billowy, white ocean, the swells and falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the ground. Many pits, at least, were filled to a level, and entire ranges of mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my yesterday's walk left pictured in my mind. I had remarked on one side of the road, at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright stones, continued through the whole length of the barren. These were erected and daubed with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark, and also when a fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on either hand with the firmer path; but, exceptiog a dirty dot pointing up here and there, all traces of their exist- ence had vanished, and my companion found it neces- sary to warn me frequently to steer to the right or left, when I imagined I was following correctly the windings of the road. We exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of Thrushcross Park, saying I could make no error there. Our adieus were limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own resources, for the porter's lodge is untenanted as yet. The distance from the gate to the Grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make it four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the neck in snow---a predicament which only those who have ex- perienced it can appreciate. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed twelve as I entered the house, and that gave exactly an hour for every mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights. My human fixture and her satellites rushed to wel- come me, exclaiming tumultuously they had completely given me up. Everybody conjectured that I perished last night, and they were wondering how they must set about the search for my remains. I bid them be quiet, now that they saw me returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged upstairs; whence, after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or forty minutes, to restore the animal heat, I am adjourned to my study, feeble as a kitten---almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and smoking coffee which the servant has prepared for my refreshment. CHAPTER IV. What vain weather-cocks we are! I, who had de- termined to hold myself independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that at length I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable--- I, weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under pretence of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I de- sired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate it, hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse me to animation or lull me to


smiled. “Yes ma, I took three deliveries when I was in O and G.” “That would have been unlikely in Ifẹ̀ with all the resident doctors on ground.” “Yes ma, I’m glad I decided to come back. It’s intense, but I’m learning.” “I hope it’s not too overwhelming?” “She’s not getting enough sleep,” Kúnlé said. Professor Babájídé Coker grunted as he stood up. “That’s what she signed up for, resilience is half the job.” “That doesn’t mean she should be too sleep deprived.” “If she has time to spend in Kúnlé’s boys’ quarters, she’s not that sleep deprived.” Professor Babájídé left the dining room and went into the living room. “Don’t mind him, Wúrà. He’s stressed out about this whole election thing.” Professor Cordelia sighed. “Kúnlé, we better buckle up for the next two years.” Wúràọlá stood. “I think I should start going home now ma.” “Back to your house officers’ residence?” “No ma, I go home if I’m not on call during the weekend.” “That’s really good of you, my dear.” “I’ll go say goodbye to Prof.” She went through the archway that demarcated both spaces. Professor Coker was seated in an armchair, cracking his knuckles in loud pops while he stared into the distance. Wúràọlá coughed to announce her presence. Professor Coker shifted in his seat. “I’m leaving sir.” She forced a smile. “All right. Give my regards to Ọ̀túnba and Yèyé.” “Yes sir, I’ll tell them.” “Wait, Wúràọlá. Come here.” Wúràọlá went closer to him. “Look, if you and Kúnlé plan to get married, and I assume you do, you need to make sure you don’t get pregnant before the ceremony. The cathedral will not conduct your wedding if you’re pregnant, the new vicar is strict about those things. You understand me?” Wúràọlá nodded, fixing her gaze on the spot where light from the chandelier pooled on Professor Coker’s bald head, making it gleam. * * * Kúnlé’s mother insisted that Wúràọlá should not drive until she had gotten some rest. “Sebì, Kúnlé will have to pick his car up from the hospital anyway? Let him do that after getting you home safe.” “He plans to do that on Monday ma. He’ll come with Prof to the hospital and then leave for work from there.” “How many minutes would it take him to get you home?” She turned towards the house. “Lakúnlé! It’s right next to my glasses.” They were standing by Wúràọlá’s car, waiting for Kúnlé to bring a Mothers’ Union souvenir bag his mother wanted to pass on to hers. He emerged with the cloth bag, holding it aloft until his mother nodded to indicate he had gotten the right one. “You’ll take her home, àbí? Do you have any other plans for the evening?” “Well, Wúrà likes to play superwoman and sometimes I let her,” Kúnlé said. “Óyá, give him the keys, you can even take a nap while he drives.” Kúnlé began talking about the campaign once they got into the car. “We can’t let it look like a campaign yet, we’ll have to continue


lips and widened his eyes in a ridiculous way—as if to say, Oops!—and I scowled. Burping was part of life, yes, but could he not have held it in for the last thirty seconds of a three-hour meeting? Patrick, who was the writer sitting between Danny and me, leaned toward me. He murmured, “That was you, right?” Monday, 4:47 p.m. I was responding to emails when Danny entered our office carrying a can of Red Bull. “Yo, Chuckles,” he said as he sat backwards on his desk chair and rolled toward me. The room was narrow enough that the only way to fit a couch was for both of our desks to be against the same wall. Gesturing at my computer screen, he said, “How’s the great American screenplay coming along?” “I wish,” I said. “I’m telling my agent I don’t want to write a”—I held up my fingers in air quotes—“ ‘humorous animated short for an organic douche company.’ ” “How much does it pay? Because maybe I want to write a humorous animated short for an organic douche company.” “Ten thousand, but also douching is bad, and I assume the organic part is bullshit. Your vagina is a self-cleaning organ.” “Maybe your vagina is a self-cleaning organ. But yeah, ten grand is a nonstarter. I don’t sell out for less than six figures.” I suspected Danny earned close to what I did. He’d been hired as the youngest-ever host of News Desk, TNO’s satirical show-within-the-show, and he wrote and occasionally appeared in other sketches, meaning that, as a second-year cast member who wrote, he probably earned the same amount as a ninth-year writer who never appeared onscreen. This was currently $12,000 an episode, or $252,000 a year—not a huge amount for a TV job where you pulled several all-nighters a week, and obscene compared to, say, a fourth-grade teacher’s salary. Even if Danny didn’t yet earn more than I did from TNO, he’d recently begun appearing in movies, whereas I used my summers off for the considerably less lucrative activities of reading novels and traveling. “Okay, I need your advice,” Danny said. “Annabel is freaking out because she just found out our signs are incompatible. Belly’s a Pisces and I’m a Sagittarius.” “Oh my God,” I said. “I can’t even believe you’ve lasted this long.” “I get that it’s ridiculous to you, but she takes this shit very seriously.” “Did she not know when your birthday is until now?” “She had a session with her astrologist yesterday, who told her even though our connection is authentic, our communication styles are inharmonious and I’m not the person to walk beside her on her healing journey.” I bit my lip, and Danny added, “It’s okay, you can laugh. But I still fucking love her.” “What about your healing journey?” Danny made an aw-shucks face. “I’m all healed, Chuckles.” My resentment about their relationship and the sketch I’d just pitched notwithstanding, I found Danny’s unbridled love for Annabel sweet. Their sincerity and spontaneity and sheer optimism all seemed so misguided, so destined to


you?” Over the intercoms, an announcement rings out. My gate has been moved. “The Denver airport,” I say. “I have to go, but I’ll call you when I get in.” “Get in where?” Mom says, her voice raising in a way it never has, not with me. “Home,” I say, then clarify, “Montana.” Another silence. “I love you both.” It feels unnatural, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true, only that I’ve gone too long without saying it. “I’ll call you tonight.” I get off the phone, drag my stuff over to the new gate, stopping for a Cinnabon and an iced coffee. When I slump down in one of the tearing faux- leather chairs, my phone vibrates with a text, and I ready myself for an impassioned lecture or a persuasive letter. Instead, I find a message from Eloise. We’ve never been a text-for- conversation set of siblings. Mom called me, freaking out, she writes. I wince. I’m sorry, I write. Hope that wasn’t too stressful. I watch her typing, but then she stops. I go back to systematically dismantling my cinnamon roll. Then her reply buzzes: UR not responsible for Mom’s feelings. At least that’s what my therapist says. I just wanted to check in on you bc she’s convinced UR having some kind of breakdown. R U? Eloise is the only person I know who texts in complete sentences, complete with punctuation, but still refuses to type out are or you. But that’s about the only part of that text message that doesn’t come as a shock. I had no idea Eloise saw a therapist. Then again, I don’t know much about Eloise, period. We never speak this openly, and I’m weirdly touched. It might be some kind of breakdown, I write. But the truth is I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a surgeon. I just liked making people proud. And the idea of the money. Shit! she writes back, and for a minute nothing else comes through. Maybe that’s it, the end of our late-in-life sisterly bonding. Ten minutes pass before her next message appears. I should probably tell U I resented U, bc I thought U were just like them, and so they always liked U more. Now I’m realizing how much pressure U must’ve felt, and maybe if we’d acted like sisters sooner, things could have been different. So this might not mean all that much, but for what it’s worth, I’m proud of U. And Mom will def get over this, eventually. She got over my bellybutton ring. Really? I say. Well, she never acknowledged it outright, Eloise replies, but she DID stop looking at my stomach and sighing. This will go better than that. I’ve got UR back. I lean back against the counter as that washes over me. Thanks, I tell her. I’m sorry I didn’t have yours more. I wish I had. Don’t worry about it, she says. U were just a kid. Neither of us had much say over our lives but now we do. UR doing what’s


“I was cutting school and smoking weed at her age.” “Okay, don’t remember that.” She laughed. “I need to chill out too. Let’s do dinner together every few nights. Let things evolve naturally.” “Like they have with us,” Gabriel said. “Sort of. Yes.” “But you and I don’t play games,” he said, pointing his knife at her. “And here you’re telling me to play hard to get.” Maud stole a french fry from his plate. “As Ella is quick to point out,” she said, “parents are major hypocrites.” 5 With the laying of this last path, the garden was done. Maud dropped her shovel and walked backward to see. Since planting the final bed of lupine and roses, she and Chris had been emptying wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of gravel and raking it into a smooth, glistering maze that slipped past one bed to another: irises to coneflowers, primroses to violets. Sweet potato vines spilled from the cast-iron urns under a conflagration of begonias. With its swirls and splashes of color, the garden was more like a brilliant, bold archipelago than the carpet Downing had described. “What do you think?” she asked Chris. Side by side, they’d backtracked halfway to the mansion. “It’s the prettiest thing I ever seen.” He’d taken off his baseball cap, and his forehead sparkled with sweat. Both of them were drenched, the backs of their T-shirts sticking in the high heat. Bare-handed, not stopping for water, they’d shoveled gravel and raked without pause for the past three hours. “We did it,” Maud said. “Now we get to watch it grow.” “And water it and weed it.” “Yes, that too.” Gabriel came up from his dig to see, and that afternoon Maud brought the girls. Chris was still working in the beds, digging in the compost that Frazer had brought over in his cart. “Don’t eat those,” Chris told Louise. She had picked a foxglove for a bouquet she was making for the dinner table. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I don’t eat flowers.” “Those ones can kill you.” He went back to composting. Maud saw Ella withdraw and cross her arms over her chest. “That guy is so weird,” she said when, out of earshot, they were walking along the drive. “Don’t say that, Ella,” Maud said. “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Louise singsonged and waved her bouquet. “I know that,” Ella said. “It’s just—he kind of freaks me out. The way he looks without looking.” “I see what you mean,” Maud said. “But he’s nice. I promise. He’s just different.” Chris had looked at Ella the same way he looked at Louise, which was the same way that he sometimes looked at Maud or Gabriel or his father. There was nothing sexual to the gaze. But maybe it was enough to be stared at by a man for Ella to feel uncomfortable. As they took the shortcut through the orchard, Maud remembered visiting a public pool with her friend when she was eleven. There was one man on a plastic lounger who, every


bouncing into the bowl. Perfect aim. “It’s pretty rich, you marching in here, out of the blue. I haven’t heard from you for months.” Winnie opened her mouth. Closed it again. “I always write,” she said uneasily. “And I reply!” “Well,” said Winnie, not able to help herself, “you send me pictures of yourself.” Hephzibah shot her a look. “Picture postcards.” Winnie wilted. “Yes.” “Very fetching ones.” Sometimes the moment was presented to you, the window opened just a crack. Winnie forced herself not to be a coward. “Hephzibah. I’m so—” The words came in a rush. “I’m so enormously—sorry.” That face! Immaculate, the expression smoothing out, like the tide sweeping the sands. Hephzibah said nothing. Winnie remembered the day Hephzibah had left. Upped and vanished in the night, they said. Yet another runaway. It had infuriated everybody, Winnie included, who’d been left with the task of clearing out Hephzibah’s rubbish and sad, much-mended uniforms. Dinah King had laughed. “You know how she is,” she’d said. “She’s got dreams. She wants to be onstage.” They hadn’t asked any questions. Hephzibah crumpled the program in her hands, tossed it aside. Grabbed her glass of sherry, spilling a little over the brim. “If you weren’t so bloody pious,” she said, “and po-faced, then I shouldn’t get so annoyed with you. Honestly, it’s too bad. Every time you come plodding down to see me you just make me feel beastly. It brings everything up again. You do understand that, don’t you?” Winnie nodded. “I don’t mean to.” Hephzibah handed Winnie her own glass. “Here. Put some color in your cheeks. I can’t sit here and watch you sweating all night.” Winnie grasped it. “Thanks.” “So, tell me.” Winnie took a swig. “There’s something delicate we want you to do,” she said, feeling the burn in her throat. “We?” “Me and Dinah King.” Hephzibah’s eyes widened. Winnie raised a palm. “She doesn’t know, Hephzibah. On my honor, she doesn’t know a thing.” Hephzibah leaned back in her chair. “Lucky her. Go on, then.” 6 Twenty-three days to go Alice Parker was running late. She tied her apron, two hasty knots. Tucked her crucifix under her collar and gave herself a quick look in the glass. One month in Park Lane and she’d grown accustomed to wearing a uniform. She’d feared she would hate it, feel pinched at the neck and the wrists. But she slipped into it so easily. This was how a soldier must feel, putting on fatigues. It made her pleasingly anonymous. She didn’t look like herself—she simply looked like a maid. She adjusted her black armband. Mrs. King had handed it to her on her first day in the house. “We’re in mourning for the old master,” she’d said evenly. They didn’t seem mournful. Mr. de Vries was hardly cold in his grave. Yet the new mistress was making plans for a costumed ball, the best of the season, and was in urgent need of a sewing maid. Something about this awed Alice. It seemed like a very wicked thing to do, and


of which she seemed intent; from where I stood I could see the title; it wasRasselas  a name that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her directly: "Is your book interesting?" I had already formed the intention of asking her to lend it to me some day.     "I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.     "What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.     "You may look at it," replied the girl, offering me the book.     I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking than the title:Rasselas looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the closely printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood. Again I ventured to disturb her: "Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?"     "This house where you are come to live."     "And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from other schools?"     "It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or your mother dead?"     "Both died before I can remember."     "Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an institution for educating orphans."     "Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?"     "We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."     "Then why do they call us charity-children?"     "Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription."     "Who subscribes?"     "Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighborhood and in London."     "Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?"     "The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."     "Why?"     "Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."     "Then this house does not belong to that tall lady


lead us in a toast. Perhaps you've a dollop of wisdom for the boy who must be treated like a man." Jessica clenched her right hand into a fist beneath the table. She saw a handsignal pass from Halleck to Idaho, saw the house troopers along the walls move into positions of maximum guard. Bewt cast a venomous glare at the banker. Paul glanced at Halleck, took in the defensive positions of his guards, looked at the banker until the man lowered the water flagon. He said: "Once, on Caladan, I saw the body of a drowned fisherman recovered. He--" "Drowned?" It was the stillsuit manufacturer's daughter. Paul hesitated, then: "Yes. Immersed in water until dead. Drowned." "What an interesting way to die," she murmured. Paul's smile became brittle. He returned his attention to the banker. "The interesting thing about this man was the wounds on his shoulders--made by another fisherman's claw-boots. This fisherman was one of several in a boat--a craft for traveling on water--that foundered . . . sank beneath the water. Another fisherman helping recover the body said he'd seen marks like this man's wounds several times. They meant another drowning fisherman had tried to stand on this poor fellow's shoulders in the attempt to reach up to the surface--to reach air." "Why is this interesting?" the banker asked. "Because of an observation made by my father at the time. He said the drowning man who climbs on your shoulders to save himself is understandable--except when you see it happen in the drawing room." Paul hesitated just long enough for the banker to see the point coming, then: "And, I should add, except when you see it at the dinner table." A sudden stillness enfolded the room. That was rash, Jessica thought. This banker might have enough rank to call my son out. She saw that Idaho was poised for instant action. The House troopers were alert. Gurney Halleck had his eyes on the men opposite him. "Ho-ho-ho-o-o-o!" It was the smuggler, Tuek, head thrown back laughing with complete abandon. Nervous smiles appeared around the table. Bewt was grinning. The banker had pushed his chair back, was glaring at Paul. Kynes said: "One baits an Atreides at his own risk." "Is it Atreides custom to insult their guests?" the banker demanded. Before Paul could answer, Jessica leaned forward, said: "Sir!" And she thought: We must learn this Harkonnen creature's game. Is he here to try for Paul? Does he have help? "My son displays a general garment and you claim it's cut to your fit?" Jessica asked. "What a fascinating revelation." She slid a hand down to her leg to the crysknife she had fastened in a calf-sheath. The banker turned his glare on Jessica. Eyes shifted away from Paul and she saw him ease himself back from the table, freeing himself for action. He had focused on the code word: garment. "Prepare for violence. " Kynes directed a speculative look at Jessica, gave a subtle hand signal to Tuek. The smuggler lurched to his feet, lifted his flagon.


of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?" "Nearly eleven." "Of what day?" "Of Friday, June 19th." "Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten the chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key. "I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!" "So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?" "Yes, I have one waiting." "Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off color. I can do nothing for myself." I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility. "Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?" "As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you." "I have a cab outside." "Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes." It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes's requests, for they


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter. Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the knotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence. --Admit that Byron was no good. --No. --Admit. --No. --Admit. --No. No. At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His tormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him, while he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists madly and sobbing. While he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter of his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were still passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he bore no malice now to those who had tormented him. He had not forgotten a whit of their cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth no anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred which he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night as he stumbled homewards along Jones's Road he had felt that some power was divesting him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is divested of its soft ripe peel. He remained standing with his two companions at the end of the shed listening idly to their talk or to the bursts of applause in the theatre. She was sitting there among the others perhaps waiting for him to appear. He tried to recall her appearance but could not. He could remember only that she had worn a shawl about her head like a cowl and that her dark eyes had invited and unnerved him. He wondered had he been in her thoughts as she had been in his. Then in the dark and unseen by the other two he rested the tips of the fingers of one hand upon the palm of the other hand, scarcely touching it lightly. But the pressure of her fingers had been lighter and steadier: and suddenly the memory of their touch traversed his brain and body like an invisible wave. A boy came towards them, running along under the shed. He was excited and breathless. --O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about you. You're to go in at once and get dressed for the play. Hurry up, you better. --He's coming now, said Heron to the messenger with a haughty drawl, when he wants to. The boy turned to Heron and repeated: --But Doyle is in an awful bake. --Will you tell Doyle with my best compliments that I damned his eyes? answered Heron. --Well, I must go now, said Stephen, who cared little for such points of honour. --I wouldn't, said Heron, damn me if I would. That's no way to send for one of the senior boys. In a bake, indeed! I think it's quite enough that you're taking a part in his bally old play. This spirit