study,” said Mrs. Hornsby. “He said to be ready when the car comes at eleven. Let me know if you need help with your hair.” “Thank you, Mrs. Hornsby. I know this is as hard for you as it is for the rest of us.” After drinking a cup of coffee, Marion changed into a black dress. The pearls were back in her jewelry box, and she clasped them around her neck before dissolving into tears. It was probably better that Lucille wasn’t around to have to bear the pain of this day and all the days to come. Would her mother also have considered Marion complicit in the death of her sister? Even though her father hadn’t mentioned that terrible accusation he’d made that night at the hospital, Marion couldn’t help but sense that it simmered just below the surface of their every interaction. Because Judy would never be back. Several times in the past few days, Marion had considered asking Judy’s advice about something, only to remember that she was gone. She’d also realized that with Judy’s death, her sister’s memories of their mother had vanished as well. Being older, Judy had more stored up, and every so often she would offhandedly reveal something about Lucille that Marion didn’t know, like the fact that she adored strawberry milkshakes or that she was scared of horses. Now all that was lost. Marion stared at herself in the mirror. Here she was again, selfishly thinking of herself first. Thinking of the memories she would be denied by Judy’s death, instead of all the things Judy might have done with her own life that were now impossible. Maybe she would’ve met a nice boy and married. Maybe she would’ve been the one with a family while Marion stayed a single girl until her last days. How was it that Judy, who’d never been much of a risk-taker when she was alive, was the sister who had died? She’d never rode in fast cars with boys the way Marion had, or moved to New York, where she might get mugged. Or bombed. No, Marion had put Judy in harm’s way, and deep down, she was certain Simon must still hate her for it. There had to be something she could do to avenge her sister’s death, to honor her memory. She had to find out who did this to her sister and then maybe her father would forgive her. To have lost both of them was too much to bear, especially since she and Judy had finally broached their great divide over the past month and found a common ground. An article in the newspaper echoed what the detectives had already told Marion, with a few added details. The crude homemade bomb had been buried in the upholstery of a seat in the fifteenth row on the right side facing the stage. The mechanism, according to the article, was a one-inch-wide pipe about four inches long, with a simple timer and battery. A seat-by-seat search by the bomb squad produced no other suspicious objects.


GEORGE R.R. MARTIN sudden halt. Drogo stood and pulled Dany to her feet beside him. It was time for her bride gifts. And after the gifts, she knew, after the sun had gone down, it would be time for the first ride and the consummation of her marriage. Dany tried to put the thought aside, but it would not leave her. She hugged herself to try to keep from shaking. Her brother Viserys gifted her with three handmaids. Dany knew they had cost him nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls. Irri and Jhiqui were copper-skinned Dothraki with black hair and almondshaped eyes, Doreah a fair-haired, blue-eyed Lysene girl. "These are no common servants, sweet sister," her brother told her as they were brought forward one by one. "Illyrio and I selected them personally for you. Irri will teach you riding, Jhiqui the Dothraki tongue, and Doreah will instruct you in the womanly arts of love." He smiled thinly. "She's very good, Illyrio and I can both swear to that." Ser Jorah Mormont apologized for his gift. "It is a small thing, my princess, but all a poor exile could afford," he said as he laid a small stack of old books before her. They were histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, she saw, written in the Common Tongue. She thanked him with all her heart. Magister Illyrio murmured a command, and four burly slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. When she opened it, she found piles of the finest velvets and damasks the Free Cities could produce . . . and resting on top, nestled in the soft cloth, three huge eggs. Dany gasped. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, each different than the others, patterned in such rich colors that at first she thought they were crusted with jewels, and so large it took both of her hands to hold one. She lifted it delicately, expecting that it would be made of some fine porcelain or delicate enamel, or even blown glass, but it was much heavier than that, as if it were all of solid stone. The surface of the shell was covered with tiny scales, and as she turned the egg between her fingers, they shimmered like polished metal in the light of the setting sun. One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it. Another was pale cream streaked with gold. The last was black, as black as a midnight sea, yet alive with scarlet ripples and swirls. "What are they?" she asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder. "Dragon's eggs, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai," said Magister Illyrio. "The eons have turned them to stone, yet still they burn bright with beauty." "I shall treasure them always." Dany had heard tales of such eggs, A GAME OF THRONES 93 but she had never seen one, nor thought to see one. It was a truly magnificent gift, though she knew that


few cable ties, Miss Steele. “We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” “Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele.” She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles. She’s wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she’d look like in skyscraper heels. Laboutins . . . nothing but Laboutins. “They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes . . . again. She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk. “After you,” I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a 545/551 submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle—my lifestyle—but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey. “Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is re- freshing. Women rarely make me laugh. “I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver.” I lie. Actu- ally I’m here to see you, Miss Steele. She flushes, and I feel like a shit. “I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science.” That, at least, is true. “All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Her lips shift to a half-smile. “Something like that.” I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I’d love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual in- terview . . . now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner. We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she’s examining her knotted fingers. She can’t look at me . . . this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible after all—they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once. “These will do,” I murmur, and she blushes, again. “Is there anything else?” she says quickly—either she’s being super attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don’t know which. “I’d like some masking tape.” “Are you redecorating?” I suppress my snort. “No, not redecorating.” I haven’t held a paintbrush in a long time. The thought makes me smile, I have people to do all that shit. “This way,” she murmurs, looking chagrined. “Masking tape is in the decor- ating aisle.” Come on Grey. You don’t have long. Engage her in some conversation. “Have you worked here long?” Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. She blushes


Despite its upheaval and transportation, not a single cable had snapped, nor was a single rivet missing. It remained in perfect condition, one of the engineering wonders of humankind now a bridge to nowhere, its stretch of tarmac road supported seventy metres above the ice. Staring up at the bridge, recreating the moment from their first date, Liza said: ‘Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear.’ Atto closed his eyes but didn’t reply. When he finally opened his eyes, he was crying. She hadn’t seen him cry since Echo was born. She understood that this bridge reminded him of home and the family he’d lost. ‘Are you thinking about your family?’ ‘When we were sitting in my boat, I almost made a promise to you that one day I would come to America. I’d save up and fly over to New York. We could go on a road trip. At the end of the trip, we could visit this bridge. That way we could say we’d sailed under both bridges. I was going to suggest it to you, but I lost my courage because I knew that you didn’t believe we’d ever meet again.’ She took his hands, wondering why for so long she’d resisted the notion that their love story might be as beautiful as any that had gone before it. Perhaps it was because she’d always been sure great love stories happened to other people, not to her. But there could be no doubt: this one was hers. She kissed him and said: ‘I want to tell you something, something I should’ve said a long time ago. There are these two second-hand bookstores in New York. Or there were, once. One was near an independent cinema in Soho. It was very small, on Mercer Street. Whenever I walked in there, I knew I’d never find anything I wanted. I just knew. I don’t know why. It had this strange energy. And then there was Strand, near Union Square, and no matter what mood I was in, when I walked in, I always found something I wanted to read. I had that feeling when I met you. An irrational certainty, some intense positive feeling. But I’m a scientist. I’m supposed to be smart and not believe in instincts like that. So, I didn’t admit it. But I almost cried in that boat when you didn’t kiss me, not because I was annoyed, or offended, but because I realized we were about to say goodbye. You were right about us. You were right from the beginning. You knew, you came back, and I’ve never said anything, but I want to say it now – you were right.’ WEST ANTARCTIC ICE SHEET LANDMARK PLATEAU SAME DAY WALKING SIDE BY SIDE, TETU and Echo passed through the columns of the Brandenburg Gate, built almost three hundred years ago, inspired by the Acropolis which, as if for ease of comparison, had been placed on the ice shelf directly beside it. Now under a layer of snow and ice, the Brandenburg Gate, twenty-six metres high,


with the distended bellies of small savages. One of them came close to the officer and looked up. "I'm, I'm--" But there was no more to come. Percival Wemys Madison sought in his head for an incantation that had faded clean away. The officer turned back to Ralph. "We'll take you off. How many of you are there?" Ralph shook his head. The officer looked past him to the group of painted boys. "Who's boss here?" "I am," said Ralph loudly. A little boy who wore the remains of an extraordinary black cap on his red hair and who carried the remains of a pair of spectacles at his waist, started forward, then changed his mind and stood still. "We saw your smoke. And you don't know how many of you there are?" "No, sir." "I should have thought," said the officer as he visualized the search before him, "I should have thought that a pack of British boys--you're all British, aren't you?--would have been able to put up a better show than that--I mean--" "It was like that at first," said Ralph, "before things--" He stopped. "We were together then--" The officer nodded helpfully. "I know. Jolly good show. Like the Coral Island." Ralph looked at him dumbly. For a moment he had a fleeting picture of the strange glamour that had once invested the beaches. But the island was scorched up like dead wood--Simon was dead--and Jack had. . . . The tears began to flow and sobs shook him. He gave himself up to them now for the first time on the island; great, shuddering spasms of grief that seemed to wrench his whole body. His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy. The officer, surrounded by these noises, was moved and a little embarrassed. He turned away to give them time to pull themselves together; and waited, allowing his eyes to rest on the trim cruiser in the distance. Notes on Lord of the Flies * ((*The above Notes pretend to be no more than a series of reflections on aspects of LORD OF THE FLIES. An exhaustive study of its symbolism has not yet been attempted.)) In answer to a publicity questionnaire from the American publishers of LORD OF THE FLIES, William Golding (born Cornwall, 1911) declared that he was brought up to be a scientist, and revolted; after two years of Oxford he changed his educational emphasis from science to English literature, and became devoted to Anglo-Saxon. After publishing a volume of poetry he "wasted the next four years," and when Word War II broke out he joined the Royal Navy. For the next five years he was involved in naval matters except for a few


Jack. I want to, though. I want to explain to him that . . . That what? Really, what? He must have put together that what I’m doing with Greg is similar to what I did with Austin. And if he hasn’t . . . didn’t I decide two days ago that I don’t care what he thinks of me? That he’s a lost cause anyway? If I don’t get the MIT job, I’m never going to meet Jack again. And if I do . . . we’ll be cordial, distant enemies. He’s still the nutsack who turned seventeen and decided to declare war on an entire discipline—my discipline. So he’s the one guy I can’t read, the one person who can’t be APE’d. All the more reason to never voluntarily interact with him again. I just don’t know why it’s scorched into my stupid brain, that last glance he gave me as I stepped out of Monica’s home. And the earlier one, when he grabbed my chin and studied me like I’m something unique. My own Cartesian coordinates. What happened to you, Elsie? I square my shoulders. “You’re right. Greg’s the one I need to talk to.” Warn him that Jack might ask questions. Give him time to prepare answers. Greg’s the reason I was keeping secrets all along. He’s the one who deserves protecting. “In the meantime, no more Faux.” I look at Cece. “Should you quit, too? You’ll be on the job market once you’re done with your thesis— what if this happens to you, too?” “It won’t be until next year. We might be dead by then.” “Would be nice, wouldn’t it?” We exchange smiles. “I must say, the situation is making me reconsider Faux. Then again, the number of dollars in my bank account is making me reconsider my reconsiderations.” She taps her chin. “It’s a good reason to keep working with Kirk.” I frown. “Kirk?” “Yeah, that guy who—” “I know who Kirk is. I just thought . . . You’ve been talking about him a lot. And you refer to him by his first name.” “How else should I refer to him?” “Historically, your clients have been, you know . . . Big Nostrils Jim. Not Anderson Cooper. Doomsday Prepper Pete. Anchovy Breath One. Anchovy Breath Two. Deep V-Neck. Anchovy Breath Three—” “I get the gist.” “Kirk is always just Kirk, which has me wondering if . . .” “Whoa.” Her eyes widen dramatically. “Am I being attacked? In my own home?” “No. I just—” “At my own table?” I shake my head. “No, I—” “On my own chair that I retrieved from the curbside and that used to have bedbugs and maybe still does?” “No! I didn’t mean to—” I notice Cece’s sly smile. “You’re evil.” She laughs. “Is Greg still on that hippie retreat where you pay to weed their flower beds? When’s he coming back? And when is the search committee voting on the candidates?” Is she trying to change the topic? “I have no idea. I don’t even know if George


She sighed heavily then cocked her head to one side. ‘I underestimated you. I won’t do that again.’ I supposed that was a compliment and I nodded. ‘Being an outsider can be a good thing,’ she said, returning to our previous conversation. ‘You think? It seems to me it would have been much easier if we could’ve just fitted in.’ ‘Heaven forfend, Martha! Conformity is a death sentence. No, my dear, you must embrace what makes you stand out. That’s what they despise. It’s the circle of hell in this life – blaming children for being who they are, because we were blamed and our parents before us. If you’re not harming anyone, why try to change who you are?’ ‘I don’t know. I never thought of it that way. All I know is that I feel so angry with myself all the time. Like I’ll never be good enough for them, so why even try?’ ‘Good enough for whom? For people who are trapped in a life that is not of their own making? Surely you can see that they merely want you to be trapped with them, so they will feel less alone in their emptiness. Be careful, Martha, you’ll become blind to your own value if you keep looking through the eyes of the bourgeoisie!’ That night, after I showered and looked once more at the story inked on my back, I thought about what Madame Bowden had said. I knew it as soon as I arrived in Ha'penny Lane, but I kept trying to deny it. I could feel the very fibres of the building getting under my skin, filling my head with ideas of a future I would never have dared to dream about. Yet when I saw Opaline’s letter to Sylvia, I knew that the book she referred to was the one that had been given to me. Was it all somehow linked to Madame Bowden? All I had were questions and the only person I could talk to about it was Henry. Could we be friends? The idea made me feel so sad. But I couldn’t see any other way. I couldn’t risk losing myself again, not when I’d fought so hard to rebuild my life. As I lay in bed reading one of the books on my literature course, Persuasion by Jane Austen, I noticed more books lying flat on the branch that had flattened out as a shelf. The words emblazoned on their spines were almost golden in the lamplight. Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink, Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and Flowers in the Attic by V. C. Andrews. Gosh. Did Madame Bowden really think I could manage all of this extra reading? I looked back down at the page I was reading. I couldn’t let myself get distracted, as I had to finish it before my next class. My curiosity wouldn’t let me be and I looked up again, only this time, certain words seem to stand out more than others. Dear Reader Go In The Attic I held my


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

fumbling at the peak of his tweed cap, turned to Stephen, saying: --Excuse me, sir, what do you mean by that expression you uttered just now? Feeling himself jostled by the students near him, he said to them: --I am curious to know now what he meant by that expression. He turned again to Stephen and said in a whisper: --Do you believe in Jesus? I believe in man. Of course, I don't know if you believe in man. I admire you, sir. I admire the mind of man independent of all religions. Is that your opinion about the mind of Jesus? --Go on, Temple, said the stout ruddy student, returning, as was his wont, to his first idea, that pint is waiting for you. --He thinks I'm an imbecile, Temple explained to Stephen, because I'm a believer in the power of mind. Cranly linked his arms into those of Stephen and his admirer and said: --NOS AD MANUM BALLUM JOCABIMUS. Stephen, in the act of being led away, caught sight of MacCann's flushed blunt-featured face. --My signature is of no account, he said politely. You are right to go your way. Leave me to go mine. --Dedalus, said MacCann crisply, I believe you're a good fellow but you have yet to learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of the human individual. A voice said: --Intellectual crankery is better out of this movement than in it. Stephen, recognizing the harsh tone of MacAlister's voice did not turn in the direction of the voice. Cranly pushed solemnly through the throng of students, linking Stephen and Temple like a celebrant attended by his ministers on his way to the altar. Temple bent eagerly across Cranly's breast and said: --Did you hear MacAlister what he said? That youth is jealous of you. Did you see that? I bet Cranly didn't see that. By hell, I saw that at once. As they crossed the inner hall, the dean of studies was in the act of escaping from the student with whom he had been conversing. He stood at the foot of the staircase, a foot on the lowest step, his threadbare soutane gathered about him for the ascent with womanish care, nodding his head often and repeating: --Not a doubt of it, Mr Hackett! Very fine! Not a doubt of it! In the middle of the hall the prefect of the college sodality was speaking earnestly, in a soft querulous voice, with a boarder. As he spoke he wrinkled a little his freckled brow and bit, between his phrases, at a tiny bone pencil. --I hope the matric men will all come. The first arts' men are pretty sure. Second arts, too. We must make sure of the newcomers. Temple bent again across Cranly, as they were passing through the doorway, and said in a swift whisper: --Do you know that he is a married man? he was a married man before they converted him. He has a wife and children somewhere. By hell, I think that's the queerest notion I ever heard! Eh?


of ink onto the glass, he spread it back and forth with the rubber roller until the entire surface of the glass was covered to his satisfaction with a very thin and uniform layer of ink. "Place the four fingers of your right hand upon the glass, thus," he said to D'Arnot. "Now the thumb. That is right. Now place them in just the same position upon this card, here, no--a little to the right. We must leave room for the thumb and the fingers of the left hand. There, that's it. Now the same with the left." "Come, Tarzan," cried D'Arnot, "let's see what your whorls look like." Tarzan complied readily, asking many questions of the officer during the operation. "Do fingerprints show racial characteristics?" he asked. "Could you determine, for example, solely from fingerprints whether the subject was Negro or Caucasian?" "I think not," replied the officer. "Could the finger prints of an ape be detected from those of a man?" "Probably, because the ape's would be far simpler than those of the higher organism." "But a cross between an ape and a man might show the characteristics of either progenitor?" continued Tarzan. "Yes, I should think likely," responded the official; "but the science has not progressed sufficiently to render it exact enough in such matters. I should hate to trust its findings further than to differentiate between individuals. There it is absolute. No two people born into the world probably have ever had identical lines upon all their digits. It is very doubtful if any single fingerprint will ever be exactly duplicated by any finger other than the one which originally made it." "Does the comparison require much time or labor?" asked D'Arnot. "Ordinarily but a few moments, if the impressions are distinct." D'Arnot drew a little black book from his pocket and commenced turning the pages. Tarzan looked at the book in surprise. How did D'Arnot come to have his book? Presently D'Arnot stopped at a page on which were five tiny little smudges. He handed the open book to the policeman. "Are these imprints similar to mine or Monsieur Tarzan's or can you say that they are identical with either?" The officer drew a powerful glass from his desk and examined all three specimens carefully, making notations meanwhile upon a pad of paper. Chapter 26 151 Tarzan realized now what was the meaning of their visit to the police officer. The answer to his life's riddle lay in these tiny marks. With tense nerves he sat leaning forward in his chair, but suddenly he relaxed and dropped back, smiling. D'Arnot looked at him in surprise. "You forget that for twenty years the dead body of the child who made those fingerprints lay in the cabin of his father, and that all my life I have seen it lying there," said Tarzan bitterly. The policeman looked up in astonishment. "Go ahead, captain, with your examination," said D'Arnot, "we will tell you the story later--provided Monsieur Tarzan is agreeable." Tarzan nodded his head. "But you are mad, my dear


in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and there was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there the whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump, with but infrequent stoppages. The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they covered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In one run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy miles of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to run towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night of the second week they topped White Pass and dropped down the sea slope with the lights of Skaguay and of the shipping at their feet. It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty miles. For three days Perrault and Francois threw chests up and down the main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink, while the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of dog-busters and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to clean out the town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and public interest turned to other idols. Next came official orders. Francois called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him. And that was the last of Francois and Perrault. Like other men, they passed out of Buck's life for good. A Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company with a dozen other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to Dawson. It was no light running now, nor record time, but heavy toil each day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train, carrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the shadow of the Pole. Buck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in it after the manner of Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates, whether they prided in it or not, did their fair share. It was a monotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was very like another. At a certain time each morning the cooks turned out, fires were built, and breakfast was eaten. Then, while some broke camp, others harnessed the dogs, and they were under way an hour or so before the darkness fell which gave warning of dawn. At night, camp was made. Some pitched the flies, others cut firewood and pine boughs for the beds, and still others carried water or ice for the cooks. Also, the dogs were fed. To them, this was the one feature of the day, though it was good to loaf around, after the fish was eaten, for an hour or so with the other dogs, of


now for nearly twenty years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she was simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment; perhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused him to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something indecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on with the Vicar's dreary correspondence. A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two years entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see the secretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked Philip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had given him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he answered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The first examination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and he put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine ailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in getting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty during the last week of August and the first two of September. After this interview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted, for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and he wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. He thought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing mattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities. He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his uncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when the presence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get better prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in second-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford. One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury and see his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with relief in his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was his own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets of Tercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at the old shops, still


But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were--in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (10 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor THE BOOK was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it. In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out 'Swine! Swine! Swine!' and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. "Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke. Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. "Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk. -- ." "Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!" Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon. "That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back. "Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. "P-P-Petunia!" he gasped. Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise. "Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!" They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick. "I want to read that letter," he said loudly. "I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine." "Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. Harry didn't move. "I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted. "Let me see it!" demanded Dudley. "OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor. "Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address -- how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?" "Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.


night, Ẹniọlá fell asleep next to Bùsọ́lá on the sofa while their parents continued this conversation instead of saying the bedtime prayers. On the radio, one of the governor’s aides explained that most of the teachers who had been retrenched taught subjects—fine arts, Yorùbá, food and nutrition, Islamic and Christian religious studies—that would do nothing for the nation’s development. What will our children do with Yorùbá in this modern age? What? You see, what we need now is technology, science and technology. And how will watercolours be useful to them? Isn’t that what the fine arts teachers teach them about? Watercolour. The man on the radio laughed. Christmas had come and gone. It was the first day of the new year, and some of his parents’ friends, many of whom had also lost their jobs, had come over for dinner. As the man continued to laugh, Ẹniọlá found that although the bowl in front of him was filled with pepper soup, he could no longer feel the sting from the peppers or taste the meat. He felt as though he was drinking water with a spoon. When he returned to school after the holidays, he listed retrenchment and reinstatement among the new words he had learnt during the Christmas break. A few months later, his father’s blue Beetle sped past him as he returned home from school. It was being driven by a bald man he did not recognise. When he got home, his mother responded to his questions about the car by demanding that he finish his homework before asking foolish questions, sweep the kitchen floor before disturbing her peace, wash the front yard with a broom before frustrating her in this life. It took her a week to tell him that the car had been sold. By then his father had stopped leaving the house at seven in the morning, no longer joined the family for dinner and barely left his room all day. His mother began leading the morning prayers, stumbling over words that Ẹniọlá could pronounce in his sleep while she read to him and Bùsọ́lá from Devotion to the Most Precious Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Soon, they had to move out of the three-bedroom flat that had been home before his father was sacked. When his family moved to the house where they now lived, only a few doors down but nearly a century behind, Ẹniọlá had assumed the move was only temporary. He had believed that after a few months, at most, they would once again live in a house that had indoor bathrooms and at least one water closet. He should have known then, when they left the house that had an indoor kitchen and louvre blades, after the television, bedframes and sofas were sold, before his father tried to sell the VCR and no one would buy it because even video clubs had begun to loan out only Video CDs, he should have known then that his parents would no longer be able to afford the fees for the Unity school in


everything really is so great, he keeps our talk about the book surface-level for the rest of dinner, rehashing today’s panel with slumped shoulders and forced laughter. All that confidence he had at the con—in a single conversation, I’ve put a dent in it. Because I think he might be embarrassed. “I’m beat,” he says when the server swings by with the check. “Think I’m going to head back to the hotel, rest up for tomorrow. You want to share an Uber, or do you have other plans?” “Oh—” I break off, trying to process this sudden tone shift. “Uh, no. I can go back.” I really couldn’t have just laughed it off and continued forgetting about it, the way we decided to do in Seattle. Maybe he’s putting on a brave face, but he’s a white man who’s had a modest level of fame—his ego is probably irrevocably shattered. Because I am a complete fucking idiot. During our small talk–laden drive back to the hotel—“look, the moon”—“wow”—it hits me with a stark, painful clarity. He’s going to fire me. MTV NEWS WEEKEND HIGHLIGHTS Finn Walsh, TV’s sexiest nerd, celebrated his twenty-first birthday at The Spot in Hermosa Beach with onscreen love interest and off-screen girlfriend, Hallie Hendricks. When asked about his plans for this milestone birthday, Walsh told us he probably wouldn’t be out very late. “Nothing too wild,” he said, grinning at Hendricks. “Just cozying up on the couch with a movie and my favorite person.” Hendricks, looking stunning in a deep green halter dress, kissed his cheek. “He’s just too good for this world, isn’t he?” The two have been inseparable since season 2 started airing, rarely seen in public without the other. When asked if there might be wedding bells in their future, Walsh laughed. “Nah, we’re too young for that,” he said. “Right now, we’re just having fun.” chapter eight PORTLAND, OR The Nocturnals changed my life. You changed my life. I’ve seen the whole show nine times, and I have all the original DVDs. And I actually majored in biology because of you.” The girl’s shirt says I’d Much Rather Be Unusual, which, from what I can understand, became something of a catchphrase for the show. Hux said it for the first time in season one, and then later repeated it to Meg when she insisted he find someone else so he could have a chance at a normal relationship. Finn smiles, swooping his signature over the photo while a staff member collects the girl’s $125. “I’m honored,” he says earnestly. “Thank you so much. Do you have a favorite season?” “Three, definitely,” she says. “When you and Meg were trapped in that snowstorm, and she had to protect you from that rival wolf pack . . . I rewatch that scene at least once a month.” “That might have been the coldest I’ve been in my entire life.” He passes back the autograph, then gets up for the photo. “One hundred percent worth it, though.” “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she says, squealing as


Christ still present under their species as God and as man? --Here he is! Here he is! A boy from his post at the window had seen the rector come from the house. All the catechisms were opened and all heads bent upon them silently. The rector entered and took his seat on the dais. A gentle kick from the tall boy in the bench behind urged Stephen to ask a difficult question. The rector did not ask for a catechism to hear the lesson from. He clasped his hands on the desk and said: --The retreat will begin on Wednesday afternoon in honour of saint Francis Xavier whose feast day is Saturday. The retreat will go on from Wednesday to Friday. On Friday confession will be heard all the afternoon after beads. If any boys have special confessors perhaps it will be better for them not to change. Mass will be on Saturday morning at nine o'clock and general communion for the whole college. Saturday will be a free day. But Saturday and Sunday being free days some boys might be inclined to think that Monday is a free day also. Beware of making that mistake. I think you, Lawless, are likely to make that mistake. --I sir? Why, sir? A little wave of quiet mirth broke forth over the class of boys from the rector's grim smile. Stephen's heart began slowly to fold and fade with fear like a withering flower. The rector went on gravely: --You are all familiar with the story of the life of saint Francis Xavier, I suppose, the patron of your college. He came of an old and illustrious Spanish family and you remember that he was one of the first followers of saint Ignatius. They met in Paris where Francis Xavier was professor of philosophy at the university. This young and brilliant nobleman and man of letters entered heart and soul into the ideas of our glorious founder and you know that he, at his own desire, was sent by saint Ignatius to preach to the Indians. He is called, as you know, the apostle of the Indies. He went from country to country in the east, from Africa to India, from India to Japan, baptizing the people. He is said to have baptized as many as ten thousand idolaters in one month. It is said that his right arm had grown powerless from having been raised so often over the heads of those whom he baptized. He wished then to go to China to win still more souls for God but he died of fever on the island of Sancian. A great saint, saint Francis Xavier! A great soldier of God! The rector paused and then, shaking his clasped hands before him, went on: --He had the faith in him that moves mountains. Ten thousand souls won for God in a single month! That is a true conqueror, true to the motto of our order: AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM! A saint who has great power in heaven, remember: power to intercede for us


gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him in this. The week's rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light. They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and the second day saw them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Pelly. But such splendid running was achieved not without great trouble and vexation on the part of Francois. The insidious revolt led by Buck had destroyed the solidarity of the team. It no longer was as one dog leaping in the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them into all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old awe departed, and they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night, and gulped it down under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and Joe fought Spitz and made him forego the punishment they deserved. And even Billee, the good-natured, was less good-natured, and whined not half so placatingly as in former days. Buck never came near Spitz without snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct approached that of a bully, and he was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz's very nose. The breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their relations with one another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among themselves, till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Sol-leks alone were unaltered, though they were made irritable by the unending squabbling. Francois swore strange barbarous oaths, and stamped the snow in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs, but it was of small avail. Directly his back was turned they were at it again. He backed up Spitz with his whip, while Buck backed up the remainder of the team. Francois knew he was behind all the trouble, and Buck knew he knew; but Buck was too clever ever again to be caught red-handed. He worked faithfully in the harness, for the toil had become a delight to him; yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the traces. At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a snowshoe rabbit, blundered it, and missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. A hundred yards away was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The rabbit sped down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed of which it held steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow, while the dogs ploughed through by main strength. Buck led the pack, sixty


her. In photos from that visit, I am a chubby, happy one-year-old in a flowered blouse and a blue corduroy jumper, no longer small for my age, boasting a toothy grin, chipmunk cheeks, and black hair that sticks straight up in defiance of my parents’ styling efforts—no one had ever told them about Asian baby hair. My grandmother, who looks so much like my father with her wide smile, broad nose, and brown hair so dark it could almost be black like mine, reaches toward me as Dad props me up on her hospital bed. He must have known that the trip was an introduction as well as a goodbye. As grieved as he would be when his mother died a few months later, a part of him was relieved that she was finally beyond her pain. * * * When I try to picture my father as he was in my youth, healthy and strong, I see him working a busy lunch or dinner shift, wearing dark pants and a short-sleeved white dress shirt with a name tag pinned to it, chatting with customers. He managed a series of pizza restaurants for most of my childhood, and if I had no school and no one else was available to watch me, sometimes I’d go with him for part of the day. I remember following him into dark industrial kitchens in the predawn chill, watching him check and order inventory. Every now and then I would try to be helpful, wiping down tables or refilling paper-napkin dispensers. It was a special treat to snack on pizza or fries with him when he took a break, especially if he gave me quarters for the jukebox. Dad did everything from cook and clean to serve and operate the cash register; whatever most needed doing in any given moment, that was his job. Working in a restaurant looked fun when I saw him joking with guests, an easy smile on his face, because it was his job to keep them relaxed and happy. As a child, I didn’t see his exhaustion at the end of an open-to-close shift in a week when he’d had no days off. I didn’t know about the abusive customers, the missed breaks and meals, the unpaid overtime and raises that never came through. Sometimes a restaurant would shut down, go bankrupt, or burn down, and he would need to scramble to find another position. I was in my thirties before my mother told me about the opportunities he had missed out on, often given to younger men without families who would be cheaper to promote and relocate. “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked. My mother, who’d come by her pessimism honestly, shrugged and said, “That was always the explanation they gave him.” Anxious about infectious diseases and weary of hospital hours, Mom left respiratory-therapy work behind when I was in grade school. She worked for a few months in my middle-school cafeteria—I remember waving to her from the lunch line on my first day of seventh grade, giving her a hard


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

thing going on.” “Not sure a coworker has ever called me a DILF before.” She shrugs. “You didn’t bring me on because I lettered in propriety.” “Fair.” I smile, taking a sip of my fountain drink. “But you seem awfully intent on pegging me.” She barks out a laugh. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.” “Jesus Christ.” I flick my eyes upward in mock exasperation, and then finish the small taco. “You know what I meant.” It’s a struggle not to stare at her while she eats. She hums happily as she chews, licks a tiny bit of salsa from the side of her mouth, and studies the food in her hand with pleasure-drunk eyes. So far in only this first outing alone I’ve seen two very different sides to Fizzy: effusive and public facing, and this more intimate, quietly playful version. Both charismatic, both sexy, both mesmerizing. First, I was resentful to be assigned this, then I was resigned. Now I feel a flicker of excitement over the challenge of capturing her brand of magic on-screen. You’re going to be setting her up with other men. The reminder crashes into the forefront of my thoughts, and I blink away. “I had a thought about the show.” She glances up at me and laughs. “I hope you’ve had more than one.” “This is specifically about the title. What do you think about calling it The True Love Experiment?” “I think I’m mad I didn’t come up with it myself.” A sunburst of pride spreads quickly through my torso. “Brilliant.” I reach for a mystery taco. “So, to recap: We’ll cast the eight Hero archetypes. Filming will be Monday to Thursday, with Friday for crash editing, and a Saturday broadcast. Voting will take place over twenty-four hours after the episode airs, and the following Monday we’ll reveal to the cast who has made it through each round.” She mumbles a happy sound around a bite. “And,” I continue, “I think we should go in with the understanding that the show won’t be so heavily produced. I don’t mean from an aesthetics angle, but the actual story lines. I’ve been thinking quite a bit on this, and I really want to do something different, as much as we can. From what I gather, some of these shows are plotted out from episode one, which makes me question the sincerity of any relationship that comes out of them. Since viewers will be voting on our outcome, we want to give them the truest possible narrative we can.” She nods, licking her lips again, and it splits my focus into foggy tendrils. I squeeze my eyes closed for a beat to recapture the thread. “Because it’s a limited series, you’ll only really be tied up for about five weeks.” “Tied up, huh?” Fizzy grins. “Sounds fun.” “You’re trouble.” She laughs. “I think that’s why you chose me.” “I chose you because you’re beloved by your fan base. But yes, I am excited to do this in part because you’re also a bit


sun. When I finally regain my composure, it occurs to me that I have a chance to shut this conversation down again. Let it all go. Instead, I make a thoughtless, fatal mistake. A silver bullet straight to my jugular. “Mind-blowing,” I repeat. “That really blew your mind?” Finn’s eyebrows push together in confusion. “It didn’t blow yours?” “We’ve got to stop saying the word ‘blow.’ ” “I’m serious, Chandler,” he says, that seriousness painted all over his face. Thirty seconds ago, he didn’t want to talk about it, but now his interest is piqued. “Is that—is that why you left? I wondered about that all day, even after I met with you and Joe for lunch.” His voice is level. Quiet but concerned. Then he brings a hand to his throat and swallows hard. “If I did something to offend you, or god forbid, hurt you—” “You didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly, cutting him off. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I stare down at my plate. I wanted only to clear the air between us. I didn’t want the actual truth. “I—I’m sorry I left without saying anything. I’d never done that before, as you know, and I just didn’t know how to navigate it, I guess.” Now this conversation is treading dangerously close to the truth, and while I haven’t had much experience with actors, I have a feeling telling one that he’s not very good in bed might spark a reaction I’m not entirely ready for. At the very least, it’s enough to get me booted from this assignment. Blacklisted from publishing. The server returns with a new wrap, extra tzatziki. Finn barely glances at it, instead flicking his eyes around the restaurant to make sure no one’s paying attention to us. Then he asks in this low, uncertain voice, “So was it . . . not good for you?” A dozen lies wait on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pick a single one. My silence gives me away. “Holy shit.” He leans back in the booth, running a hand down his face, along the reddish stubble that’s just started to reappear. “It was that bad?” “No, no, no,” I rush to say. The restaurant isn’t busy, and yet I’m suddenly certain everyone in here knows what we’re talking about. A neon sign declaring This Mere Mortal slept With a Beloved Actor and Had the Gall to Insinuate He Was Anything Less Than Godlike. “But you sounded like . . .” Finn trails off, the pieces seeming to come together. My forced gasps. My faked orgasm. The escape. I stare down at my nails, picking at the burnt-orange polish I applied the night before I left solely so I’d have something to keep the anxiety at bay. This is how I die, I think: confessing to Finnegan Walsh over falafel that he did not rock my world. “I guess we could call it acting.” He has the nerve to look genuinely astonished. “I don’t know if that’s ever happened to me


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

small an income, could not afford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the same time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey’s money went chiefly for red ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable looking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable warmth, and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I thought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that buttoning himself up in so downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect upon him; upon the same principle that too much oats are bad for horses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his oats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom prosperity harmed. Though concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own private surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that whatever might by his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his vintner, and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable, brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless. When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table, spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly perceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether superfluous. It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar cause—indigestion—the irritability and consequent nervousness of Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey’s paroxysms only coming on about twelve o’clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers’ was on, Turkey’s was off; and vice versa. This was a good natural arrangement under the circumstances. Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as student at law, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among the employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey and Nippers. Copying law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort of business, my


felt less "contrary," though she did not know why. She put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk. No one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it. The ivy was the baffling thing. Howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves. She was very much disappointed. Something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside. It seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. She took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready. Mrs. Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits. "I got up at four o'clock," she said. "Eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. I didn't walk all th' way. A man gave me a ride in his cart an' I did enjoy myself." She was full of stories of the delights of her day out. Her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way. She had even made each of the children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugar in it. "I had 'em all pipin' hot when they came in from playin' on th' moor. An' th' cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin' an' there was a good fire, an' they just shouted for joy. Our Dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king." In the evening they had all sat round the fire, and Martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and Martha had told them about the little girl who had come from India and who had been waited on all her life by what Martha called "blacks" until she didn't know how to put on her own stockings. "Eh! they did like to hear about you," said Martha. "They wanted to know all about th' blacks an' about th' ship you came in. I couldn't tell 'em enough." Mary reflected a little. "I'll tell you a great deal more before your next day out," she said, "so that you will have more to talk about. I dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers." "My word!" cried delighted Martha. "It would set 'em clean off their heads. Would tha' really do that, Miss? It would be same as a wild


it took. Minnie would make sure of it. There were footsteps behind her and Minnie turned to see a doctor in a white coat, abundant dark hair in a plait down her back. Her name badge said that she was called Devika Podichetti. She met Minnie’s eyes. ‘Hello. Have you come to see Albertina?’ ‘Tina’s my sister,’ Minnie said quickly. ‘How is she?’ A frown creased the doctor’s smooth brow. ‘She’s suffered a transient ischaemic attack. She’s comfortable. We’ve given her an IV injection of recombinant tissue plasminogen activator. She’s stable now and we’ll start working on her rehabilitation straight away.’ ‘What does that mean in terms of her recovery?’ Minnie gazed into the doctor’s eyes for signs of how severe Tina’s illness was; she found none. ‘Is she going to get well again? How bad was the stroke?’ The doctor chose her words carefully. ‘Fortunately, the young man who called the ambulance was on the scene quickly – your sister has the best possible chance of a good recovery. She’s sleeping now, but we’ll start immediately to analyse any physical or cognitive impairments and begin work on them.’ Minnie felt her heart lurch. ‘Will Tina recover?’ ‘We’ll monitor her over the next week or so in hospital, but her chances are good. It’s early days, but during the first three months, we should see notable improvements. The brain is still in a state of heightened plasticity, which means that rehabilitation will have a bigger effect during this time.’ ‘So she’ll be able to come home soon?’ ‘Of course. Once we’ve assessed her needs, we’ll be able to give you a clearer picture of what will happen and a timescale.’ The doctor smiled. ‘Does she have someone at home who can look after her?’ ‘No…’ Minnie began. ‘Only we’d expect her to continue recovery both on her own at home and in outpatient therapy.’ ‘Then I’ll look after her,’ Minnie said quickly. ‘It’s likely she’ll need physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy to regain lost skills. But every stroke is different and therefore every recovery will be different.’ ‘Right,’ Minnie nodded. ‘But it would be better for Tina if she came home with me, rather than being on her own.’ ‘It would, yes,’ the doctor said. ‘As long as you can accommodate her needs.’ ‘I can,’ Minnie replied determinedly. ‘We’re flesh and blood – what else would I do?’ That evening, Lin and Neil sat in front of the television. Lin was wondering how to express the jumbled thoughts in her mind, how to broach the subject of Carole Frost again. They were clutching mugs of coffee and there was a packet of chocolate biscuits on the table. Neil said, ‘It’s properly autumn now – the nights are becoming chilly.’ ‘They are.’ ‘Summer is over.’ ‘It is…’ Lin continued to stare at the TV screen. ‘It’s been a strange summer.’ She glanced at Neil. ‘You were out a lot.’ He patted her hand. ‘I’m home now.’ ‘You are…’ Lin gazed into her coffee mug. ‘Florence’s baby is gorgeous, isn’t she?’ ‘Oh,


short silence, 'I am ready to make one.' 'So am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep. Brittles capitualated on these terms; and the party being somewhat re-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front. The two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear. By the advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely. These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker's arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timourously over each other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their compassion. 'A boy!' exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the background. 'What's the matter with the--eh?--Why--Brittles--look here--don't you know?' Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof. 'Here he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up the staircase; 'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss! Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.' '--In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better. The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant. 'Giles!' whispered the voice from the stair-head. 'I'm here, miss,' replied Mr. Giles. 'Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't much injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon too many for him.' 'Hush!' replied the young lady; 'you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?' 'Wounded desperate, miss,' replied Giles, with indescribable complacency. 'He looks as if he was a-going, miss,' bawled Brittles, in the same manner as before. 'Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he should?' 'Hush, pray; there's a good man!' rejoined the lady. 'Wait quietly only one instant, while I speak to aunt.' With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. She soon returned, with the direction that


by a young woman in a pencil skirt who escorts us to a meeting room. Rachelle ushers me inside and closes the door behind us. I take a seat in one of six chairs set up around a round, midsize table. On it, there is a laptop. “I’m going to play you a recording that is going to be very hard to listen to,” Rachelle says. “It’s audio of your husband hiring a man to kill you.” So that’s how they caught him. Benjamin must have propositioned an undercover officer to get rid of me. It will be chilling to hear my husband plot my demise, but somehow satisfying that he was outsmarted. I, at least, had plotted with a known accomplice, someone I thought I could trust, not some random hit man. Rachelle’s fingers alight on the laptop’s trackpad, and she clicks on the audio file. My husband’s voice—distant but clear—emerges from the speakers. “Thank you for coming,” he says. The undercover officer’s voice is closer to the concealed microphone. Clearly, he was wearing a recording device. “It’s not like I had a choice.” “You’re only free because of me,” Benjamin says. “I’d say that you owe me. Wouldn’t you?” My brow furrows, but I know these stings can be elaborate. I focus on the continuing conversation. “You were paid, weren’t you?” the would-be hit man grumbles. “A reduced rate.” There is a soft chuckle. “Even your boss can’t afford me.” Benjamin’s arrogance is gross, distasteful, and completely expected. He continues. “You knew this was the deal all along.” The cop lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah… I guess I did.” My breath catches in my chest. Something in that sigh is familiar. There is a prickle at the back of my neck as the assassin asks, “What do you want me to do?” And with those few words, I know. This man is not an under-cover cop. He is Jesse Thomas. But not my lover, not my hope. He is the man who punched me so easily. Who came up with the plan to murder my husband and blame Lee. He is Carter Sumner: the criminal, the liar, the murderer for hire. Benjamin continues, his voice smooth. “My wife’s name is Hazel Laval. I want her gone.” “Dead?” “Permanently gone, yes.” They are both so calm, so casual, as if they are talking about sports or the weather, not snuffing out my life. I don’t realize that I am vibrating until Rachelle’s hand lands on top of mine. She pauses the playback. “Do you want to stop?” My husband hired my boyfriend to kill me. Of course I want to stop. I want to run from this room, straight into traffic. I want to sprint to the ocean and dive in, go under. It is all too much. Too sick. Too humiliating. “Keep going,” I say, my voice hoarse, barely audible. “It’s going to get worse,” Rachelle warns. But I nod my acquiescence. With my hand held in her tight grip, it continues. “I’m not killing a woman for nothing,”


it above the sucking sea. The sniggering of the savages became a loud derisive jeer. Jack shouted above the noise. "You go away, Ralph. You keep to your end. This is my end and my tribe. You leave me alone." The jeering died away. "You pinched Piggy's specs," said Ralph, breathlessly. "You've got to give them back." "Got to? Who says?" Ralph's temper blazed out. "I say! You voted for me for chief. Didn't you hear the conch? You played a dirty trick--we'd have given you fire if you'd asked for it--" The blood was flowing in his cheeks and the bunged-up eye throbbed. "You could have had fire whenever you wanted. But you didn't. You came sneaking up like a thief and stole Piggy's glasses!" "Say that again!" "Thief! Thief!" Piggy screamed. "Ralph! Mind me!" Jack made a rush and stabbed at Ralph's chest with his spear. Ralph sensed the position of the weapon from the glimpse he caught of Jack's arm and put the thrust aside with his own butt. Then he brought the end round and caught Jack a stinger across the ear. They were chest to chest, breathing fiercely, pushing and glaring. "Who's a thief?" "You are!" Jack wrenched free and swung at Ralph with his spear. By common consent they were using the spears as sabers now, no longer daring the lethal points. The blow struck Ralph's spear and slid down, to fall agonizingly on his fingers. Then they were apart once more, their positions reversed, Jack toward the Castle Rock and Ralph on the outside toward the island. Both boys were breathing very heavily. "Come on then--" "Come on--" Truculently they squared up to each other but kept just out of fighting distance. "You come on and see what you get!" "You come on--" Piggy clutching the ground was trying to attract Ralph's attention. Ralph moved, bent down, kept a wary eye on Jack. "Ralph--remember what we came for. The fire. My specs." Ralph nodded. He relaxed his fighting muscles, stood easily and grounded the butt of his spear. Jack watched him inscrutably through his paint. Ralph glanced up at the pinnacles, then toward the group of savages. "Listen. We've come to say this. First you've got to give back Piggy's specs. If he hasn't got them he can't see. You aren't playing the game--" The tribe of painted savages giggled and Ralph's mind faltered. He pushed his hair up and gazed at the green and black mask before him, trying to remember what Jack looked like. Piggy whispered. "And the fire." "Oh yes. Then about the fire. I say this again. I've been saying it ever since we dropped in." He held out his spear and pointed at the savages. "Your only hope is keeping a signal fire going as long as there's light to see. Then maybe a ship'll notice the smoke and come and rescue us and take us home. But without that smoke we've got to wait till some ship comes by accident. We might wait years; till we were old--" The


many virtues and remarkable personal charms I often have heard my mother and father speak. Poor woman," he murmured sadly. With deep reverence and solemnity the bodies of the late Lord and Lady Greystoke were buried beside their little African cabin, and between them was placed the tiny skeleton of the baby of Kala, the ape. As Mr. Philander was placing the frail bones of the infant in a bit of sail cloth, he examined the skull minutely. Then he called Professor Porter to his side, and the two argued in low tones for several minutes. "Most remarkable, most remarkable," said Professor Porter. "Bless me," said Mr. Philander, "we must acquaint Mr. Clayton with our discovery at once." "Tut, tut, Mr. Philander, tut, tut!" remonstrated Professor Archimedes Q. Porter. "`Let the dead past bury its Chapter 17 dead.'" And so the white-haired old man repeated the burial service over this strange grave, while his four companions stood with bowed and uncovered heads about him. From the trees Tarzan of the Apes watched the solemn ceremony; but most of all he watched the sweet face and graceful figure of Jane Porter. In his savage, untutored breast new emotions were stirring. He could not fathom them. He wondered why he felt so great an interest in these people--why he had gone to such pains to save the three men. But he did not wonder why he had torn Sabor from the tender flesh of the strange girl. Surely the men were stupid and ridiculous and cowardly. Even Manu, the monkey, was more intelligent than they. If these were creatures of his own kind he was doubtful if his past pride in blood was warranted. But the girl, ah--that was a different matter. He did not reason here. He knew that she was created to be protected, and that he was created to protect her. He wondered why they had dug a great hole in the ground merely to bury dry bones. Surely there was no sense in that; no one wanted to steal dry bones. Had there been meat upon them he could have understood, for thus alone might one keep his meat from Dango, the hyena, and the other robbers of the jungle. When the grave had been filled with earth the little party turned back toward the cabin, and Esmeralda, still weeping copiously for the two she had never heard of before today, and who had been dead twenty years, chanced to glance toward the harbor. Instantly her tears ceased. "Look at them low down white trash out there!" she shrilled, pointing toward the Arrow. "They-all's a desecrating us, right here on this here perverted island." And, sure enough, the Arrow was being worked toward the open sea, slowly, through the harbor's entrance. "They promised to leave us firearms and ammunition," said Clayton. "The merciless beasts!" "It is the work of that fellow they call Snipes, I am sure," said Jane. "King was a scoundrel, but he had a little sense of humanity. If they had not killed him I know that


for it was now plain that the Great Worm would assail them and ravage their land, and not pass by, returning to Angband, as they had hoped. They sought therefore the counsel of Turambar; and he counselled them that it was vain to go against Glaurung with all their force, for only by cunning and good fortune could they defeat him. He offered therefore himself to seek the dragon on the borders of the land, and bade the rest of the people to remain at Ephel Brandir, but to prepare for flight. For if Glaurung had the victory, he would come first to the woodmen's homes to destroy them, and they could not hope to withstand him; but if they then scattered far and wide, then many might escape, for Glaurung would not take up his dwelling in Brethil, and would return soon to Nargothrond. Then Turambar asked for companions willing to aid him in his peril; and Dorlas stood forth, but no others. Therefore Dorlas upbraided the people, and spoke scorn of Brandir, who could not play the part of the heir of the house of Haleth; and Brandir was shamed before his people, and was bitter at heart. But Hunthor, kinsman of Brandir, asked his leave to go in his stead. Then Turambar said farewell to Nniel, and she was filled with fear and foreboding, and their parting was sorrowful; but Turambar set out with his two companions and went to Nen Girith. Then Nniel being unable to endure her fear, and unwilling to wait in the Ephel tidings of Turambar's fortune, set forth after him, and a great company went with her. At this Brandir was filled all the more with dread, and he sought to dissuade her and the people that would go with her from this rashness, but they heeded him not. Therefore he renounced his lordship, and all love for the people that had scorned him, and having naught left but his love for Nniel he girt himself with a sword and went after her; but being lame he fell far behind. Now Turambar came to Nen Girith at sundown, and there he learned that Glaurung lay on the brink of the high shores of Teiglin, and was like to move when night fell. Then he called those tidings good; for the dragon lay at Cabed-en-Aras, where the river ran in a deep and narrow gorge that a hunted deer might overleap, and Turambar thought that he would seek no further, but would attempt to pass over the gorge. Therefore he purposed to creep down at dusk, and descend into the ravine under night, and cross over the wild water; and then to climb up the further cliff, and so come to the dragon beneath his guard. This counsel he took, but the heart of Dorlas failed when they came to the races of Teiglin in the dark, and he dared not attempt the perilous crossing, but drew back and lurked in the woods, burdened with shame. Turambar and Hunthor, nonetheless, crossed over in safety, for


trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's conscience. The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather --------------------------------------------------------- -125- Injun Joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts at present. --------------------------------------------------------- -126- Chapter XII ONE of the reasons why Tom's mind had drifted away from its secret troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest itself about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to "whistle her down the wind," but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill. What if she should die! There was distraction in the thought. He no longer took an interest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness left. He put his hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to try all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those people who are infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of producing health or mending it. She was an inveterate experimenter in these things. When something fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else that came handy. She was --------------------------------------------------------- -127- a subscriber for all the "Health" periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the "rot" they contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what frame of mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her health-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they had recommended the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest as the day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered together her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with "hell following after." But she never suspected that she was not an angel of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering neighbors. The water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low condition was a windfall to her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood


know if he knew I was going to be here or if Lanier summoned him. But when he sees me, I take off toward him. Not in a romantic-movie, slow-motion kind of way. In an I’m-in-the-Olympics-and-I’m-going-for-the-gold kind of way. He jogs down the steps toward me, and I know that I don’t have to convince him to change his mind. I leap into his arms and he kisses me, hard, and it is only then that I realize I am crying. “Hey,” he whispers, putting me down and wiping my eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to cry. I’m here and I’m not letting you walk away from me again.” He takes my hand, and as I turn, Lanier appears out of nowhere and sits on a nearby bench. She waves tentatively and pats the spot on the seat beside her. I turn to Huff and raise my eyebrows. He nods with a soft smile and hangs back as I walk over to her and sit down. I don’t know what to say. But fortunately, she seems like she knows just where to start. “I want you to know, first and foremost, that what I’m about to say has nothing to do with what you tried to do for me yesterday.” I venture a small smile. “I think I finally like Wendy now.” I look out over the softball field where a game seems to be starting—with, like, a lot of players. Has June organized some sort of fundraiser? Did she tell me about it and I forgot? Or is this Lanier’s surprise? She organized a fundraiser? “You are the best friend in the world to me,” she says, bringing my attention back to her, “and the fact that you didn’t even tell Huff you were breaking his heart because of me was pretty big. You could have blamed me. I would have understood.” I shrug. “Well, I think it would have hurt him less. But I felt like pitting the two of you against each other would have hurt you both in the long run.” Lanier nods. “I know.” She takes my hand, and I let her. I’m not sure I want to, but I am so filled with relief knowing that Huff and I are at least breathing the same air again that anything and everything feels okay. “But what I want to say to you,” Lanier continues, “is that I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I never, ever should have said what I did, and I didn’t mean it.” “Yes, you did,” I say. “You did mean it.” She pauses. “Well, maybe in the heat of the moment I did. But I was wrong. You are nothing like your mother. I have lived so much of your sobriety with you, and I’m so proud of you. And I know better than anyone on the planet that, when you love someone, when you decide to pledge your loyalty to something, you give it everything you have. No one has been a recipient of that unconditional love more than


could go to sleep before you leave me," he said rather shyly. "Shut your eyes," said Mary, drawing her footstool closer, "and I will do what my Ayah used to do in India. I will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low." "I should like that perhaps," he said drowsily. Somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in Hindustani. "That is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound. CHAPTER XIV A YOUNG RAJAH The moor was hidden in mist when the morning came, and the rain had not stopped pouring down. There could be no going out of doors. Martha was so busy that Mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery. She came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else. "What's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as they sat down. "Tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say." "I have. I have found out what the crying was," said Mary. Martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes. "Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!" "I heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I got up and went to see where it came from. It was Colin. I found him." Martha's face became red with fright. "Eh! Miss Mary!" she said half crying. "Tha' shouldn't have done it--tha' shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble. I never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me in trouble. I shall lose my place and what'll mother do!" "You won't lose your place," said Mary. "He was glad I came. We talked and talked and he said he was glad I came." "Was he?" cried Martha. "Art tha' sure? Tha' doesn't know what he's like when anything vexes him. He's a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he's in a passion he'll fair scream just to frighten us. He knows us daren't call our souls our own." "He wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked him if I should go away and he made me stay. He asked me questions and I sat on a big footstool and talked to him about India and about the robin and gardens. He wouldn't let me go. He let me see his mother's picture. Before I left him I sang him to sleep." Martha fairly gasped with amazement. "I can scarcely believe thee!" she protested. "It's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den. If he'd been like he is most times


feet and taking the badge with her to show it to her companions. “No—please,” Reina begged, desperate not to be abandoned. Her chest flared again, punishing her. She moaned and twisted in agony like an earthworm under the sun. “Javier, you must heal her!” The woman’s words were faint and far away. “Use healing galio.” Reina couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She knew she was slipping away. “Do I look like a nurse to you?” In some ways, Reina was grateful for it. “Please, act like you have a droplet of human blood in you for once in your life. I command it.” She had failed in her journey, right as she was reaching Sadul Fuerte. If anything, she was a fool for thinking she could escape her fate at all. “Please, Celeste, pay no heed to her baubles. The wretch is a thieving nozariel. How else would she get her hands on something like this?” Reina’s trembling fingers reached into the torn jacket and produced the letter. She had the strength for a few last words. And if this was going to be the end, then she might as well say them. “I am no thief. I’m here to meet my grandmother, Ursulina Duvianos.” The impact of her head against a hard surface yanked Reina back to reality. It flared every nerve of pain like jabbing knives. She had been thrown into a shadowed room, where the scent of dust and manure pervaded the stagnant air. At least it was warmer than it had been, and the bedding was softer than the mountain ground. Voices approached and someone entered. Reina bit down the ache to sit up and take stock of her surroundings. The dormitory was small, with plain walls and a wooden rosary nailed to the wall opposite her. The young valco woman named Celeste stood by the doorway. She fidgeted with Reina’s badge, which was the only source of light as dusk settled over the world outside. As if she’d been waiting for Reina to wake, Celeste said, “Stay here, and don’t go anywhere else.” “I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.” Her heart pounded in a mad race to outrun the pain. A contest it couldn’t win. “Please return my badge.” “If you are who you say you are, then I must take it with me.” Celeste didn’t give Reina a chance for rebuttal, and Reina would have howled at her for leaving the room with her badge were she not so weak. She wished sleep would claim her a second time. Was she going to die? The memory of the shadowed devils with the grinning, blunt teeth returned the moment her eyes closed. So she forced herself to stare at the ceiling instead. Soon, the hum of a hushed argument filled the hall outside the room. The argument ended the moment the newcomers reached the doorway. Celeste brought reinforcements: a middle-aged woman who commanded Reina’s complete attention as she entered the room. The woman wore a billowing long-sleeved blue dress with fine golden embroidery.


mistake I made in thinking that you were Sir Henry. Please forget the words I said, which have no application whatever to you." "But I can't forget them, Miss Stapleton," said I. "I am Sir Henry's friend, and his welfare is a very close concern of mine. Tell me why it was that you were so eager that Sir Henry should return to London." "A woman's whim, Dr. Watson. When you know me better you will understand that I cannot always give reasons for what I say or do." "No, no. I remember the thrill in your voice. I remembe the look in your eyes. Please, please, be frank with me, Miss Stapleton, for ever since I have been here I have been conscious of shadows all round me. Life has become like that great Grimpen Mire, with little green patches everywhere into which one may sink and with no guide to point the track. Tell me then what it was that you meant, and I will promise to convey your warning to Sir Henry." An expression of irresolution passed for an instant over her face, but her eyes had hardened again when she answered me. "You make too much of it, Dr. Watson," said she. "My brother and I were very much shocked by the death of Sir Charles. We knew him very intimately, for his favourite walk was over the moor to our house. He was deeply impressed with the curse which hung over the family, and when this tragedy came I naturally felt that there must be some grounds for the fears which he had expressed. I was distressed therefore when another member of the family came down to live here, and I felt that he should be warned of the danger which he will run. That was all which I intended to convey. "But what is the danger?" "You know the story of the hound?" "I do not believe in such nonsense." "But I do. If you have any influence with Sir Henry, take him away from a place which has always been fatal to his family. The world is wide. Why should he wish to live at the place of danger?" "Because it is the place of danger. That is Sir Henry's nature. I fear that unless you can give me some more definite informa- tion than this it would be impossible to get him to move." "I cannot say anything definite, for I do not know anything definite." "I would ask you one more question, Miss Stapleton. If you meant no more than this when you first spoke to me, why should you not wish your brother to overhear what you said? There is nothing to which he, or anyone else, could object." "My brother is very anxious to have the Hall inhabited, for he thinks it is for the good of the poor folk upon the moor. He would be very angry if he knew that I have said anything which might induce Sir Henry to go away. But I have done my duty now


making a huge mistake doing this.” “You’re not. In fact, I wrote it on my list, don’t you know? ‘Fizzy does a crazy romance reality show when she’s thirty-seven and has the time of her life.’ ” eleven FIZZY An unexpected upside to bringing a Hot DILF to my first signing in months is that readers are much less concerned with when my next book will be published and much more interested in who the giant man lingering in the background is. There were a few murmurs and glances during the Q and A portion of the event, but by the time the signing starts, every person in line is trying to figure out who the six-foot-five piece of ass over there talking to my dad is. I know this because they’re all breaking their necks trying to keep track of him as the line weaves around bookshelves. Several have come right out and asked me. My answers have ranged from “He’s my security detail” to “He’s my mail-order groom.” Listen, I get it. Catching sight of the Casual DILF on my doorstep earlier caught me off guard. Gone was the man in the starched shirt sitting in a pristine office. This version of Hot Brit looks more like a hot lumberjack, in a soft faded flannel shirt and worn jeans with much-loved sneakers. His hair falls over his forehead; his eyes seem unbelievably bright for someone standing in the dark corner of a bookstore. In One for the Road, I described the eyes of the hero, Jack Sparling, this way—“illuminated from within,” I think it was—but I’ve never really seen it in person. Except— I’m mentally jerked backward, tunneled in reverse to the moment with Jess a couple months ago in the bar when I looked across the room and met eyes with the man in the suit, rumpled hair, jaw like a blade. He’d looked at me like he wanted to meet in the hallway and fuck me into next month. Is this really the same guy? I can’t believe all this was hiding under that stiff, gelled hair, a bright toothpaste-ad smile, and a crisp black suit. I look down at my lap, daring the flutter to linger. But it fades out, and I’m dropped back into the present day when the reader in front of me asks me if I’m okay. “Gas,” I tell her with a grin, and she laughs a familiar oh, Fizzy laugh and takes her signed books. But I’m still feeling the echo of interest in my lower torso. Was the pants flutter because I was thinking about Jack Sparling? His sex scenes were some of the most fun to write, that dirty little rascal. Or was it… from him? Intrigued, I look up across the room at Connor again. He’s so taken with my dad he’s barely seemed to register how much mental salivation is being aimed in his direction. I knew he’d get along with the unstoppable Dr. Ming Chen. My father is an objectively charismatic man with a million stories for


marriage hidden or that makes Dunstan rob Silas. 5. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PAST Raveloe is a society strongly connected to its past. In contrast, the town Silas comes from seems impersonal and transient--when Silas returns thirty-two years later, Lantern-Yard has been literally wiped off the face of the Earth. Individuals in this book also are connected to their own pasts in different degrees. Godfrey hopes to bury his past. Silas and Eppie cherish their past together. As Silas is redeemed by his love for Eppie, he regains a sense of his past, and memory heals him. Attachment to the past can be stultifying, however, for characters like Squire Cass and Nancy Lammeter. Look at the role played in this novel by local traditions, personal memories, and familiar objects or places. By her own comments, then, Eliot gives this story, set in the past, a meaning for her own modern world. 6. OTHER THEMES In Silas Marner, Eliot also examines the class system of England in microcosm (mark the differences between the upper and lower classes, and judge Eliot's comments on them). Connected to this is her belief in the importance of work. The villagers understand the value of having a craft or skill and the role this gives one in a community. Silas clings to his craft when all else is taken from him. In the upper class, the Lammeter girls understand hard work, but the Cass sons are dangerously idle. In examining the social structure of Raveloe, however, Eliot defines a society that no longer exists. In describing Raveloe particularly by comparing it to the town Silas comes from--she depicts an England that may have been destroyed by the spread of the Industrial Revolution. ^^^^^^^^^^ SILAS MARNER: STYLE At her best, George Eliot writes in a strong, precise style, each word chosen carefully. At her worst, her sentences circle around what she's trying to say, stringing out clauses loaded with abstract, colorless words. In the second paragraph of the book, for example, she starts off with a plain sentence that sets up Silas' situation in simple, concrete words. But by the end of the paragraph she's tangled up in long, meandering sentences, using abstract terms like "a shadowy conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting harm." This puts some readers off before they've even gotten into the book. When George Eliot is not speaking to the reader directly, however, her style is less self-conscious. Often she takes on the voice of a village gossip to show the community's view of Silas; her language becomes casual, humorous, and colloquial. (See for example the fifth sentence in that second paragraph, beginning "They had, perhaps, heard their mothers and fathers hint....") When she takes on the voice of an upperclass observer, she uses a light, arch irony. (See the first paragraph of Chapter 3.) Her scenes of straight dialogue can also be surprisingly dramatic, as characters use distinctive dialects, and speeches move energetically back and forth. Woven into the structure of the novel is a complex