were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman -- mdash; girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. "Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did `tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head. "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met hem in some of his moods. The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round it. "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively. "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite. Before


also had a pathological inability to discuss death. When their uncle Arthur had a heart attack and drove his riding lawn mower through a greenhouse, she’d told Mark and Louise that she and their dad were going to Myrtle Beach for a vacation, then parked them with Aunt Honey. When Sue Estes’s older sister died of leukemia in fifth grade, Louise’s mom had told her she was too young to go to the funeral. Her friendship with Sue was never the same after that. Louise’s mom had claimed to be allergic to all pets, including goldfish, for their entire childhoods, and it wasn’t until Louise got out of grad school that her mom revealed she’d simply never wanted anything in the house that might die. “It would have upset you and your brother too much,” she’d explained. When Louise had Poppy, she vowed to be honest about death. She knew that stating the facts plainly would be the best way for Poppy to understand that death was part of life. She would answer all Poppy’s questions with absolute honesty, and if she didn’t know something they’d figure out the answer together. “I’m going to Charleston tomorrow,” Louise told Poppy that night, sitting on the story-time chair beside her bed, in the glow of the plastic goose lamp. “And I want you to understand why. Your grandmother and grandfather had a very bad accident.” Louise saw safety glass exploding, metal tearing and twisting. “And their bodies got hurt very badly. They got hurt so badly that they stopped working. And your grandmother and grandfather died.” Poppy shot up in bed, smashing into Louise like a cannonball, wrapping her arms around her ribs too tight, bursting into a long, keening wail. “No!” Poppy screamed. “No! No!” Louise tried to explain that it was okay, that she was sad, too, that they would be sad together and that being sad when someone died was normal, but every time she started to speak, Poppy wiped her face back and forth against Louise like she was trying to scrape it off, screaming, “No! No! No!” Finally, when she realized Poppy wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, Louise eased herself up onto the bed and held her daughter in her arms until Poppy cried herself to sleep. So much for explaining death the healthy way. — Louise held Poppy’s feverish, limp body for hours, wishing harder than she’d ever wished before that for just sixty seconds someone would hold her, but no one holds moms. She remembered her mom holding her in her lap while they sat in Dr. Rector’s waiting room, where it smelled like alcohol swabs and finger pricks, distracting Louise by telling her what all the other children were there for. “That little boy over there?” her mom had said, pointing to a six-year-old picking his nose. “He picked his nose so much that all he can smell now are his fingerprints. They’re getting him a nose transplant. And that one chewing his mother’s purse strap? They accidentally swapped his brain for a dog’s. That


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was the belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of several hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And before nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole watching nervous countryside. Going from whispering mouth to mouth, swift and certain over the length and breadth of the county, passed the story of the murder of Mr. Wicksteed. If our supposition that the Invisible Man's refuge was the Hintondean thickets, then we must suppose that in the early afternoon he sallied out again bent upon some project that involved the use of a weapon. We cannot know what the project was, but the evidence that he had the iron rod in hand before he met Wicksteed is to me at least overwhelming. We can know nothing of the details of the encounter. It occurred on the edge of a gravel pit, not two hundred yards from Lord Burdock's Lodge gate. Everything points to a desperate struggle,--the trampled ground, the numerous wounds Mr. Wicksteed received, his splintered walking-stick; but why the attack was made--save in a murderous frenzy--it is impossible to imagine. Indeed the theory of madness is almost unavoidable. Mr. Wicksteed was a man of forty-five or forty-six, steward to Lord Burdock, of inoffensive habits and appearance, the very last person in the world to provoke such a terrible antagonist. Against him it would seem the Invisible Man used an iron rod dragged from a broken piece of fence. He stopped this quiet man, going quietly home to his midday meal, attacked him, beat down his feeble defences, broke his arm, felled him, and smashed his head to a jelly. He must have dragged this rod out of the fencing before he met his victim; he must have been carrying it ready in his hand. Only two details beyond what has already been stated seem to bear on the matter. One is the circumstance that the gravel pit was not in Mr. Wicksteed's direct path home, but nearly a couple of hundred yards out of his way. The other is the assertion of a little girl to the effect that, going to her afternoon school, she saw the murdered man "trotting" in a peculiar manner across a field towards the gravel pit. Her pantomime of his action suggests a man pursuing something on the ground before him and striking at it ever and again with his walking-stick. She was the last person to see him alive. He passed out of her sight to his death, the struggle being hidden from her only by a clump of beech trees and a slight depression in the ground. Now this, to the present writer's mind at least, lifts the murder out of the realm of the absolutely wanton. We may imagine that Griffin had taken the rod as a weapon indeed, but without any deliberate intention of using it in murder. Wicksteed may then have come by and noticed this rod inexplicably moving through the air. Without any


yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavored to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial." "The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest." "Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me. It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus: "DEAR MR. HOLMES:--I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully, VIOLET HUNTER." "Do you know the young lady?" I asked. "Not I." "It is half-past ten now." "Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring." "It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also." "Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question." As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world. "You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do." "Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you." I could see that Holmes was favorably impressed by the


and wrote on it, under a neat question mark, the remaining numbers, 2, 4, 5, 8, 10, and asked the huissier to give it to the chef de partie. Soon it came back with the names filled in. Number 2, still empty, was to be Carmel Delane, the American film star with alimony from three husbands to burn and, Bond assumed, a call on still more from whoever her present companion at Royale might be. With her sanguine temperament she would play gaily and with panache and might run into a vein of luck. Then came Lady Danvers at Number 3 and Numbers 4 and 5 were a Mr and Mrs Du Pont, rich-looking and might or might not have some of the real Du Pont money behind them. Bond guessed they would be stayers. They both had a business-like look about them and were talking together easily and cheerfully as if they felt very much at home at the big game. Bond was quite happy to have them next to him - Mrs Du Pont sat at Number 5 - and he felt prepared to share with them or with Monsieur Sixte on his right, if they found themselves faced with too big a bank. At Number 8 was the Maharajah of a small Indian state, probably with all his wartime sterling balances to play with. Bond's experience told him that few of the Asiatic races were courageous gamblers, even the much-vaunted Chinese being inclined to lose heart if the going was bad. But the Maharajah would probably stay in the game and stand some heavy losses if they were gradual. Number 10 was a prosperous-looking young Italian, Signor Tomelli, who possibly had plenty of money from rackrents in Milan and would probably play a dashing and foolish game. He might lose his temper and make a scene. Bond had just finished his sketchy summing-up of the players when Le Chiffre, with the silence and economy of movement of a big fish, came through the opening in the brass rail and, with a cold smile of welcome for the table, took his place directly opposite Bond in the banker's chair. With the same economy of movements the thick slab of cards which the croupier had placed on the table squarely between his blunt relaxed hands. Then, as the croupier fitted the six packs with one swift exact motion into the metal and wooden shoe, Le Chiffre said something quietly to him. 'Messieurs, mesdames, les jeux sont faits. Un banco de cinq cent mille,' and as the Greek at Number 1 tapped the table in front of his fat pile of hundred-mille plaques, 'Le banco est fait.' Le Chiffre crouched over the shoe. He gave it a short deliberate slap to settle the cards, the first of which showed its semicircular pale pink tongue through the slanting aluminium mouth of the shoe. Then, with a thick white fore-finger he pressed gently on the pink tongue and slipped out the first card six inches or a foot towards the Greek on his right


her, and Archer jumped into the brougham at her side. She turned to him with a triumphant smile and their hands clasped under her veil. "Darling!" Archer said--and suddenly the same black abyss yawned before him and he felt himself sinking into it, deeper and deeper, while his voice rambled on smoothly and cheerfully: "Yes, of course I thought I'd lost the ring; no wedding would be complete if the poor devil of a bridegroom didn't go through that. But you DID keep me waiting, you know! I had time to think of every horror that might possibly happen." She surprised him by turning, in full Fifth Avenue, and flinging her arms about his neck. "But none ever CAN happen now, can it, Newland, as long as we two are together?" Every detail of the day had been so carefully thought out that the young couple, after the wedding-breakfast, had ample time to put on their travelling-clothes, descend the wide Mingott stairs between laughing bridesmaids and weeping parents, and get into the brougham under the traditional shower of rice and satin slippers; and there was still half an hour left in which to drive to the station, buy the last weeklies at the bookstall with the air of seasoned travellers, and settle themselves in the reserved compartment in which May's maid had already placed her dove-coloured travelling cloak and glaringly new dressing-bag from London. The old du Lac aunts at Rhinebeck had put their house at the disposal of the bridal couple, with a readiness inspired by the prospect of spending a week in New York with Mrs. Archer; and Archer, glad to escape the usual "bridal suite" in a Philadelphia or Baltimore hotel, had accepted with an equal alacrity. May was enchanted at the idea of going to the country, and childishly amused at the vain efforts of the eight bridesmaids to discover where their mysterious retreat was situated. It was thought "very English" to have a country-house lent to one, and the fact gave a last touch of distinction to what was generally conceded to be the most brilliant wedding of the year; but where the house was no one was permitted to know, except the parents of bride and groom, who, when taxed with the knowledge, pursed their lips and said mysteriously: "Ah, they didn't tell us--" which was manifestly true, since there was no need to. Once they were settled in their compartment, and the train, shaking off the endless wooden suburbs, had pushed out into the pale landscape of spring, talk became easier than Archer had expected. May was still, in look and tone, the simple girl of yesterday, eager to compare notes with him as to the incidents of the wedding, and discussing them as impartially as a bridesmaid talking it all over with an usher. At first Archer had fancied that this detachment was the disguise of an inward tremor; but her clear eyes revealed only the most tranquil unawareness. She was alone for the first time with her husband; but her husband was only


to wait on late custom. She saw no reason to rush at changing things around. She would have the rest of her life to do as she pleased. Most of the day she was at the store, but at night she was there in the big house and sometimes it creaked and cried all night under the weight of lonesomeness. Then she’d lie awake in bed asking lonesomeness some questions. She asked if she wanted to leave and go back where she had come from and try to find her mother. Maybe tend her grandmother’s grave. Sort of look over the old stamping ground generally. Digging around inside of herself like that she found that she had no interest in that seldom-seen mother at all. She hated her grandmother and had hidden it from herself all these years under a cloak of pity. She had been getting ready for her great journey to the horizons in search of people; it was important to all the world that she should find them and they find her. But she had been whipped like a cur dog, and run off down a back road after things. It was all according to the way you see things. Some people could look at a mud-puddle Their Eyes Were Watching God 107 and see an ocean with ships. But Nanny belonged to that other kind that loved to deal in scraps. Here Nanny had taken the biggest thing God ever made, the horizon—for no matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you—and pinched it in to such a little bit of a thing that she could tie it about her granddaughter’s neck tight enough to choke her. She hated the old woman who had twisted her so in the name of love. Most humans didn’t love one another nohow, and this mislove was so strong that even common blood couldn’t overcome it all the time. She had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around. But she had been set in the market-place to sell. Been set for still-bait. When God had made The Man, he made him out of stuff that sung all the time and glittered all over. Then after that some angels got jealous and chopped him into mil- lions of pieces, but still he glittered and hummed. So they beat him down to nothing but sparks but each little spark had a shine and a song. So they covered each one over with mud. And the lonesomeness in the sparks make them hunt for one another, but the mud is deaf and dumb. Like all the other tumbling mud-balls, Janie had tried to show her shine. Janie found out very soon that her widowhood and prop- erty was a great challenge in South Florida. Before Jody had been dead a month, she noticed how often men who had never been intimates of Joe, drove considerable distances to ask after her welfare and offer their services


like that. I’m not trying to romance her. I love her. She loves me. She’s just not ready yet. She’ll come to it in time.” This stupid fucker is so far out of his league he has no idea the height of the wall. “You should have taken her to an old movie. The Marx Brothers, maybe.” He stares at me. Figure he genuinely has no idea why the fuck I would say something like that. He looks almost grateful. “Does she—does she like the Marx Brothers? Did she say that to you when you saw her?” “Yeah. She loves the Marx Brothers, and she talks to bears.” He winces. He knows about the bears. “She not well, Maurice?” “She’s fine.” “I’m not sure she is. Athena doesn’t think so.” “Athena has no idea. She’s hardly ever there. She just waltzes in, like a teenager. I’m surprised she doesn’t bring her laundry.” “Bit of a problem for you if Elaine gets another dose, isn’t it? You’re not due for decades. She’ll overmatch you.” In her bed, not that he’s ever going there. I’d put money down he’s wrong about her. “Hardly your business, Sounder.” “Man, you were happy with the Marx Brothers thing, when you thought I had the inside track. Maybe I’m just looking out for you.” Doublewide chuckles. I ignore him. “Afforestation chat. All night, was it?” “Yes. All evening, anyway.” “What time did you get home?” “I’m not sure. Late.” “Elaine can verify all this?” “I don’t see why she should.” I don’t see how she could. Lady talks to actual bears. Court would probably not be hugely impressed, whoever she used to be married to. But Maurice doesn’t see the problem. Can’t see it. So: “Because it forms part of a criminal investigation I’m undertaking officially on behalf of the police, Maurice.” Priscilla the driver-cook comes back. I wonder if she’s brought sundaes, but she hasn’t. Doublewide raises his eyebrows at her. “Maurice Tonfamecasca is right this second en route to Syros,” she says. “I spoke to his PA.” “Well, now,” I look back at Maurice. “Well, now. First you better tell me about Peter and Lillian, and then anything else I want to know that Stefan might be keeping from me, and then you and Mr. Nugent will have to work out how to reassure him that you won’t blab. Otherwise it seems to me you’ll never come back from Greece, on account of being eaten by pigs right here. Stefan will look for you for a while, but not for ever.” I shrug, and let the truth of that sink in. “Stefan takes pride in not really giving a shit, doesn’t he? In outliving everything, even his own emotional attachments. Assuming he ever liked you in the first place. Do you think he likes you, Maurice? Because he gave me to understand he did not. Like I think it’s possible he likes you even less than he likes me, and he really does not like me.” Maurice won’t look at me. Yeah, he knows what Stefan


you try to jump into the pool from the observation deck!” I said, “But they did toxicology on her, and she was only a little drunk, right?” “What’s weird,” Britt said, “is there was some alcohol in her bloodstream, but there was lots in her stomach that hadn’t been absorbed yet. So, like, she drank a lot but she died before she was drunk.” I said, “Oh, right.” I had known this at one point—it was probably in one of the articles Fran had sent—but I hadn’t put it together with—with what? There was a word-on-my-tongue feeling, some Jungian breakthrough that wouldn’t break through. Britt said, “You know they used that in the trial? Like, if she was drinking right before she died, but she wasn’t in the woods with those kids, she somehow got alcohol at the gym. So the prosecution decides it must have come from Omar. How naïve is that? Like only an adult would have booze?” The flask. The flask in the video, in Beth Docherty’s hand. I didn’t say anything. Because I was still piecing it together, and because I was being recorded. They’d probably passed the flask backstage as the show wound down, as they pre-gamed for the mattresses. There were kids who, if they’d been asked the right question soon enough, if they’d been honest enough, might have said they saw Thalia drink. They might have seen her come back after her last scene and gulp down whatever was left. I said, “Could they tell what kind of alcohol it was?” and Britt shrugged. It would have been vodka in that flask, for sure. Beth always drank vodka and still sprayed her mouth with Binaca after, would breathe in your face and ask if you could smell anything. Or rather, she’d do it to boys she liked, an excuse to breathe on them. If it was vodka in Thalia’s stomach—well, that wouldn’t prove anything. But it might suggest she died soon after the end of the show. And what would that mean? That she went straight to Omar’s, that he killed her almost immediately? That he was waiting backstage, even, and whatever she mouthed into the wings was to him? It certainly wasn’t to you; you were down in the pit. Britt said, “Do you think?” “I’m sorry?” “That the police got it from you?” I looked at her, baffled; I’d missed a few sentences. “The idea that she was on drugs. That was what the prosecution argued, that she’d been sleeping with Omar in exchange for drugs. Do you think they based that on the story you told them?” My mind pinwheeled, and then my guts did. That couldn’t be it, couldn’t be the only reason. They had to know I wasn’t even in that crowd. But did they? Were they actually tuned in to the fact that my too-old J.Crew skirt meant I wasn’t really friends with Thalia? I could see how dots would get connected, how the detectives would write the word DRUGS on their yellow pad, circle it, how they’d start


our hike dawns so bright and so frosty, I am in serious danger of snow blindness. It turns out Scotland is like a fear factor version of England, in that almost everything’s the same but 10,000 times more extreme. The sky? Bluer. The grass? Greener. Unfortunately, the cold is also colder, and the morning dew is wetter. I learned that last part around 6:00 a.m., when I was woken up by the drip-drip-drip of icy water on my nose. That’s right. Our tent let in water. I mean, Raj says it was condensation and called it “perfectly natural” but the point is…outside water touched my face. I may never sleep again. I’m still scrubbing at my nose in absentminded disgust when Celine appears, looking ridiculously gorgeous for a girl who slept on the ground last night like the rest of us. Her cheeks are shiny and rounded by her way-too-chirpy smile. She makes her plain black rain jacket look Instagram-worthy, and the straps of her Breakspeare-issued rucksack are doing magnificent things to her boobs. If I don’t die of horror during this expedition, I might die of lust instead. “Hey,” she says to Raj, then catches my wrist and tugs my hand off my face. I tangle our fingers together. She gives me a look and pulls gently away because we are not a couple. We are next-to-nothing. I can only touch her in private, and that might never change. Every time I remember those facts, a section of my stomach shrivels up and curls in on itself. At this rate I won’t have anywhere to put my food and I’ll be permanently nauseous. “Your nose is red,” she murmurs. I roll my lips inward, curl my hand into a fist, and remind myself of a few things. You offered her this. You mostly enjoy this. And it’s not forever. “Are you okay?” Celine nudges me. “Yeah.” I’m getting myself together. Remembering the plan, because that’s a thing I do now: I have plans to reach my goals, and I execute them. I learned that from Celine. Right now, my plans go something like this: Goal A: Become a writer. Apply to uni in Leeds and Bristol, where I’ll study English. ✓ Receive acceptance letters. ? Tell parents. X I’m still working on that last one. And then there’s Goal B: Date Celine. Unfortunately, this plan’s not quite as straightforward, but it goes something like this: Kiss Celine a lot. ✓ Show her she can trust me. ? Confess my true feelings and ask her for more (third time’s the charm). X Things get complicated after that because the rest is up to Cel. Either she’ll say YES PLEASE! and I will live the rest of my life in a frankly indecent state of joy (that’s my preferred outcome), or she’ll say no. She’ll say, It’s not about trust. She’ll say, I’m just not that into you. And I’ll have to get over it, somehow, and fall out of—you know, stop caring about her like that, somehow, and just spend the rest


okay.’ ‘And there you are, Janice.’ Geoff pointed to several chickens. ‘There’s Mrs B’Gurk – and look, here are the others – four, five – they’re all fine.’ ‘Thank goodness.’ Janice hugged the hen against her face. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Susan.’ Geoff swept up another hen and stroked the fluffy feathers. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’re all right now.’ Lin wasn’t sure if he was talking to the hen or to Janice. Then Janice’s face crumpled angrily. ‘It’s Nadine – George’s pig. She’ll have been here and knocked down the hen house – it’s a wonder she didn’t eat the chickens.’ ‘It’s all cool, Mum…’ Jack said calmly. ‘No, your mother has a point,’ Geoff snapped. ‘That pig wanders everywhere. It needs to be kept under control.’ ‘Penny is always saying it should go to the abattoir,’ Janice grunted. ‘I’ll tell her, I’m on her side. We’ll get the village to sign a petition.’ She rocked the chicken. ‘Oh, Susan, that horrible pig might have killed you.’ ‘It was probably the wind blew the henhouse down…’ Jack suggested. ‘In August?’ Geoff retorted. ‘It will be that bloody pig. Your mum’s right.’ Lin tried to look sympathetic, but her mind was elsewhere. Geoff was still ranting. ‘I’m going to tell George exactly what I think of him and that animal, coming onto our land.’ ‘I agree.’ Janice folded her arms. ‘It ate Neil’s potatoes, slept right there on the veg patch, didn’t it, Lin? Right under your nose…’ ‘Right under my nose…’ Lin agreed sadly. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ Geoff agreed. ‘It shouldn’t.’ Janice turned to Lin. ‘What do you think, Lin? That sort of behaviour is intolerable, running around the village, doing just as it pleases. The pig can’t be trusted. It should be stopped.’ ‘It probably should,’ Lin agreed, but her thoughts were not on Nadine, they were on the man she had loved for over fifty years. She rushed inside, so that her neighbours would not see her cry. Josie stood on the Toomeys’ red and white barge, a wide smile on her face; she’d just hidden the packages to be brought up later. She and Cecily had planned the baby shower, collecting many wonderful presents, clothes, a little hairbrush, nappies, a teddy bear, all wrapped in tissue. Florence would be delighted. Josie was looking forward to seeing her expression when she unwrapped the gifts. Right now, Florence was facing the other way, talking to Devlin Toomey, placing dishes on a small table helped by Adam and Malia. She moved slowly now, swaying as she turned. Josie walked down to the riverbank, where Cecily was talking quietly with Jack Lovejoy, who carried a guitar case. She watched Jack and Finn Toomey setting up a cable and an amplifier. She’d heard the rumours that had been circulating; Jimmy Baker had told everyone in The Sun that the old lady was still full of beans and Jack was Jack the lad, all right. Most people had told him to shut up, especially Dickie Junior, but Dickie Senior had


great weight on (it is well, you know, to be heedful, but not over-anxious, as respects one's personal health),--another business, then, was to consult his family physician. About what, for Heaven's sake? Why, it is rather difficult to describe the symptoms. A mere dimness of sight and dizziness of brain, was it?--or disagreeable choking, or stifling, or gurgling, or bubbling, in the region of the thorax, as the anatomists say?--or was it a pretty severe throbbing and kicking of the heart, rather creditable to him than otherwise, as showing that the organ had not been left out of the Judge's physical contrivance? No matter what it was. The doctor probably would smile at the statement of such trifles to his professional ear; the Judge would smile in his turn; and meeting one another's eyes, they would enjoy a hearty laugh together! But a fig for medical advice. The Judge will never need it. Pray, pray, Judge Pyncheon, look at your watch, Now! What--not a glance! It is within ten minutes of the dinner hour! It surely cannot have slipped your memory that the dinner of to-day is to be the most important, in its consequences, of all the dinners you ever ate. Yes, precisely the most important; although, in the course of your somewhat eminent career, you have been placed high towards the head of the table, at splendid banquets, and have poured out your festive eloquence to ears yet echoing with Webster's mighty organ-tones. No public dinner this, however. It is merely a gathering of some dozen or so of friends from several districts of the State; men of distinguished character and influence, assembling, almost casually, at the house of a common friend, likewise distinguished, who will make them welcome to a little better than his ordinary fare. Nothing in the way of French cookery, but an excellent dinner, nevertheless. Real turtle, we understand, and salmon, tautog, canvas-backs, pig, English mutton, good roast beef, or dainties of that serious kind, fit for substantial country gentlemen, as these honorable persons mostly are. The delicacies of the season, in short, and flavored by a brand of old Madeira which has been the pride of many seasons. It is the Juno brand; a glorious wine, fragrant, and full of gentle might; a bottled-up happiness, put by for use; a golden liquid, worth more than liquid gold; so rare and admirable, that veteran wine-bibbers count it among their epochs to have tasted it! It drives away the heart-ache, and substitutes no head-ache! Could the Judge but quaff a glass, it might enable him to shake off the unaccountable lethargy which (for the ten intervening minutes, and five to boot, are already past) has made him such a laggard at this momentous dinner. It would all but revive a dead man! Would you like to sip it now, Judge Pyncheon? Alas, this dinner. Have you really forgotten its true object? Then let us whisper it, that you may start at once out of the oaken chair, which really seems to be enchanted, like the one in


so that the world seems newly created, full of promise and free from iniquity across its hemispheres, which is but a lovely illusion. Peter knows that the Earth will never be as innocent as it appears here and now. A reckoning can’t be avoided, only delayed—but it has always been thus. Lucy, a golden retriever, accompanies them, often straying toward one scent or another that intrigues her, never venturing too far. She races ahead to roll and wriggle in the grass. Come spring, such frolicking will bejewel her coat with the bright petals of torn wildflowers, and soon there will be snow to drape her in ermine. A rifle is sleeved on Peter’s saddle. After a long absence, gray wolves make their home in this territory once more, but he’s watching primarily for a mountain lion, which is the greater threat to Lucy. He hasn’t used the rifle for any purpose other than to fire a shot that scares a predator away. He hopes to get through life without killing another human being, and he prefers to pass his remaining years without killing any creature at all. The vision of an eventual Singularity, a decades-long dream of transcendence, that is in fact a yearning for absolute power, has come to pass in him. And here is the irony always present in human affairs: He wants no power over others. He is trying to use his gift to thwart those who want control over their fellow men and women, to use truth to disperse power more widely than it’s ever been before, so each person is free from the lies that have previously trammeled them. Succeed or fail, it will be a fine adventure. Toward the end of the second hour of their ride, as they are heading home, the first snow falls. With no wind to hurry them, the huge flakes wheel down in graceful spirals. Lucy halts, looks up in wonderment, and then gambols across the meadow, leaping to bite the flakes from the air as if they must be manna. Words come to Peter from a poem by William Butler Yeats that Shelby Shrewsberry loved: We must laugh and we must sing / We are blest by everything / Everything we look upon is blest. NOTE Some of the chapter titles in this novel are taken from poetry that I admire. A list is provided here for the curious reader. A Bridge over Troubled Water. “Bridge over Troubled Water” by Paul Simon. Leaning Together, Headpieces Filled with Straw. “The Hollow Men” by T. S. Eliot. Voices as Meaningless as Wind in Dry Grass. “The Hollow Men” by T. S. Eliot. In the Twilight Kingdom. “The Hollow Men” by T. S. Eliot. The Pain of Living and the Drug of Dreams. “Animula” by T. S. Eliot. The Red-Eyed Scavengers Are Creeping. “A Cooking Egg” by T. S. Eliot. We Are Encompassed with Snakes. “Choruses from ‘The Rock.’” by T. S. Eliot. What Life Have You If You Have Not Life Together? “Choruses from ‘The Rock’” by T. S. Eliot. The Only


a tiny frown, she added, “You’re a sharp girl, aren’t you, Alice?” Alice swallowed. “I don’t know, Madam.” “Keen-eyed. Eyes like a hawk, I’d say.” Madam gave a hard smile. “You’ve observed all of my movements.” There was something needling Alice’s skin, sounding a silent alarm. She said nothing. Miss de Vries raised an eyebrow. Lifted her arm, indicated the fabric in her sleeves. “I mean my gestures, the precise gradient of my limbs. To make my costume.” “Oh,” said Alice, on an out breath. “Yes.” Miss de Vries smiled, expression flat. “In normal circumstances I never keep a personal maid. I find it so tedious, having one person around me all day. But I am considering making an exception. If I take control of a new household, I shall need to have the right people in my camp. Watchful sorts, girls who can report back to me candidly. To provide eyes in the back of my head, as it were.” She held Alice’s stare. “You’d do splendidly.” Far in the distance, through the thick chapel walls, Alice could hear a motor making its way around the edge of the park. “I’m not sure, Madam,” she said. “I’m not sure I have the skills.” “Well, do you understand hair? Paints and powders?” “No,” Alice said. She felt a tiny bead of sweat forming on her neck. “And what of foreign tongues?” “Tongues?” “Yes, have you any? French? German?” Alice shook her head, wordless. “And no Italian, I suppose. More’s the pity. I’d take you with me on honeymoon of course.” She closed her eyes. “Florence, naturally. It would be expected.” She opened her eyes. “Have you ever seen a picture of the Grand Hotel?” Miss de Vries flipped open her prayer book, pulled out a picture postcard of a modern, brash-looking building, inscribed Grand Hotel Baglioni. “Charming, isn’t it? The principal suites are supposed to be very fine indeed. And of course I’d have a connecting room for you, next door.” She paused, as if weighing her words. “You’d live in the same style as me,” she said, “in all my residences.” Alice could feel something shifting underfoot, like quicksand, sucking her in. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasurable sensation. She forced her mind away from it. “But shouldn’t you be sorry,” she said, “to leave this house?” Miss de Vries gave her a long look. Then she turned her face up to the painted angels, expression dead. “Naturally I shall,” she said. “It will be the most enormous wrench.” There was something so darkly coiled within her tone that it made Alice shiver. “I have none of the qualifications you need,” she said weakly. “I could instruct you, if you wish. Create a pearl from scratch.” The swaying lamplight illuminated Miss de Vries’s pale skin, throwing her veil into sharp relief. “You have a gift, when it comes to dressmaking. You may as well round out your advantages. Make the most of yourself, while you can.” Alice pictured Mrs. King’s face in her mind, dark-eyed and worried. She knew the safest reply.


that cannot be realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!" I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling and continued, "If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire." "You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent." "How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow I will quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My


hundred thirty-five smart missiles inbound … Destroyed… Second wave, two-hundred sixty-nine smart missiles inbound … Destroyed… “Captain!” Akari shouted. “I have a clear signal … a clear signal to the quantum flux generator! Somehow, it just … showed up. Not sure for how long, but I know exactly which asteroid is generating it … It’s close.” I looked at the display. “Who’s skippering Lincoln?” “One Captain Wallace Ryder has taken command,” Chen said. “And he says this might be a good time for us to complete our mission. He’ll clean this mess up here.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Cocky bastard,” I said under my breath. “Oh … and he wanted me to remind you that piece of shit Hub Gunther is still waiting in Adams’ flight bay.” “Mr. Grimes! Giving me your best sub-light speed, how much time do we have till impact?” “Seven minutes, sir.” “That’s not a lot of time. Helm, lock in the coordinates and put the pedal to the metal.” I stood. “Sir Calvin, make the announcement. We’re abandoning ship. Everyone’s to get to Flight Bay.” Yes, sir … and may I say … it has been a pleasure serving with you … ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! ALL CREW REPORT TO FLIGHT BAY IMMEDIATELY! I insisted I would be sitting in the Hub Gunther’s pilot seat. We managed to get on the old mining bird within five minutes and thirty seconds. Now, looking back into the open cabin, I saw everyone was here; no stragglers had rushed to get on board. I made eye contact with each of my bridge crew, then Sonya, who was now snuggled up with Ensign Plorinne along the port-side bulkhead. Akari, seated to my right, said, “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” I looked at the old analog clock on the dash. We had thirty-eight seconds. Throttling up the aft thrusters, I engaged the Hub Gunther’s main drive. The g-forces pinned us to our seats as we cleared Adams’ bay doors. Immediately, I banked left. Someone screamed. Perhaps it was me. No one had expected the asteroid to not only be right there in front of us, but so incredibly big. It was all that was visible beyond the windshield. I swung the Gunther into a wide arc, putting necessary distance between us and the asteroid, while also bringing us around for what was to come next. And there she was. USS Adams. Stately. Proud, and fulfilling her duty. She was traveling at an ungodly fast rate of speed. It wouldn’t be long now. Sorry, old girl, I know this is too soon for you. One of my favorite poems came to mind. Speaking mainly for my own benefit, I recited the last few stanzas: Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! Ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea


“Why?” Fear crackles inside me like a bonfire. Because I love you. “Why not?” “Celine.” “Because you’re hot, obviously.” He grins and flicks me between the eyes. “Ow!” “Stop objectifying me and tell me the truth.” Yeah, right. I know I just decided to face my feelings, but accepting that I love him is very different from admitting it aloud. Who says I love you after a couple months of rekindled friendship? Not me, thank you very much. I’m seventeen. My mum still does my laundry. I’m about to change my entire life plan because the first one was an overemotional mistake, so what exactly is my love worth? What’s it going to do? “Cel?” he whispers. You know how many people stay with the person they adored when they were seventeen? Not a lot. But do you know how many friendships survive school and thrive for years? Way more. I finally decide. “I don’t want to lose you,” I say. It’s the only truth I’m ready to tell. “Okay, Celine,” he says softly. “It’s okay.” His lips curve in a one-sided smile. My stomach lurches to the same side. “You don’t trust me, do you?” “I—” Really want to say yes. But my mouth tastes like a copper cage and I can’t get out any more words. Disappointment sits heavy in my stomach. I’m supposed to be better than this. Brad deserves better than this. His throat bobs, and I glimpse something painful in his expression before it vanishes like it was never there. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m the only one who feels like my insides have just been ripped out. He smiles his usual, beautiful smile and says, “You still want to kiss me, though.” I force myself to laugh, and once I’ve started, it’s surprisingly easy. Everything’s easy with him. My voice is hoarse, but I still push it out, still make the joke. “Don’t judge. I have a theory that seventy percent of the global population wants to kiss you, and that’s a conservative estimate.” “But you’re the only one who gets to do it. Lucky you.” His hand slides into my hair. His thumb traces the curve of my jaw. “Okay. So kiss me.” Something nervous squeezes in my stomach. My heart winces. “But—” “Just kiss me. That’s all. What’s a little tongue between friends?” Friends. Just like I wanted. Right? “You’re ridiculous.” “You’re beautiful.” His mouth meets mine. This kiss is tender, careful, so sweet it makes the crack in my chest ache. Usually, when my eyes are closed, all I see is black, but when Brad’s touching me, everything is gold and glowing. Safety blooms, like the gentle rise of music in the air as the band plays “Comfortable.” He pulls away slightly and murmurs against my mouth, “See, they’re rooting for us.” I push down the last of my strange sadness, grab the back of his head, and put his lips on mine again. There’s no way I’m even close to done with him. But I make a mental note


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.” I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.” “Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it towards him. “I would prefer not to,” said he. I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But as it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my business hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present, reserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. A few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being quadruplicates of a week’s testimony taken before me in my High Court of Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important suit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I called Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to place the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should read from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had taken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I called to Bartleby to join this interesting group. “Bartleby! quick, I am waiting.” I heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. “What is wanted?” said he mildly. “The copies, the copies,” said I hurriedly. “We are going to examine them. There”—and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate. “I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen. For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct. “Why do you refuse?” “I would prefer not to.” With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed


desk:—then he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered the table to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there was a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was, Nippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted any thing, it was to be rid of a scrivener’s table altogether. Among the manifestations of his diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from certain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his clients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times, considerable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little business at the Justices’ courts, and was not unknown on the steps of the Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual who called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he insisted was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged title-deed, a bill. But with all his failings, and the annoyances he caused me, Nippers, like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man to me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient in a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he always dressed in a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit upon my chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to keep him from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily and smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy in summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But while the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his natural civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led him to doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat was another matter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no effect. The truth was, I suppose, that a man of so 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


and malignant body. How different now that he had left her! For a few minutes that seemed hours to the frightened girl, she sat with tense nerves waiting for the spring of the crouching thing that was to end her misery of apprehension. She almost prayed for the cruel teeth that would give her unconsciousness and surcease from the agony of fear. She heard a sudden, slight sound behind her. With a cry she sprang to her feet and turned to face her end. There stood Tarzan, his arms filled with ripe and luscious fruit. Jane reeled and would have fallen, had not Tarzan, dropping his burden, caught her in his arms. She did not lose consciousness, but she clung tightly to him, shuddering and trembling like a frightened deer. Tarzan of the Apes stroked her soft hair and tried to comfort and quiet her as Kala had him, when, as a little ape, he had been frightened by Sabor, the lioness, or Histah, the snake. Once he pressed his lips lightly upon her forehead, and she did not move, but closed her eyes and sighed. She could not analyze her feelings, nor did she wish to attempt it. She was satisfied to feel the safety of those strong arms, and to leave her future to fate; for the last few hours had taught her to trust this strange wild creature of the forest as she would have trusted but few of the men of her acquaintance. As she thought of the strangeness of it, there commenced to dawn upon her the realization that she had, possibly, learned something else which she had never really known before--love. She wondered and then she smiled. And still smiling, she pushed Tarzan gently away; and looking at him with a half-smiling, half-quizzical expression that made her face wholly entrancing, she pointed to the fruit upon the ground, and seated herself upon the edge of the earthen drum of the anthropoids, for hunger was asserting itself. Tarzan quickly gathered up the fruit, and, bringing it, laid it at her feet; and then he, too, sat upon the drum beside her, and with his knife opened and prepared the various fruits for her meal. Chapter 20 111 Together and in silence they ate, occasionally stealing sly glances at one another, until finally Jane broke into a merry laugh in which Tarzan joined. "I wish you spoke English," said the girl. Tarzan shook his head, and an expression of wistful and pathetic longing sobered his laughing eyes. Then Jane tried speaking to him in French, and then in German; but she had to laugh at her own blundering attempt at the latter tongue. "Anyway," she said to him in English, "you understand my German as well as they did in Berlin." Tarzan had long since reached a decision as to what his future procedure should be. He had had time to recollect all that he had read of the ways of men and women in the books at the cabin. He would act as he imagined the men


white or black.” “Us got tuh handle ’em slow lak dat? God have mussy! In de condition they’s in got tuh examine ’em? Whut difference do it make ’bout de color? Dey all needs buryin’ in uh hurry.” “Got orders from headquarters. They makin’ coffins fuh all de white folks. ’Tain’t nothin’ but cheap pine, but dat’s bet- ter’n nothin’. Don’t dump no white folks in de hole jus’ so.” “Whut tuh do ’bout de colored folks? Got boxes fuh dem too?” “Nope. They cain’t find enough of ’em tuh go ’round. Jus’ sprinkle plenty quick-lime over ’em and cover ’em up.” “Shucks! Nobody can’t tell nothin’ ’bout some uh dese bodies, de shape dey’s in. Can’t tell whether dey’s white or black.” The guards had a long conference over that. After a Their Eyes Were Watching God 201 while they came back and told the men, “Look at they hair, when you cain’t tell no other way. And don’t lemme ketch none uh y’all dumpin’ white folks, and don’t be wastin’ no boxes on colored. They’s too hard tuh git holt of right now.” “They’s mighty particular how dese dead folks goes tuh judgment,” Tea Cake observed to the man working next to him. “Look lak dey think God don’t know nothin’ ’bout de Jim Crow law.” Tea Cake had been working several hours when the thought of Janie worrying about him made him desperate. So when a truck drove up to be unloaded he bolted and ran. He was ordered to halt on pain of being shot at, but he kept right on and got away. He found Janie sad and crying just as he had thought. They calmed each other about his absence then Tea Cake brought up another matter. “Janie, us got tuh git outa dis house and outa dis man’s town. Ah don’t mean tuh work lak dat no mo’.” “Naw, naw, Tea Cake. Less stay right in heah until it’s all over. If dey can’t see yuh, dey can’t bother yuh.” “Aw naw. S’posin’ dey come round searchin’? Less git outa heah tuhnight.” “Where us goin’, Tea Cake?” “De quickest place is de ’Glades. Less make it on back down dere. Dis town is full uh trouble and compellment.” “But, Tea Cake, de hurricane wuz down in de ’Glades too. It’ll be dead folks tuh be buried down dere too.” “Yeah, Ah know, Janie, but it couldn’t never be lak it ’tis heah. In de first place dey been bringin’ bodies outa dere all day so it can’t be but so many mo’ tuh find. And then again 202 Zora Neale Hurston it never wuz as many dere as it wuz heah. And then too, Janie, de white folks down dere knows us. It’s bad bein’ strange niggers wid white folks. Everybody is aginst yuh.” “Dat sho is de truth. De ones de white man know is nice colored folks. De ones he don’t know is bad niggers.” Janie said this and laughed and Tea Cake laughed with her. “Janie, Ah done watched it time and


their wooden spears; for Piggy had found that, by looking down and shielding his tired sight from the sun, he could just see these moving along the sand. He walked between the trailing butts, therefore, the conch held carefully between his two hands. The boys made a compact little group that moved over the beach, four plate-like shadows dancing and mingling beneath them. There was no sign left of the storm, and the beach was swept clean like a blade that has been scoured. The sky and the mountain were at an immense distance, shimmering in the heat; and the reef was lifted by mirage, floating in a kind of silver pool halfway up the sky. They passed the place where the tribe had danced. The charred sticks still lay on the rocks where the rain had quenched them but the sand by the water was smooth again. They passed this in silence. No one doubted that the tribe would be found at the Castle Rock and when they came in sight of it they stopped with one accord. The densest tangle on the island, a mass of twisted stems, black and green and impenetrable, lay on their left and tall grass swayed before them. Now Ralph went forward. Here was the crushed grass where they had all lain when he had gone to prospect. There was the neck of land, the ledge skirting the rock, up there were the red pinnacles. Sam touched his arm. "Smoke." There was a tiny smudge of smoke wavering into the air on the other side of the rock. "Some fire--I don't think." Ralph turned. "What are we hiding for?" He stepped through the screen of grass on to the little open space that led to the narrow neck. "You two follow behind. I'll go first, then Piggy a pace behind me. Keep your spears ready." Piggy peered anxiously into the luminous veil that hung between him and the world. "Is it safe? Ain't there a cliff? I can hear the sea." "You keep right close to me." Ralph moved forward on to the neck. He kicked a stone and it bounded into the water. Then the sea sucked down, revealing a red, weedy square forty feet beneath Ralph's left arm. "Am I safe?" quavered Piggy. "I feel awful--" High above them from the pinnacles came a sudden shout and then an imitation war-cry that was answered by a dozen voices from behind the rock. "Give me the conch and stay still." "Halt! Who goes there?" Ralph bent back his head and glimpsed Roger's dark face at the top. "You can see who I am!" he shouted. "Stop being silly!" He put the conch to his lips and began to blow. Savages appeared, painted out of recognition, edging round the ledge toward the neck. They carried spears and disposed themselves to defend the entrance. Ralph went on blowing and ignored Piggy's terrors. Roger was shouting. "You mind out--see?" At length Ralph took his lips away and paused to get his breath back. His first words were


on. “You’ve turned down two consecutive dinner invitations and I’m starting to think you’re mad at me. Maureen’s feelings are hurt.” “I have Andy staying with me.” “What, he doesn’t eat?” “I couldn’t bring him to dinner at your place,” Nick says. This is blindingly obvious to him: he couldn’t bring Andy to the one-bedroom apartment Lilian shares with another woman. Lilian regards him for long enough that Nick has to look away. “I see that it’s an advanced case,” she finally says, either to Bailey or to nobody in particular. Nick refuses to ask what she means. Bailey takes a bite of his apple. “If someone can’t have dinner with Lilian and Maureen, they probably aren’t a very good friend for you,” Bailey observes mildly, apparently paying more attention to his apple than he is to Nick. Nick bristles. “It’s not that. I don’t share other people’s secrets.” “Who asked you to? We could have had a perfectly sane conversation. I ask you to dinner, you say, Well, actually, Lilian, I have your future boss staying with me, and either I stay the hell away or I bring him along.” When she puts it like that, it sounds so easy, but what was even easier was refusing to think about it. He’s always known that Lilian probably guessed that he’s queer, but she never actually said so, just like she’s never come right out and said that she’s queer, either. He hasn’t wanted to have that conversation. Even asking whether it was all right to invite Andy would bring the topic of their shared queerness uncomfortably close to the surface. He doesn’t want to be queer at work, which sounds asinine, but there it is. Everything is so much safer if he draws a line between those parts of his life. He honestly isn’t even sure he would have told Andy if he hadn’t found out himself. But here are Lilian and Bailey, comfortably eating lunch and apparently not bothered in the least. Thinking back over the past few minutes, he realizes that the two of them are friends. Bailey knows about Maureen. He remembers the relief it was to be able to talk freely to Emily and briefly imagines being able to do that on a larger scale. It’s preposterous—absurd. “You see that Robert Moses is trying to shut down the Shakespeare Festival?” Lilian asks Bailey. “You’ve got to be kidding.” “Maureen’s fit to be tied. He says it’s no good for the lawn.” “Jesus Christ,” Bailey grumbles. “That fucker.” Nick doesn’t care even slightly about any Shakespeare festivals, but complaining about Robert Moses is practically his favorite hobby. For a moment he feels a swell of fellow feeling for Bailey. It’s terrible. He must look friendly or something, because Bailey turns toward him. “Did you read that book yet?” Bailey asks. “Which book?” Lilian asks. “The Charioteer,” Bailey says. “No,” Nick says with feeling. “Oh, Nick, you ought to,” Lilian says. “What, you’ve read it, too?” “We bought a copy in England when we went on vacation a few


are all well." "Are they any wiser?" said Sarah, with a dismal shake of the head; "they had better be wiser, than well. Ah, Matthew, Matthew! You know your way, sir?" Tolerably, for I had gone up the staircase in the dark, many a time. I ascended it now, in lighter boots than of yore, and tapped in my old way at the door of Miss Havisham's room. "Pip's rap," I heard her say, immediately; "come in, Pip." She was in her chair near the old table, in the old dress, with her two hands crossed on her stick, her chin resting on them, and her eyes on the fire. Sitting near her, with the white shoe that had never been worn, in her hand, and her head bent as she looked at it, was an elegant lady whom I had never seen. "Come in, Pip," Miss Havisham continued to mutter, without looking round or up; "come in, Pip, how do you do, Pip? so you kiss my hand as if I were a queen, eh? - Well?" She looked up at me suddenly, only moving her eyes, and repeated in a grimly playful manner, "Well?" "I heard, Miss Havisham," said I, rather at a loss, "that you were so kind as to wish me to come and see you, and I came directly." "Well?" The lady whom I had never seen before, lifted up her eyes and looked archly at me, and then I saw that the eyes were Estella's eyes. But she was so much changed, was so much more beautiful, so much more womanly, in all things winning admiration had made such wonderful advance, that I seemed to have made none. I fancied, as I looked at her, that I slipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the sense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the inaccessibility that came about her! She gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt in seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it for a long, long time. "Do you find her much changed, Pip?" asked Miss Havisham, with her greedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between them, as a sign to me to sit down there. "When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella in the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into the old--" "What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?" Miss Havisham interrupted. "She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away from her. Don't you remember?" I said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better then, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she had no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very disagreeable. "Is he changed?" Miss Havisham asked her. "Very much," said Estella, looking at me. "Less coarse and common?" said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella's hair. Estella


she straightened up from fixing the bed. “You stay where Ah kin see yuh.” “All right, Tea Cake, jus’ as you say.” Their Eyes Were Watching God 213 “And if Mis’ Turner’s lap-legged brother come prowlin’ by heah you kin tell ’im Ah got him stopped wid four wheel brakes. ’Tain’t no need of him standin’ ’round watchin’ de job.” “Ah won’t be tellin’ ’im nothin’ ’cause Ah don’t expect tuh see ’im.” Tea Cake had two bad attacks that night. Janie saw a changing look come in his face. Tea Cake was gone. Some- thing else was looking out of his face. She made up her mind to be off after the doctor with the first glow of day. So she was up and dressed when Tea Cake awoke from the fitful sleep that had come to him just before day. He almost snarled when he saw her dressed to go. “Where are you goin’, Janie?” “After de doctor, Tea Cake. You’se too sick tuh be heah in dis house ’thout de doctah. Maybe we oughta git yuh tuh de hospital.” “Ah ain’t goin’ tuh no hospital no where. Put dat in yo’ pipe and smoke it. Guess you tired uh waitin’ on me and doing fuh me. Dat ain’t de way Ah been wid you. Ah never is been able tuh do enough fuh yuh.” “Tea Cake, you’se sick. You’se takin’ everything in de way Ah don’t mean it. Ah couldn’t never be tired uh waitin’ on you. Ah’m just skeered you’se too sick fuh me tuh han- dle. Ah wants yuh tuh git well, honey. Dat’s all.” He gave her a look full of blank ferocity and gurgled in his throat. She saw him sitting up in bed and moving about so that he could watch her every move. And she was begin- ning to feel fear of this strange thing in Tea Cake’s body. So 214 Zora Neale Hurston when he went out to the outhouse she rushed to see if the pistol was loaded. It was a six shooter and three of the cham- bers were full. She started to unload it but she feared he might break it and find out she knew. That might urge his disordered mind to action. If that medicine would only come! She whirled the cylinder so that if he even did draw the gun on her it would snap three times before it would fire. She would at least have warning. She could either run or try to take it away before it was too late. Anyway Tea Cake wouldn’t hurt her. He was jealous and wanted to scare her. She’d just be in the kitchen as usual and never let on. They’d laugh over it when he got well. She found the box of cartridges, however, and emptied it. Just as well to take the rifle from back of the head of the bed. She broke it and put the shell in her apron pocket and put it in a corner in the kitchen almost behind the stove where


She lies down on the bed before Aegisthus can speak to her and pretends to sleep. * * * The news flows as fast as spring rivers. If no one dared speak of it before, now that the queen’s closest adviser has complained, everyone in the palace gathers to comment on the affair. A traitor and a queen. A cursed man and a “single-minded” woman. What will the king say when he comes back from the war? Will he burn Aegisthus alive, just like he did his father? And if he doesn’t come back at all? Will Clytemnestra marry Aegisthus? Will Aegisthus have her murdered and take the throne for himself? The palace whispers, and the whispers reach the elders, flying like little birds. Clytemnestra calls for a gathering in the megaron before the elders can call for one without her. She is sitting in her room, Aileen polishing the gold circlet in her hair, when Orestes comes in. “I have news, Mother,” he says, as she hoped he would. She stands and Aileen wraps a boar skin around her shoulders. Orestes wipes his forehead; his curls fall messily at the sides. “The servant heard Polydamas speak to another elder in an alley close to the artists’ quarter. They were spreading the news that you are unfit to rule. They want to make you surrender the throne.” “To whom?” He stares at her. “To me.” She steps closer to him, cups her hand around his face. “Polydamas and who else?” she asks. “Lycomedes.” She is not surprised. Lycomedes is usually silent, but whenever he speaks, he opposes her. He rarely even looks her in the eye. “Where is this servant now?” “In my room.” “Good. Let him stay there.” “Should I guard him myself?” “Let some of your men do it. You are coming to the megaron with me.” When they enter the high-roofed hall, the elders are already inside, whispering in groups. At the sight of her, they fall quiet and make space. Polydamas stays apart from the others, brooding. Cadmus stands closer to the throne, wringing his hands nervously. It makes her think of an ant moving its front legs. She climbs onto the throne and lets Orestes sit on the high chair next to it. Aegisthus wanted to take the place beside her, but she has forbidden it. No one will respect her if she lets a man sit there—they will look at him for a decision. And it is obvious what the elders will think of Aegisthus’s decisions. With Orestes, though, she can show them that she is still queen. If the elders see that her son, strong and charming, always looks for her judgment and respects her decisions, then who are they to refuse to do the same? Next to the throne, Leon stands as still as stone, his hand on his sword. He will watch and see what happens to those who betray her. “I have called you here to discuss my affair with Aegisthus before you can gather and discuss it among yourselves, behind my


illuminating Peeta’s face. Who will he transform in- to if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I’ll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we’ll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we’ve saved each other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will al- ways be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though . . . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12. Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Pee- ta’s shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss. 307 “We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away. “I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?” “Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying pow- er.” “Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?” “We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners.” “Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!” I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave.” He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,” says Peeta, pulling me to him. “Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss. Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts. Now, 308 although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re re- ally back in the Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I can’t afford to lose any more. “He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to wander by.” “If he’s wounded


down into the cold ashes, his lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man's sword in two over a knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the cheese and overpowering in the closed space. "Little redcape," he snarled, "when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire." "What, no goats?" Tyrion said, taking a bite of cheese. The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug. "Who might you be?" Lord Tywin asked, cool as snow. "They followed me home, Father," Tyrion explained. "May I keep them? They don't eat much." No one was smiling. "By what right do you savages intrude on our councils?" demanded Ser Kevan. "Savages, lowlander?" Conn might have been handsome if you washed him. "We are free men, and free men by rights sit on all war councils." "Which one is the lion lord?" Chella asked. "They are both old men," announced Timett son of Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year. Ser Kevan's hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin seemed unperturbed. "Tyrion, have you forgotten your courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our . . . honored guests." 540 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN Tyrion licked his fingers. "With pleasure," he said. "The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears." "I'm no maid," Chella protested. "My sons have taken fifty ears among them." "May they take fifty more." Tyrion waddled away from her. "This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows. Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides twice in the short time I've known him, you and he ought to get on famously, Father." To Bronn and the clansmen he said, "May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King." Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. "Even in the west, we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the Moon. What brings you down from your strongholds, my lords?" "Horses," said Shagga. "A promise of silk and steel," said Timett son of Timett. Tyrion was about to tell his lord father how he proposed to reduce the Vale of Arryn to a smoking wasteland, but he was never given the chance. The door banged open again. The messenger gave Tyrion's clansmen a quick, queer look as he dropped to one knee before Lord Tywin. "My lord," he said, "Ser Addam bid me tell you


the truth dies with me," Tyrion gasped. "Let him talk," Catelyn Stark commanded. Kurleket let go of Tyrion's hair, reluctantly. Tyrion took a deep breath. "How did Littlefinger tell you I came by this dagger of his? Answer me that." "You won it from him in a wager, during the tourney on Prince Joffrey's name day." "When my brother Jaime was unhorsed by the Knight of Flowers, that was his story, no?" "It was," she admitted. A line creased her brow. "Riders!" The shriek came from the wind-carved ridge above them. Ser A GAME OF THRONES 293 Rodrik had sent Lharys scrambling up the rock face to watch the road while they took their rest. For a long second, no one moved. Catelyn Stark was the first to react. "Ser Rodrik, Ser Willis, to horse," she shouted. "Get the other mounts behind us. Mohor, guard the prisoners-" "Arm us!" Tyrion sprang to his feet and seized her by the arm. "You will need every sword." She knew he was right, Tyrion could see it. The mountain clans cared nothing for the enmities of the great houses; they would slaughter Stark and Lannister with equal fervor, as they slaughtered each other. They might spare Catelyn herself; she was still young enough to bear sons. Still, she hesitated. "I hear them!" Ser Rodrik called out. Tyrion turned his head to listen, and there it was: hoofbeats, a dozen horses or more, coming nearer. Suddenly everyone was moving, reaching for weapons, running to their mounts. Pebbles rained down around them as Lharys came springing and sliding down the ridge. He landed breathless in front of Catelyn Stark, an ungainly-looking man with wild tufts of rust-colored hair sticking out from under a conical steel cap. "Twenty men, maybe twenty-five," he said, breathless. "Milk Snakes or Moon Brothers, by my guess. They must have eyes out, m1ady . . . hidden watchers . . . they know we're here." Ser Rodrik Cassel was already ahorse, a longsword in hand. Mohor crouched behind a boulder, both hands on his iron-tipped spear, a dagger between his teeth. "You, singer," Ser Willis Wode called out. "Help me with this breastplate." Marillion sat frozen, clutching his woodharp, his face as pale as milk, but Tyrion's man Morrec bounded quickly to his feet and moved to help the knight with his armor. Tyrion kept his grip on Catelyn Stark. "You have no choice," he told her. "Three of us, and a fourth man wasted guarding us . . . four men can be the difference between life and death up here." "Give me your word that you will put down your swords again after the fight is done." "My word?" The hoofbeats were louder now. Tyrion grinned crookedly. "Oh, that you have, my lady . . . on my honor as a Lannister." For a moment he thought she would spit at him, but instead she snapped, "Arm them," and as quick as that she was pulling away. Ser Rodrik tossed Jyck his sword and scabbard, and wheeled to meet the foe.


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

“Is trust required?” She ignores this, stepping up to order for us, and I look down at my outfit. From Brit to DILF to Sexy Lumberjack. I can’t know for sure if this transition in nickname signals a good wardrobe decision on my part, but I changed three times before picking her up today, prompting Stevie to ask me whether I was going on a date. It’s not a date. I mean, of course it isn’t. But there’s something about being this close to Fizzy that makes me want to impress her in the same way. As she orders, I hear the words lengua, cabeza, buche, and tripa and am aware that I’m going to be eating some things I have never before put in my mouth. With a bulging paper bag in one hand, two drinks in a cardboard tray in the other, and a little nod for me to trust her yet again, we climb back into the car and drive a few minutes to a small road leading us to a coastal wildlife refuge. At a weatherworn metal table overlooking an empty stretch of beach, Fizzy opens the bag and lays out an enormous selection of tacos. “Take your pick.” She points to each, describing what’s in it—from grilled beef and cactus, to pork belly, to tripe, to beef head, to tongue. And as I take my first bite of the pork belly, she watches me with anticipation, waiting for a reaction. Letting out a low, involuntary groan, I feel my eyes drift closed. The sharp tang of fresh cotija and bright lime, with crisp bits of meat and a soft, handmade tortilla—this is easily the best taco I’ve had in my entire life. It takes a minute for my senses to settle and I realize she’s still looking at me. “You like?” she asks, smiling happily. “Bloody lovely.” I wipe my mouth. “Are you just going to watch?” She breaks her stare and blinks down at the selection in front of her, choosing what I think was the lengua. “I like seeing you like this. Outside of that office and that suit. This is a good vibe.” She motions to my clothes. “Still DILFy, but without the uptight CEO 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,


Bond called for his bill. He explained that he was expected back at his hotel to have lunch with friends. When for a moment he held her hand in his he felt a warmth of affection and understanding pass between them that would have seemed impossible half an hour earlier. The girl's eyes followed him out on to the boulevard. Mathis moved his chair close to hers and said softly: 'That is a very good friend of mine. I am glad you have met each other. I can already feel the ice-floes on the two rivers breaking up.' He smiled, 'I don't think Bond has ever been melted. It will be a new experience for him. And for you.' She did not answer him directly. 'He is very good-looking. He reminds me rather of Hoagy Carmichael, but there is something cold and ruthless in his . . .' The sentence was never finished. Suddenly a few feet away the entire plate-glass window shivered into confetti. The blast of a terrific explosion, very near, hit them so that they were rocked back in their chairs. There was an instant of silence. Some objects pattered down on to the pavement outside. Bottles slowly toppled off the shelves behind the bar. Then there were screams and a stampede for the door. 'Stay there,' said Mathis. He kicked back his chair and hurtled through the empty window-frame on to the pavement. CHAPTER 6 - TWO MEN IN STRAW HATS When Bond left the bar he walked purposefully along the pavement flanking the tree-lined boulevard towards his hotel a few hundred yards away. He was hungry. The day was still beautiful, but by now the sun was very hot and the plane-trees, spaced about twenty feet apart on the grass verge between the pavement and the broad tarmac, gave a cool shade. There were few people abroad and the two men standing quietly under a tree on the opposite side of the boulevard looked out of place. Bond noticed them when he was still a hundred yards away and when the same distance separated them from the ornamental porte cochre of the Splendide. There was something rather disquieting about their appearance. They were both small and they were dressed alike in dark and, Bond reflected, rather hot-looking suits. They had the appearance of a variety turn waiting for a bus on the way to the theatre. Each wore a straw hat with a thick black ribbon as a concession, perhaps, to the holiday atmosphere of the resort, and the brims of these and the shadow from the tree under which they stood obscured their faces. Incongruously, each dark, squat little figure was illuminated by a touch of bright colour. They were both carrying; square camera-cases slung from the shoulder. And one case was bright red and the other case bright blue. By the time Bond had taken in these details, he had come to within fifty yards of the two men. He was reflecting on the ranges of various types of weapon and the possibilities of cover


exchange of glances between Le Chiffre and the gunman standing directly behind Bond. Immediately he felt something hard press into the base of his spine, right into the cleft between his two buttocks on the padded chair. At the same time a thick voice speaking southern French said softly, urgently, just behind his right ear: 'This is a gun, monsieur. It is absolutely silent. It can blow the base of your spine off without a sound. You will appear to have fainted. I shall be gone. Withdraw your bet before I count ten. If you call for help I shall fire.' The voice was confident. Bond believed it. These people had shown they would unhesitatingly go the limit. The thick walking-stick was explained. Bond knew the type of gun. The barrel a series of soft rubber baffles which absorbed the detonation, but allowed the passage of the bullet. They had been invented and used in the war for assassinations Bond had tested them himself. 'Un,' said the voice. Bond turned his head. There was the man, leaning forward close behind him, smiling broadly under his black moustache as if he was wishing Bond luck, completely secure in the noise and the crowd. The discoloured teeth came together. 'Deux,' said the grinning mouth. Bond looked across. Le Chiffre was watching him. His eyes glittered back at Bond. His mouth was open and he was breathing fast. He was waiting, waiting for Bond's hand to gesture to the croupier, or else for Bond suddenly to slump backwards in his chair, his face grimacing with a scream. 'Trois.' Bond looked over at Vesper and Felix Leiter. They were smiling and talking to each other. The fools. Where was Mathis? Where were those famous men of his? 'Quatre.' And the other spectators. This crowd of jabbering idiots. Couldn't someone see what was happening? The chef de partie, the croupier, the huissier? 'Cinq.' The croupier was tidying up the pile of notes. The chef de partie bowed smilingly towards Bond. Directly the stake was in order he would announce: 'Le jeux est fait.' and the gun would fire whether the gunman had reached ten or not. 'Six.' Bond decided. It was a chance. He carefully moved his hands to the edge of the table, gripped it, edged his buttocks right back, feeling the sharp gun-sight grind into his coccyx. 'Sept.' The chef de partie turned to Le Chiffre with his eyebrows lifted, waiting for the banker's nod that he was ready to play. Suddenly Bond heaved backwards with all his strength. His momentum tipped the cross-bar of the chair-back down so quickly that it cracked across the malacca tube and wrenched it from the gunman's hand before he could pull the trigger. Bond went head-over-heels on to the ground amongst the spectators' feet, his legs in the air. The back of the chair splintered with a sharp crack. There were cries of dismay. The spectators cringed away and then, reassured, clustered back. Hands helped him to his feet and brushed him down. The huissier bustled up with


deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said: --------------------------------------------------------- -234- "It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again." "Well, but we can't be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot." "I know it, but then there's another thing." "What's that?". "Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too early." Huck dropped his shovel. "That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering around so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time; and I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front a-waiting for a chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here." "Well, I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it." "Lordy!" "Yes, they do. I've always heard that." "Tom, I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure." "I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one here was to stick his skull out and say something!" "Don't Tom! It's awful." "Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit." --------------------------------------------------------- -235- "Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else." "All right, I reckon we better." "What'll it be?" Tom considered awhile; and then said: "The ha'nted house. That's it!" "Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why, they're a dern sight worse'n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I couldn't stand such a thing as that, Tom -- nobody could." "Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't hender us from digging there in the daytime." "Well, that's so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the night." "Well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been murdered, anyway -- but nothing's ever been seen around that house except in the night -- just some blue lights slipping by the windows -- no regular ghosts." "Well, where you see one of them


“With you or someone else?” but what if he thought I was serious? Instead, I said, “I don’t know for certain, but I’m not sitting around waiting for either one. And I bet not settling down when you were thirty has made you a better musician. And continuing to feel confusion has, too, probably. I just can’t see how anyone who thinks they have everything sorted out and have come out on top could write very good songs. Or, for that matter, very good comedy sketches or very good screenplays.” “Maybe you should be a therapist.” He lifted his glass from the bar, took a sip, swallowed, and said, “By the way, I don’t believe in the Danny Horst Rule. I thought your sketch was funny and I’m sorry it got cut, but the rule itself—personally, I’ve definitely dated—you know—” I didn’t try to conceal my amusement. “Women less attractive than you?” I suggested. “That’s not what I was going to say. But non-celebrities.” “You’ve dated them in a serious way?” “Of course. It’s not like the only relationships I’ve been in are the ones that have been reported in gossip columns. But you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. If you go out with another celebrity, it’s like Danny and Annabel, where you’re under this distorting microscope. You have the advantage of understanding each other’s worlds firsthand, but the disadvantage of both having really complicated schedules. Whereas if you date someone who isn’t another celebrity, you feel like you’re always asking them to accommodate you. Plus, it’s easy for them to feel insecure. You’re looking at me with a very mocking expression right now. I realize these are privileged problems.” “I think you think I’m looking at you with a mocking expression because I’m a writer for TNO.” “I guess that might be an occupational hazard.” And then something happened that later was hard for me to explain to myself, hard to understand. As when he’d cupped my chin in my office, it might have been nothing. His expression became both very tender and very amused, as if there were an excellent inside joke between us, and he tilted his head to the right and looked at me with a focused kind of sweetness and warmth. Then he again set his glass on the bar and leaned forward incrementally, and I thought, Oh my God, is he going to kiss me? Because Noah Brewster cannot kiss me here, in front of my co-workers, in a setting that isn’t really private because nowhere is private in the age of cellphones, in a world in which he is him and I am me. And because if he kisses me, what will happen next? Also incrementally, I took a step back. “All your insights about love and romance,” I said. “Did you get them from dating twenty-two-year-old models?” He squinted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My heart was beating more quickly, and not in a swoony way. In a pre-combat way, like in rewrites


were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. 'I know it all,' he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. 'Dear Rose, I know it all.' 'I am not here by accident,' he added after a lengthened silence; 'nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday--only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?' 'Stay,' said Rose. 'You DO know all.' 'All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse.' 'I did.' 'Not to press you to alter your determination,' pursued the young man, 'but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.' 'The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me know,' said Rose firmly. 'If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle,' said Rose, 'but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear.' 'The disclosure of to-night,'--Harry began. 'The disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly, 'leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.' 'You harden your heart against me, Rose,' urged her lover. 'Oh Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, bursting into tears; 'I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.' 'Then why inflict it on yourself?' said Harry, taking her hand. 'Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.' 'And what have I heard! What have I heard!' cried Rose. 'That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all--there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.' 'Not yet, not yet,' said the young man, detaining her as she rose. 'My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home--a heart and home--yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.' 'What do