dogs and gathered up the scattered belongings. Also, they gave advice. Half the load and twice the dogs, if they ever expected to reach Dawson, was what was said. Hal and his sister and brother-in-law listened unwillingly, pitched tent, and overhauled the outfit. Canned goods were turned out that made men laugh, for canned goods on the Long Trail is a thing to dream about. "Blankets for a hotel" quoth one of the men who laughed and helped. "Half as many is too much; get rid of them. Throw away that tent, and all those dishes,--who's going to wash them, anyway? Good Lord, do you think you're travelling on a Pullman?" And so it went, the inexorable elimination of the superfluous. Mercedes cried when her clothes-bags were dumped on the ground and article after article was thrown out. She cried in general, and she cried in particular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about knees, rocking back and forth broken-heartedly. She averred she would not go an inch, not for a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to everything, finally wiping her eyes and proceeding to cast out even articles of apparel that were imperative necessaries. And in her zeal, when she had finished with her own, she attacked the belongings of her men and went through them like a tornado. This accomplished, the outfit, though cut in half, was still a formidable bulk. Charles and Hal went out in the evening and bought six Outside dogs. These, added to the six of the original team, and Teek and Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on the record trip, brought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though practically broken in since their landing, did not amount to much. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other two were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem to know anything, these newcomers. Buck and his comrades looked upon them with disgust, and though he speedily taught them their places and what not to do, he could not teach them what to do. They did not take kindly to trace and trail. With the exception of the two mongrels, they were bewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which they found themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The two mongrels were without spirit at all; bones were the only things breakable about them. With the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by twenty-five hundred miles of continuous trail, the outlook was anything but bright. The two men, however, were quite cheerful. And they were proud, too. They were doing the thing in style, with fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds depart over the Pass for Dawson, or come in from Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen dogs. In the nature of Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen dogs should not drag one sled, and that was that one sled could not carry the food for


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

step, raising his elegant hands. “I’ll cut off my foot. Or you will.” “Oh, come on.” I wasn’t looking forward to trying a second time, and in my anger, I couldn’t help baiting him. Baiting a faerie prince! An unfortunate habit I have fallen into, that. “Do you not heat your houses with wood,” I said, all innocence, “in the place you come from?” He gave me a withering look. “I’m quite happy to say that, in Dublin, we have servants to deal with these things.” “Well, this is not Dublin, and I’m not getting anywhere. You have to help.” “I do not. Give it one of your scowls; it will split itself in two.” “God!” I went to impale the axe in the ground in frustration. Unfortunately, Bambleby, contrary creature that he is, had just stepped forward to remove it from my possession. I redirected my swing just in time to avoid relieving him of his arm, but not fast enough to save his sleeve. “Dammit!” He pressed his hand to his arm, and at first I thought it melodrama, but then the snow beneath him began to turn pink. “I knew it,” he snapped as blood leaked through his fingers. “I knew you would be the death of me. I wish you had chosen my foot. This is my favourite cloak.” “Hang your cloak!” I shoved him towards the cottage. “Get inside! You’re bleeding!” “I will not bleed any less indoors, you utter madwoman.” But he allowed me to shove him inside, leaving behind him a trail of blood like tiny red footprints. To my horror, the pot of snow I had set over the fire had unbalanced itself during the melting, falling onto its side and extinguishing all but a few embers. Shadow, having been roused from his nap by the fireside, sat sneezing in the smoke. When we peeled away Bambleby’s cloak, we found that the iron of the axe had bit deep, down to the bone. A scrap of flesh hung loose like a ghastly piece of cloth. As there was no water to wash the wound, I settled for a temporary dressing using scraps of my scarf. By the time I finished, Bambleby’s arm was blood-soaked, and his face was white. “Just stay there,” I said. “Oh, must I? Let’s head up to the fells again.” “Quiet.” I was a storm of anxiety—the missing students, the rapidly cooling cottage, the water pot, the blood everywhere. It took me twice as long as it normally did to light the fire again, and I was forced to use the last of our logs. Then there was the business of heating more snow in the pot, which I was now in terror of overturning. I was equally concerned by the dearth of quips from Wendell’s direction. I went to examine the wound again and was alarmed to find a puddle of blood on the floor. “Why are you still bleeding?” I demanded, absurdly offended. He let out a breath of laughter. He was resting his head upon his uninjured


attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. ``So, Lizzy,'' said he one day, ``your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.'' ``Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane's good fortune.'' ``True,'' said Mr. Bennet, ``but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will always make the most of it.'' Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom, which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known any thing of the matter. Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes -- but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. __ CHAPTER II (25) AFTER a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to hope that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks. On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield


make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April ---, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church. Overhead, Handel's March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms. "How like a first night at the Opera!" he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile--and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world. After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women's sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men's sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast. "Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine's," the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying. "But I'm told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it." And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority: "My dear fellow, haven't you heard? It's to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion." Archer's eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden's arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother's ermine muff. "Poor Janey!" he thought, looking at his sister, "even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they're mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets." On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare. Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts's sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of "Good Form" who presided at the ceremony. Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts's keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important. The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood. A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be "shown" had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it


you not stop to think about that?” Lucy had hardly thought about anything else, but she couldn’t tell him that he was the reason she had carried on the ruse this long. “We have no understanding, Mr. Granger.” He scoffed. “Of course we do. Half of London knows about it.” What on earth had he been telling people? “What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice shaking. He frowned. “What am I going to do? Miss Hayes, I have never been shy about my intentions. The question is what are you going to do?” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lucy had never been kissed. She had never really thought about being kissed. The life of a governess didn’t exactly lead to dreams of romance, and she liked to think she was a practical sort. But she hadn’t expected to feel so . . . unmoved. Servants at the Granger house had sometimes talked about being kissed when she was around, though they had never included her in their conversations. But the girls had spoken of fire and stars and being warm all over. Mr. Granger’s kiss felt . . . wet. And it was over before she could push him away, leaving her stunned and frozen in place. “I will give you three days to see to your affairs with that family,” he said, running a hand through his hair as if the kiss had entirely unraveled him. “Make your peace with them and end your engagement before I am forced to end it for you. I would hate for Mr. Calloway to be on the wrong end of a pistol again so soon after the first time.” Lucy’s heart stuttered. “What?” “Lucy?” Nick appeared at the corner, heading right for them. But Mr. Granger wasn’t quite done. “And, Lucy?” He narrowed his eyes. “End it quietly. I love you, darling, but the last thing you or I need is you causing a scandal surrounding the Calloways. For their sake and yours, keep this between us.” And then he was gone, disappearing in the other direction and leaving Lucy reeling as she stood pressed up against the wall. She was so disoriented that she could hardly make sense of anything that had just happened, but she knew one thing: Mr. Granger had threatened the Calloway family, and she was the only thing standing between them and something horrible. “Lucy, what’s the matter?” Nick took her hand, though he stared in the direction Mr. Granger had gone. “Did he hurt you?” Yes. She wanted to say yes. But she feared what Nick would do, and she feared even more what Mr. Granger would do if she complicated things further. Though Mr. Granger seemed to believe her engagement was real, he also seemed to know something about William that she didn’t, and he wasn’t afraid to do whatever it took to remove any obstacles in his way. Rebecca had spoken truth when they’d first arrived: what Jonathan Granger wanted, he got. So Lucy shook her head and forced her hands


the tape started unspooling out the bottom. And then, because of how upset I was, my mom took me on an emergency trip to the mall that same day to replace it.” He smiled. “And since then?” “Mostly female singer-songwriters. My mom liked Linda Ronstadt, Patti LaBelle, Joan Armatrading, so we listened to them a lot. Dolly Parton, of course. And Sade. And then my taste sort of segued into more countryish like Lucinda Williams and Emmylou Harris. And then, you know, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Dar Williams, or more recently Brandi Carlile. Oh, and Janelle Monáe.” I glanced over and said, “My favorite singers of all time are the Indigo Girls.” “Yeah, they’re incredible,” he said. I looked at him—we still were side by side, perhaps six inches apart—and said, “Are you serious?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” “A lot of people—meaning male writers here—would use the Indigo Girls as a punchline. Or have used them as a punchline, to make a joke about something that’s very female or that’s lesbianish or that’s earnestly political. And I fucking hate it. Partly because it’s sexist, but even more because it’s not funny. It’s lazy. The Indigo Girls are super talented and have been doing what they do for a long time, on their terms, regardless of cultural trends, and now that we’re a budding autocracy, it’s a little harder to mock the people who have always stood up for the rights of the disenfranchised. Plus, they just have such beautiful, complementary voices.” I paused. “That’s why you came to my office, right? You were hoping for a rant about the Indigo Girls.” “I love rants about the Indigo Girls. Have you seen them live?” “Yes, a bunch of times. Have you?” “I performed with them at a fundraiser in L.A. years ago. And Amy does backup vocals on my song ‘East Matunuck.’ I’m trying to think if they’ve ever been on TNO.” Of course he had played with them, of course he was on a first-name basis with them. But how had I not known Amy Ray was on one of his songs? “Funny you should ask,” I said. “They haven’t been the musical guests, but there was once a spoof of them where the cast members playing them were dudes. This was before my time.” “How long have you worked here?” “It’s my ninth season. Another fun fact is that TNO and I are actually the same age. I was born the month of the premiere, in October 1981.” “That seems auspicious, right?” Noah said. “I was born in September ’81, so you and I are the same age. If you’ve been here nine years, I take it you like it?” I had to admit that, for all his cheesiness, he had impeccable social skills. Most hosts were charismatic and many were polite; some were curious about the history of the show; but almost none would ask a writer multiple questions about herself. It didn’t seem rude to me that hosts registered writers the same way the outside world did, which was far


almost three in the morning. Slipping my arm from under Bezi’s head, I roll up and perch myself on the edge of the bed, letting my bare feet rest against the wood floor. The footsteps fade, and after a moment of silence, there is a splash. I’m at the window before I can think, drawing back the curtain just enough to get a look outside. The porch light leaves spots in my vision, and I quickly flip the switch, turning it off. My eyes adjust to the dark and there, at the far edge of the lake, I think I see something move. I hold my breath and crane my neck, checking to see if the lights are on in any of the other staff cabins. From my vantage point, it’s hard to tell. I return my attention to the far side of the lake. There is something, or someone, moving around out there. The figure is hunched over, staggering their steps, pulling something along the ground. “Bezi,” I whisper. “Paige. Get up.” Paige grumbles something to herself as Bezi sits up and readjusts her bonnet. “What is it?” she asks. “What’s wrong?” “There’s somebody out there,” I say. There’s another loud splash, and I whip my head around, straining to see in the dark. Bezi stumbles out of bed and joins me at the window. We press our faces close to the glass, fogging it with our breath. “Where?” Bezi asks. “Across the lake. Right there.” I scan the shoreline until I spot the figure again. This time they’re closer to the camp side of the lake, and whatever they were dragging is now gone. Bezi sighs. “I still don’t—” A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and my heart leaps into my throat as I spin around to find Paige standing directly behind me. A strangled yelp escapes me. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” Bezi leans forward and puts her hands on her knees. “Damn, Paige! You just glided over here! No noise or nothing!” Paige furrows her brow and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “You didn’t hear me get up?” “No!” I say. “Sorry,” Paige says. “What’s going on?” I press my hand against my chest like my heart might jump out if I don’t. “Look.” I pull her toward the window and point to the last place I saw the shadowy figure, only to find nothing but the dark. “Am I missing something?” Paige asks. “There was somebody out there,” I say. “We saw them.” “Maybe it was Tasha or Porter or somebody else?” Bezi offers. “Should we go check on everybody?” She reaches for the door. Paige steps in front of her. “Um, no. Text them. We’re not going outside at three in the morning because y’all saw some stranger by the lake. Do you know how dumb that sounds?” She shakes her head like she’s disappointed in us. I text Tasha, asking if she’s okay. I have to hold my phone over my head to get one funky-ass bar. She responds a


so high she dropped the book, though she immediately leaned down to grab it before the pages became too bent. “I’m sorry,” she gasped and turned toward the window. She had thought she was alone, but a man sat stretched out in a large armchair, his hazel eyes showing signs of sleepiness as he watched her, as if he had only just woken. “I did not realize anyone was in here.” He cocked his head to one side, studying her carefully. “No, the fault is mine. I should have announced myself.” Though she had never seen him before, parts of his features looked familiar enough that she could guess his name. He must be Simon, William’s older brother. He had the same strong jaw as his brother, and his dark hair was just as thick, though a little more unruly, as if it didn’t often behave. His eyes were far darker than William’s blue ones, and much warmer. He did not dress nearly as well, though, and Lucy did her best to ignore his poorly tied cravat, even though she was tempted to tell him he needed to find himself a new valet if he was to be taken seriously in London. Mr. Granger had spoken of such things often, declaring himself an expert in the latest fashions. “Lord Calloway?” she said. When had he arrived? He was not due until the morning. Rising to his feet—he was tall, like William, but far broader—he straightened his clothing and bowed a little. “Either I do not remember meeting you,” he said, “or you are more knowledgeable than I am.” He spoke with a lightness that immediately brought a smile to Lucy’s lips, which she thought impressive, considering how on edge she had been since leaving London and that he was the person who would inevitably decide her fate once the truth came out. She should have been quaking where she stood, but she felt as calm as she had when she woke this afternoon. There was some sort of magic to this place, this home, that quelled her fears in a way nothing ever had. “Well,” she said and carefully replaced the book on the shelf before offering a curtsy, “I can say with certainty that we have not met. I think I would remember a man who sleeps in a library instead of a bedchamber.” “Yes, well . . .” He glanced at the chair behind him, as if searching for a good excuse because the truth would not be in his favor. “I arrived early.” “I noticed,” Lucy replied. When Lord Calloway smiled, Lucy recognized the same broad happiness that she had seen in Olivia, though it had to filter through a less welcome emotion. The man looked weary to the bone. “And I thought I might surprise the family,” he added. Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You and your brother seem to share that tendency.” Then she bit her lip because she had no right to speak so boldly with a peer. She needed to keep her head down until she


to Jem and me. His fists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him to chase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation. "Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum?" he asked, and Walter nodded. Walter looked as if he had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris's, were red-rimmed and watery. There was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. "Come on home to dinner with us, Walter," he said. "We'd be glad to have you." Walter's face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, "Our daddy's a friend of your daddy's. Scout here, she's crazy- she won't fight you any more." "I wouldn't be too certain of that," I said. Jem's free dispensation of my pledge irked me, but precious noontime minutes were ticking away. "Yeah Walter, I won't jump on you again. Don't you like butterbeans? Our Cal's a real good cook." Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Jem and I gave up, and we were nearly to the Radley Place when Walter called, "Hey, I'm comin'!" When Walter caught up with us, Jem made pleasant conversation with him. "A hain't lives there," he said cordially, pointing to the Radley house. "Ever hear about him, Walter?" "Reckon I have," said Walter. "Almost died first year I come to school and et them pecans- folks say he pizened 'em and put 'em over on the school side of the fence." Jem seemed to have little fear of Boo Radley now that Walter and I walked beside him. Indeed, Jem grew boastful: "I went all the way up to the house once," he said to Walter. "Anybody who went up to the house once oughta not to still run every time he passes it," I said to the clouds above. "And who's runnin', Miss Priss?" "You are, when ain't anybody with you." By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. Jem ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to set an extra plate, we had company. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I could follow. "Reason I can't pass the first grade, Mr. Finch, is I've had to stay out ever' spring an' help Papa with the choppin', but there's another'n at the house now that's field size." "Did you pay a bushel of potatoes for him?" I asked, but Atticus shook his head at me. While Walter piled food on his plate, he and Atticus talked together like two men, to the wonderment of Jem and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems when Walter interrupted to ask if there was any molasses in the house. Atticus summoned Calpurnia, who returned bearing the syrup pitcher. She stood waiting for Walter to help himself. Walter


to hand her my letter-- which, however, had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her hands behind her. She shook her head sadly. "Such things are not for me, miss." My counselor couldn't read! I winced at my mistake, which I attenuated as I could, and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then, faltering in the act and folding it up once more, I put it back in my pocket. "Is he really BAD?" The tears were still in her eyes. "Do the gentlemen say so?" "They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it should be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning." Mrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went on: "That he's an injury to the others." At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed up. "Master Miles! HIM an injury?" There was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea. I found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically. "To his poor little innocent mates!" "It's too dreadful," cried Mrs. Grose, "to say such cruel things! Why, he's scarce ten years old." "Yes, yes; it would be incredible." She was evidently grateful for such a profession. "See him, miss, first. THEN believe it!" I felt forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. "You might as well believe it of the little lady. Bless her," she added the next moment--"LOOK at her!" I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice "round o's," now presented herself to view at the open door. She expressed in her little way an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had conceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of Mrs. Grose's comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her with kisses in which there was a sob of atonement. Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy she rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the staircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detained


Atticus." Judge Taylor was the only person in the courtroom who laughed. Even the babies were still, and I suddenly wondered if they had been smothered at their mothers' breasts. "Now," said Atticus, "Miss Mayella, you've testified that the defendant choked and beat you- you didn't say that he sneaked up behind you and knocked you cold, but you turned around and there he was-" Atticus was back behind his table, and he emphasized his words by tapping his knuckles on it. "-do you wish to reconsider any of your testimony?" "You want me to say something that didn't happen?" "No ma'am, I want you to say something that did happen. Tell us once more, please, what happened?" "I told'ja what happened." "You testified that you turned around and there he was. He choked you then?" "Yes." "Then he released your throat and hit you?" "I said he did." "He blacked your left eye with his right fist?" "I ducked and it- it glanced, that's what it did. I ducked and it glanced off." Mayella had finally seen the light. "You're becoming suddenly clear on this point. A while ago you couldn't remember too well, could you?" "I said he hit me." "All right. He choked you, he hit you, then he raped you, that right?" "It most certainly is." "You're a strong girl, what were you doing all the time, just standing there?" "I told'ja I hollered'n'kicked'n'fought-" Atticus reached up and took off his glasses, turned his good right eye to the witness, and rained questions on her. Judge Taylor said, "One question at a time, Atticus. Give the witness a chance to answer." "All right, why didn't you run?" "I tried..." "Tried to? What kept you from it?" "I- he slung me down. That's what he did, he slung me down'n got on top of me." "You were screaming all this time?" "I certainly was." "Then why didn't the other children hear you? Where were they? At the dump?" "Where were they?" No answer. "Why didn't your screams make them come running? The dump's closer than the woods, isn't it?" No answer. "Or didn't you scream until you saw your father in the window? You didn't think to scream until then, did you?" No answer. "Did you scream first at your father instead of at Tom Robinson? Was that it?" No answer. "Who beat you up? Tom Robinson or your father?" No answer. "What did your father see in the window, the crime of rape or the best defense to it? Why don't you tell the truth, child, didn't Bob Ewell beat you up?" When Atticus turned away from Mayella he looked like his stomach hurt, but Mayella's face was a mixture of terror and fury. Atticus sat down wearily and polished his glasses with his handkerchief. Suddenly Mayella became articulate. "I got somethin' to say," she said. Atticus raised his head. "Do you want to tell us what happened?" But she did not hear the compassion in his invitation. "I got somethin' to say an' then I ain't gonna


SAINTS OF FINANCE IN THEIR PLUTOCRATIC ORDER OF PRECEDENCE, THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR, HIS EMINENCE MICHAEL CARDINAL LOGUE, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND, HIS GRACE, THE MOST REVEREND DR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND, THE CHIEF RABBI, THE PRESBYTERIAN MODERATOR, THE HEADS OF THE BAPTIST, ANABAPTIST, METHODIST AND MORAVIAN CHAPELS AND THE HONORARY SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS. AFTER THEM MARCH THE GUILDS AND TRADES AND TRAINBANDS WITH FLYING COLOURS: COOPERS, BIRD FANCIERS, MILLWRIGHTS, NEWSPAPER CANVASSERS, LAW SCRIVENERS, MASSEURS, VINTNERS, TRUSSMAKERS, CHIMNEYSWEEPS, LARD REFINERS, TABINET AND POPLIN WEAVERS, FARRIERS, ITALIAN WAREHOUSEMEN, CHURCH DECORATORS, BOOTJACK MANUFACTURERS, UNDERTAKERS, SILK MERCERS, LAPIDARIES, SALESMASTERS, CORKCUTTERS, ASSESSORS OF FIRE LOSSES, DYERS AND CLEANERS, EXPORT BOTTLERS, FELLMONGERS, TICKETWRITERS, HERALDIC SEAL ENGRAVERS, HORSE REPOSITORY HANDS, BULLION BROKERS, CRICKET AND ARCHERY OUTFITTERS, RIDDLEMAKERS, EGG AND POTATO FACTORS, HOSIERS AND GLOVERS, PLUMBING CONTRACTORS. AFTER THEM MARCH GENTLEMEN OF THE BEDCHAMBER, BLACK ROD, DEPUTY GARTER, GOLD STICK, THE MASTER OF HORSE, THE LORD GREAT CHAMBERLAIN, THE EARL MARSHAL, THE HIGH CONSTABLE CARRYING THE SWORD OF STATE, SAINT STEPHEN'S IRON CROWN, THE CHALICE AND BIBLE. FOUR BUGLERS ON FOOT BLOW A SENNET. BEEFEATERS REPLY, WINDING CLARIONS OF WELCOME. UNDER AN ARCH OF TRIUMPH BLOOM APPEARS, BAREHEADED, IN A CRIMSON VELVET MANTLE TRIMMED WITH ERMINE, BEARING SAINT EDWARD'S STAFF THE ORB AND SCEPTRE WITH THE DOVE, THE CURTANA. HE IS SEATED ON A MILKWHITE HORSE WITH LONG FLOWING CRIMSON TAIL, RICHLY CAPARISONED, WITH GOLDEN HEADSTALL. WILD EXCITEMENT. THE LADIES FROM THEIR BALCONIES THROW DOWN ROSEPETALS. THE AIR IS PERFUMED WITH ESSENCES. THE MEN CHEER. BLOOM'S BOYS RUN AMID THE BYSTANDERS WITH BRANCHES OF HAWTHORN AND WRENBUSHES.) BLOOM'S BOYS: The wren, the wren, The king of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day Was caught in the furze. A BLACKSMITH: (MURMURS) For the honour of God! And is that Bloom? He scarcely looks thirtyone. A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: That's the famous Bloom now, the world's greatest reformer. Hats off! (ALL UNCOVER THEIR HEADS. WOMEN WHISPER EAGERLY.) A MILLIONAIRESS: (RICHLY) Isn't he simply wonderful? A NOBLEWOMAN: (NOBLY) All that man has seen! A FEMINIST: (MASCULINELY) And done! A BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has the forehead of a thinker. (BLOOM'S WEATHER. A SUNBURST APPEARS IN THE NORTHWEST.) THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted emperor- president and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First! ALL: God save Leopold the First! BLOOM: (IN DALMATIC AND PURPLE MANTLE, TO THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR, WITH DIGNITY) Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (IN PURPLE STOCK AND SHOVEL HAT) Will you to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging? BLOOM: (PLACING HIS RIGHT HAND ON HIS TESTICLES, SWEARS) So may the Creator deal with me. All this I promise to do. MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (POURS A CRUSE OF HAIROIL OVER BLOOM'S HEAD) GAUDIUM MAGNUM ANNUNTIO VOBIS. HABEMUS CARNEFICEM. Leopold, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed! (BLOOM ASSUMES A MANTLE


the last of the bitterns." "It's the weirdest, strangest thing that ever I heard in my life." "Yes, it's rather an uncanny place altogether. Look at the hillside yonder. What do you make of those?" The whole steep slope was covered with gray circular rings of stone, a score of them at least. "What are they? Sheep-pens?" "No, they are the homes of our worthy ancestors. Prehistoric man lived thickly on the moor, and as no one in particular has lived there since, we find all his little arrangements exactly as he left them. These are his wigwams with the roofs off. You can even see his hearth and his couch if you have the curiosity to go inside. "But it is quite a town. When was it inhabited?" "Neolithic man -- no date." "What did he do?" "He grazed his cattle on these slopes, and he learned to dig for tin when the bronze sword began to supersede the stone axe. Look at the great trench in the opposite hill. That is his mark. Yes, you will find some very singular points about the moor, Dr. Watson. Oh, excuse me an instant! It is surely Cyclopides." A small fly or moth had fluttered across our path, and in an instant Stapleton was rushing with extraordinary energy and speed in pursuit of it. To my dismay the creature flew straight for the great mire, and my acquaintance never paused for an instant, bounding from tuft to tuft behind it, his green net waving in the air. His gray clothes and jerky, zigzag, irregular progress made him not unlike some huge moth himself. I was standing watching his pursuit with a mixture of admiration for his extraor- dinary activity and fear lest he should lose his footing in the treacherous mire when I heard the sound of steps and, turning round, found a woman near me upon the path. She had come from the direction in which the plume of smoke indicated the position of Merripit House, but the dip of the moor had hid her until she was quite close. I could not doubt that this was the Miss Stapleton of whom I had been told, since ladies of any sort must be few upon the moor, and I remembered that I had heard someone describe her as being a beauty. The woman who approached me was certainly that, and of a most uncommon type. There could not have been a greater contrast between brother and sister, for Stapleton was neutral tinted, with light hair and gray eyes, while she was darker than any brunette whom I have seen in England -- slim, elegant, and tall. She had a proud, finely cut face, so regular that it might have seemed impassive were it not for the sensitive mouth and the beautiful dark, eager eyes. With her perfect figure and elegant dress she was, indeed, a strange apparition upon a lonely moorland path. Her eyes were on her brother as I turned, and then she quickened her pace towards me. I had raised


and that person had been reduced to monosyllables. Someone slapped him on the back. “Thank you again for your assistance, Cates.” August looked back over his shoulder to find one of the police officers holding his hand out for a shake. But thanks to his beanstalk being at full maturity, he could only turn partially and slap his hand into the officer’s waiting palm. “Don’t mention it.” The guy just stood there nodding and grinning, shifting in his boots. Oh man, August knew that look. He was seconds from getting invited out for a beer with the bros. “I need to get my wife home before she catches a cold.” Natalie ran a knuckle down his happy trail and he almost swallowed his tongue. “The only thing I’m going to catch,” she whispered for his ears alone, “is this di—” “All right, you take care, man. Let’s have a beer sometime,” August blurted, pushing Natalie’s legs into the truck, his blood thickening like hot gravy. At this point, he didn’t even care who saw his boner, as long as he got the woman home in the next ten minutes. Rest in peace to his headboard. In a few long strides, he was around the front bumper, diving into the driver’s side and reversing through the maze of emergency vehicles. “Oh, you are going to get it, Natalie queen princess Cates.” She slid gracefully across the front row of his truck, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. Kissing, licking . . . and biting down in way that sent his balls up into his throat. “Fuck.” “Yes, please.” She gripped his cock through the wet material of his sweatpants and in one big, shuddering breath, he fogged up every single window of the truck. “And I don’t need you to take it easy on me. Our make-up sex was interrupted this morning. Maybe it should be a little . . .” “Rough.” He fumbled for the defroster with a growl. “You have no idea how bad you’re making it hurt, princess.” That magic hand of hers started to stroke him up and down. “Pull over and show me.” “Natalie,” he groaned, trying to blink away the tiny dots of light spinning in front of his eyes. “I think you might be short-circuiting my brain.” “I’m sorry,” she said, not looking the least bit contrite. Jesus, what was coming next? When she stripped the soaked nightshirt over her head, he had his answer. In a mere scrap of panties, she resumed jacking him off, but this time her hand had entered the end zone. It was inside his sweatpants doing the Lord’s work, playing with his balls and tugging on his cock gently, with a grip that increased in pressure, then got rough. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed through his teeth, forcing himself to breathe and focus on the road. If he crashed his truck with Natalie in the passenger seat, he’d probably die from the horror alone. “I can’t pull over into the woods, Natalie. I’m not risking you getting struck by


use burner phones with these two feebs and others.” “I go through a couple hundred disposables a year. I destroy them all. And I don’t buy them myself.” “I know. Mr. Santana’s uncle Ignacio, the priest, buys them for him, and Santana gives your share to you.” Santana is incensed. “My uncle is a holy man of God. Don’t screw with Tio Ignacio, you piece of shit.” Quieting Santana with a gesture, Woodbine asks Michael, “How could you know this?” “You use your limited-function burner phones when you talk to one another. But you use your smartphones for text messaging.” “Our texts are encrypted. Profoundly encrypted.” “Yeah. I know. The best encryption in the world, developed in Moscow, used by the Russian prime minister. Even the CIA hasn’t broken it.” “But you have?” “Let’s say I built a back door into the computer system of the Russian equivalent of the CIA and planted a rootkit so I can come and go undetected.” “Rootkit?” “Hacker talk. That’s not really how I work. I’m not a hacker, but I wanted to put it in terms you might understand.” “So somehow you tap our phones and read through the encryption of our text messages. That’s how you knew we’d be here now.” Michael shrugs. “So sue me.” “You want me to believe you’ve left incriminating evidence with some friend of yours, and if you don’t come back, he’ll turn it over to the authorities, like in the movies.” “No, not at all. What good would that do me, considering how you can buy politicians, judges, honchos in the attorney general’s office, and key journalists?” Woodbine stares at him for a long beat. At last he says, “You fascinate me.” “Thank you. But that’s not my life’s purpose.” He pulls the empty duffel bag in front of him and begins to scoop packets of hundred-dollar bills into it. Seeking guidance, Santana says, “Carter, what the hell?” Harris’s smartphone is in an interior pocket of his sport coat, and Santana’s smartphone is in the left back pocket of his jeans, and Woodbine’s smartphone is in a pocket of his robe. Although none of those devices is set on vibrate, they begin to shake three times more violently than ever before. Simultaneously, an eerie keening issues from the phones at three times the volume they previously produced, a ululant shrillness suggesting the angry shriek of an ungodly monstrous insect. The batteries instantly overheat. The three men are so startled that they fall into momentary confusion. Santana cries out—“What, what, what?”—and Harris curses, and Woodbine steps out of his slippers as he staggers back from the island, and they claw at themselves to get rid of whatever threat has manifested in their clothing. In the first three seconds, as Rudy Santana plucks the phone from his back pocket, scorching his fingers—“Shit, shit, shit!”—Michael punches his face, breaking his nose, and Santana falls, and Michael stomps on the wrist of the gun hand, and Santana’s fingers spasm open, allowing Michael to stoop and take the pistol by the barrel. In


more Asian or cuz she’s not used to being out in the sun? I should have stopped looking once I’d glimpsed what I thought was the bottom of the pit of internet stupidity. But reading discourse about myself is like prodding at a sore tooth. I’m compelled to keep digging, just to see how far the rot goes. I search Twitter, Reddit, YouTube (already three book bloggers have put up videos titled variations of “Spilling the tea on Juniper ‘Song’!”), Google News, and even TikTok (yes, this has reached the infants on TikTok) by the hour. It’s debilitating. I can’t focus on anything else. I can’t even leave my apartment; all I do is lie curled up in my bed, scrolling alternately on my laptop or my phone, reading and rereading the same updates across the same five websites. People make up absurd rumors about me. Someone says my past reviews on Goodreads are racist. (All I did was write once that I couldn’t relate to an Indian writer’s romance novel, because all the characters were unlikable and way too obsessed with their family duties to the point of disbelief.) Someone says that I regularly harass and bully people who criticize my work. (I put out a snide subtweet about a particularly dumb review of Over the Sycamore, once, and that was three years ago!) Someone claims that I once hit on them at a convention by “complimenting their skin in a very racist way.” (All I said was that their red dress really brought out the yellow undertones in their skin. Jesus, I was just being nice. I didn’t even like the dress that much.) And yet the Twitterati have now spun that into a narrative about how I have a fetish for Asian people, which is proven by my recent BTS retweets and the fact that I played some Japanese video games once and tweeted about how hot the characters were, which means I obviously have a perverted obsession with emasculated and submissive Asian people. (Except I don’t even like BTS that much, and the video game characters in question were designed to be European, so what gives?) All the red flags are in the text itself, writes an anonymous Tumblr account, which I found by clicking through “citations” on a Reddit exposé. See on page 317, where she describes A Geng’s almond eyes and smooth skin. Almond eyes? Really??? White women have been fantasizing about Asian men for decades. (But I didn’t even write that description! Athena did!) Someone who did a text comparison of The Last Front and Athena’s other works using NLP programming on Python announces that there is a “stunning frequency in overlap of key words in both texts.” But the words in question are things like “said,” “fought,” “he,” “she,” and “they.” By that standard, couldn’t one argue that I plagiarized from Hemingway? My detractors scour every public statement I’ve ever made about The Last Front to cherry-pick them for further proof of my awfulness. Apparently it’s not appropriate to call stories about Chinese people


melt at the thought of the other women in his life, the ones who have shaped him. And if he knows you well enough … then he’ll mention something about books or newspaper articles, because surely by now he knows your writing is exquisite, and above all he knows that he doesn’t deserve you and your words and he never will. Iris was stunned. She stared at him, uncertain how to respond. When Roman held her gaze, as if challenging her, she dropped her eyes to the letter. She would have to wait to finish it. She carefully folded and slipped it back in her pocket. But nor would she let her old rival have the last word. She penned and sent: You’re overthinking it. Go to sleep, Roman Kitt. He sighed and leaned his head back. She realized his face was flushed. She watched as his eyes grew heavy. Perhaps that was all she needed to do to make him heed her: call him Roman. But she fell asleep before she could think further on it. And she dreamt of a cold city with streets that never ended and a heavy mist and a boy with dark hair who ran ahead of her, just beyond her reach. {30} Notes from the Trenches Rules for a Civilian in the Trenches: 1. Stay down. Resist the temptation to crawl up one of the ladders to catch a glimpse of the land above, which you previously took for granted before you descended. The ladders are to be used by the lookouts and their periscopes, or for snipers, or when the barrage* (see footnote #1) happens. 2. Become comfortable with a home of open sky and damp dirt walls, but never trust them. The sky is always a threat, and while the earth is your greatest shield when the hounds prowl and the mortar strikes, it can also be dangerous* (see footnote #2). 3. Pray against rain. Daily. Or else prepare to live in flooded conditions* (see footnote #3). 4. Ignore the rats. Yes, this is extremely difficult when they roam the trench at night and crawl over your legs and chew through your bag. Also, ignore the lice. 5. Eat and drink just enough to keep yourself fueled and hydrated. You’ll always feel the faint (or intense) gnaw of hunger as you live off of dried meat and tins of beans. But on a very good day, you might get an egg banjo* (see footnote #4), which tastes utterly divine. 6. Lanterns are allowed to burn low in the communication trenches, but no fire is permitted at night on the front lines. Not even a spark to light a cigarette* (see footnote #5). 7. There is no privacy. Not even when you need the loo. Footnotes: 1. A “barrage” can be defined as a “concentrated artillery bombardment over a wide area.” Lieutenant Lark has informed me this tactic is used when one side wants to cross the “dead man’s zone,” which is the plot of ground between the two forces’ trenches. Heavy casualties occur


to be carried on by a woman?" "That was the plan. Jesus was the original feminist. He intended for the future of His Church to be in the hands of Mary Magdalene." 167 "And Peter had a problem with that," Langdon said, pointing to The Last Supper. "That's Peter there. You can see that Da Vinci was well aware of how Peter felt about Mary Magdalene." Again, Sophie was speechless. In the painting, Peter was leaning menacingly toward Mary Magdalene and slicing his blade-like hand across her neck. The same threatening gesture as in Madonna of the Rocks! "And here too," Langdon said, pointing now to the crowd of disciples near Peter. "A bit ominous, no?" Sophie squinted and saw a hand emerging from the crowd of disciples. "Is that hand wielding a dagger?" "Yes. Stranger still, if you count the arms, you'll see that this hand belongs to... no one at all. It's disembodied. Anonymous." Sophie was starting to feel overwhelmed. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand how all of this makes Mary Magdalene the Holy Grail." "Aha!" Teabing exclaimed again. "Therein lies the rub!" He turned once more to the table and pulled out a large chart, spreading it out for her. It was an elaborate genealogy. "Few people realize that Mary Magdalene, in addition to being Christ's right hand, was a powerful woman already." Sophie could now see the title of the family tree. THE TRIBE OF BENJAMIN "Mary Magdalene is here," Teabing said, pointing near the top of the genealogy. Sophie was surprised. "She was of the House of Benjamin?" "Indeed," Teabing said. "Mary Magdalene was of royal descent." "But I was under the impression Magdalene was poor." Teabing shook his head. "Magdalene was recast as a whore in order to erase evidence of her powerful family ties." Sophie found herself again glancing at Langdon, who again nodded. She turned back to Teabing. "But why would the early Church care if Magdalene had royal blood?" The Briton smiled. "My dear child, it was not Mary Magdalene's royal blood that concerned the Church so much as it was her consorting with Christ, who also had royal blood. As you know, the Book of Matthew tells us that Jesus was of the House of David. A descendant of King Solomon-King of the Jews. By marrying into the powerful House of Benjamin, Jesus fused two royal bloodlines, creating a potent political union with the potential of making a legitimate claim to the throne and restoring the line of kings as it was under Solomon." Sophie sensed he was at last coming to his point. Teabing looked excited now. "The legend of the Holy Grail is a legend about royal blood. When Grail legend speaks of 'the chalice that held the blood of Christ'... it speaks, in fact, of Mary Magdalene-the female womb that carried Jesus' royal bloodline." The words seemed to echo across the ballroom and back before they fully registered in Sophie's mind. Mary Magdalene carried the royal bloodline of Jesus Christ? "But how could Christ have a bloodline unless...?"


long--" and he went on to his dressing-room. Ten days had passed since Madame Olenska's departure from New York. During those ten days Archer had had no sign from her but that conveyed by the return of a key wrapped in tissue paper, and sent to his office in a sealed envelope addressed in her hand. This retort to his last appeal might have been interpreted as a classic move in a familiar game; but the young man chose to give it a different meaning. She was still fighting against her fate; but she was going to Europe, and she was not returning to her husband. Nothing, therefore, was to prevent his following her; and once he had taken the irrevocable step, and had proved to her that it was irrevocable, he believed she would not send him away. This confidence in the future had steadied him to play his part in the present. It had kept him from writing to her, or betraying, by any sign or act, his misery and mortification. It seemed to him that in the deadly silent game between them the trumps were still in his hands; and he waited. There had been, nevertheless, moments sufficiently difficult to pass; as when Mr. Letterblair, the day after Madame Olenska's departure, had sent for him to go over the details of the trust which Mrs. Manson Mingott wished to create for her granddaughter. For a couple of hours Archer had examined the terms of the deed with his senior, all the while obscurely feeling that if he had been consulted it was for some reason other than the obvious one of his cousinship; and that the close of the conference would reveal it. "Well, the lady can't deny that it's a handsome arrangement," Mr. Letterblair had summed up, after mumbling over a summary of the settlement. "In fact I'm bound to say she's been treated pretty handsomely all round." "All round?" Archer echoed with a touch of derision. "Do you refer to her husband's proposal to give her back her own money?" Mr. Letterblair's bushy eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. "My dear sir, the law's the law; and your wife's cousin was married under the French law. It's to be presumed she knew what that meant." "Even if she did, what happened subsequently--." But Archer paused. Mr. Letterblair had laid his pen- handle against his big corrugated nose, and was looking down it with the expression assumed by virtuous elderly gentlemen when they wish their youngers to understand that virtue is not synonymous with ignorance. "My dear sir, I've no wish to extenuate the Count's transgressions; but--but on the other side . . . I wouldn't put my hand in the fire . . . well, that there hadn't been tit for tat . . . with the young champion. . . ." Mr. Letterblair unlocked a drawer and pushed a folded paper toward Archer. "This report, the result of discreet enquiries . . ." And then, as Archer made no effort to glance at the


recognized the queen. He must have made a noise. Suddenly her eyes opened, and she was staring right at him. She screamed. Everything happened at once then. ' The woman pushed the man away wildly, shouting and pointing. Bran tried to pull himself up, bending double as he reached for the gargoyle. He *as in too much of a hurry. His hand scraped uselessly across smooth stone, and in his panic his legs slipped, and suddenly he was failing. There was an instant of vertigo, a sickening lurch as the window flashed past. He shot out a hand, grabbed for the ledge, lost it, caught it again with his other hand. He swung against the building, hard. The impact took the breath out of him. Bran dangled, one-handed, panting. Faces appeared in the window above him. The queen. And now Bran recognized the man beside her. They looked as much alike as reflections in a mirror. "He saw us," the woman said shrilly. "So he did," the man said. A GAME OF THRONES 75 Bran's fingers started to slip. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand. Fingernails dug into unyielding stone. The man reached down. "Take my hand," he said. "Before you fall." Bran seized his arm and held on tight with all his strength. The man yanked him up to the ledge. "What are you doing?" the woman demanded. The man ignored her. He was very strong. He stood Bran up on the sill. "How old are you, boy?" "Seven," Bran said, shaking with relief. His fingers had dug deep gouges in the man's forearm. He let go sheepishly. The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove. Screaming, Bran went backward out the window into empty air. There was nothing to grab on to. The courtyard rushed up to meet him. Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf was howling. Crows circled the broken tower, waiting for corn. TYRION Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of mourning. Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack. When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundredyear-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. He covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping. His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table where the


them. The bugs … There’s physically no way to kill them all. In time, they’d make their way up here to the bridge. They’d make an all-you-can-eat buffet of this compartment.” The bridge went quiet as we watched as Hardy and Reggie appeared on one video security feed and then the next. Chen said, “Eight more frigates just entered the asteroid belt and they’re moving fast … real fast.” I counted thirty-five nanite beetle constructs, Hardy and Reggie having dispatched several dozen of the killer bugs. Corridors and passageways throughout the ship had once been teeming with them, but now they were converging, obviously communicating with one another. Sonya, hands covering the bottom half of her face, said, “They’re almost there. Oh God … I can’t watch this.” But watch she did. Hardy was the first to reach the double-wide hatch doors, immediately working the access panel to the right. I mumbled, “Hurry … hurry … Come on!” Reggie had caught up, now anxiously waiting for Hardy to figure out the stupid code. I said, “Use the master code, dammit!” Looking up at Sonya, I saw both surprise and guilt written all over her face. “I scrubbed Adams’s memory banks!” “Yeah … so?” “That sets all the hatch doors back to their factory default codes.” “What’s the factory default code?” I asked, looking back to the halo display. The bugs were almost upon them now. Reggie looked downright petrified, while Hardy had now resorted to banging a catcher’s mitt–sized metal fist on the bulkhead. Ensign Polk said, “It’s 123456.” “Seriously?” I said, looking back at her. Chen said, “Sending Hardy the code now.” I watched as Hardy continued with his hissy fit, then suddenly stopped to enter the transmitted code. The massive hatch doors slowly began to separate. Not having time to even turn around, Hardy was shoved inside the cargo airlock. “Someone get me a feed from inside that airlock!” I yelled. “Hold on,” Akari snapped back. As the wide-angle feed came into view, there was a collective gasp. It was like looking into the workings of a beehive, or an anthill, insects scurrying around everywhere with no rhyme or reason to their movements. I could see Reggie; he was hard to miss standing there, looming over the bugs while trying to snap at them. But there were too many. I looked to Sonya, but she had already turned her back to the halo display. She was talking to her Jadoo ring, where I caught a quick glance at Ensign Plorinne. “No! Do it now! Shut him off. Shut Reggie off!” And with that, Reggie dropped to the deck, lifeless. It was as if a dinner bell had been rung; the beetles swarmed into a frenzy, crawling over one another to get to Reggie’s carcass. I leaned forward, trying to get a bead on Hardy. “There he is,” Akari said. “Oh no …” I saw him now too. At least he was standing … even if he did have half a dozen beetles clamped onto each of his appendages. “Captain, he’s


portraits on the table. With a new sense of awe he looked at the frank forehead, serious eyes and gay innocent mouth of the young creature whose soul's custodian he was to be. That terrifying product of the social system he belonged to and believed in, the young girl who knew nothing and expected everything, looked back at him like a stranger through May Welland's familiar features; and once more it was borne in on him that marriage was not the safe anchorage he had been taught to think, but a voyage on uncharted seas. The case of the Countess Olenska had stirred up old settled convictions and set them drifting dangerously through his mind. His own exclamation: "Women should be free--as free as we are," struck to the root of a problem that it was agreed in his world to regard as non-existent. "Nice" women, however wronged, would never claim the kind of freedom he meant, and generous- minded men like himself were therefore--in the heat of argument--the more chivalrously ready to concede it to them. Such verbal generosities were in fact only a humbugging disguise of the inexorable conventions that tied things together and bound people down to the old pattern. But here he was pledged to defend, on the part of his betrothed's cousin, conduct that, on his own wife's part, would justify him in calling down on her all the thunders of Church and State. Of course the dilemma was purely hypothetical; since he wasn't a blackguard Polish nobleman, it was absurd to speculate what his wife's rights would be if he WERE. But Newland Archer was too imaginative not to feel that, in his case and May's, the tie might gall for reasons far less gross and palpable. What could he and she really know of each other, since it was his duty, as a "decent" fellow, to conceal his past from her, and hers, as a marriageable girl, to have no past to conceal? What if, for some one of the subtler reasons that would tell with both of them, they should tire of each other, misunderstand or irritate each other? He reviewed his friends' marriages-- the supposedly happy ones--and saw none that answered, even remotely, to the passionate and tender comradeship which he pictured as his permanent relation with May Welland. He perceived that such a picture presupposed, on her part, the experience, the versatility, the freedom of judgment, which she had been carefully trained not to possess; and with a shiver of foreboding he saw his marriage becoming what most of the other marriages about him were: a dull association of material and social interests held together by ignorance on the one side and hypocrisy on the other. Lawrence Lefferts occurred to him as the husband who had most completely realised this enviable ideal. As became the high-priest of form, he had formed a wife so completely to his own convenience that, in the most conspicuous moments of his frequent love-affairs with other men's wives, she went about in smiling unconsciousness, saying that "Lawrence


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

Gabriel Remaut, Duke of Balgia,” Gabriel announced, voice strong and sure as if he’d done this a thousand times. “And my cousin, Eldelore Remaut.” Lore dug her nails into Gabriel’s arm. His lips twisted against a smirk. The bloodcoat nodded, then opened the door. And revealed the kind of sumptuous chaos that could’ve been the dead gods’ Shining Realm or any one of the myriad hells. Opulently dressed courtiers whirled to mad music from a small orchestra. Hair was done up in spirals and towers, powdered impossible colors—deep greens and gem-bright blues and light blush-pinks. Some of the dancers appeared to be dressed like animals, with half masks covering their eyes and false ears on their heads, made of expensive fabric. A thin slip of a person wore shimmering butterfly wings on their back, the same bright yellow as their hair. Another had what looked like actual swan feathers attached to the back of her diaphanous gown, and her dance partner wore nothing but feathers around her waist and breasts. If Lore’s eyebrows climbed any farther, they’d disappear into her hairline. “You weren’t exaggerating about my dress being tame.” “Positively chaste.” Gabriel looked like he’d rather be walking into a jail cell than this party. His jaw was a tight line, and the muscles under Lore’s slack hand were tense as a fence post. A familiar scent itched at Lore’s nose. Belladonna. She whipped around, searching the crowd anxiously. There, in the corner—a group of courtiers took turns drinking from a tiny ceramic cup, not even trying to hide it. Their faces were flushed, their legs unsteady, their eyes glassy with a euphoric poison high. Flashes of gray showed at wrists and throats, stone working its silent way through veins as just enough Mortem was pulled forth to slow the ravage of time. Painful years added to pampered lives. “They’ll kill themselves if they drink too much,” she muttered. “The key is moderation, and nothing about this party tells me these people know anything about that.” “Citadel physicians are highly skilled at treating overdoses.” Gabriel’s blue eye flashed as he turned away from the knot of poisoned nobles. “It happens all the time. There are laws in place that force a nobleman to step down in favor of his heir if he lives too long.” “I haven’t seen anyone that looks like a revenant.” “Citadel physicians are skilled at treating that, too. Take a good look at some of the older nobles next time you get a chance. Cosmetics and padding go a long way to hide stone veins and emaciation.” Lore’s jaw tightened as she watched the extravagantly dressed courtiers pass the poison, giggling. She didn’t realize she’d taken a step toward the group until Gabe’s hand landed on her shoulder. He shook his head. “Just leave it, Lore.” And what could she do, even if she did go over there? It wouldn’t make a difference. So Lore sighed, and shook her hands out of their fists, and turned to observe the Court of the Citadel in all its debauchery. Knots


a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step. The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc. Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness of the pines below. This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that enriched this summit. It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief. When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert,


what he said and that I even have to answer the questions. All I can think is how un- just the whole thing is, the Hunger Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface, until I’m literally spitting out answers at him. “All right, enough,” he says. “We’ve got to find another an- gle. Not only are you hostile, I don’t know anything about you. I’ve asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about you, Katniss.” 117 “But I don’t want them to! They’re already taking my fu- ture! They can’t have the things that mattered to me in the past!” I say. “Then lie! Make something up!” says Haymitch. “I’m not good at lying,” I say. “Well, you better learn fast. You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug,” says Haymitch. Ouch. That hurts. Even Haymitch must know he’s been too harsh because his voice softens. “Here’s an idea. Try acting humble.” “Humble,” I echo. “That you can’t believe a little girl from District Twelve has done this well. The whole thing’s been more than you ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna’s clothes. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won’t talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.” The next hours are agonizing. At once, it’s clear I cannot gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don’t have the arrog- ance. Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity. I’m not wit- ty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious. By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge has crept into his voice. “I give up, sweetheart. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them.” I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an outra- geous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and then tak- 118 ing out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the mess. “Just leave it!” I yell at her. “Just leave it alone!” I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that call me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol, both now and then. For her, justice must finally be happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of the boy in the woods. But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door be- hind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is


poet turned to him with his sleek smile: "I hear you don't think much of my verses." Philip was embarrassed. "I don't know about that," he answered. "I enjoyed reading them very much." "Do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned Cronshaw, with a wave of his fat hand. "I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical works. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aim is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to existence. And as for posterity--damn posterity." Philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life had produced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditatively and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes. "You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with hair-dressers and _garcons de cafe_; I translate wretched books for the British public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of life?" "I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the answer yourself?" "No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what do you suppose you are in the world for?" Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possible use of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people." "In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?" "I suppose so." "Christianity." "No, it isn't," said Philip indignantly. "It has nothing to do with Christianity. It's just abstract morality." "But there's no such thing as abstract morality." "In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I should return it to you? It's not the fear of the police." "It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are virtuous." "But I believe in neither." "That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative. You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was based upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is a God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I don't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or not." "But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me," said Philip. "Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police."


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

Fleming's theme because the pages were stuck together by a blot: and Father Arnall held it up by a corner and said it was an insult to any master to send him up such a theme. Then he asked Jack Lawton to decline the noun MARE and Jack Lawton stopped at the ablative singular and could not go on with the plural. --You should be ashamed of yourself, said Father Arnall sternly. You, the leader of the class! Then he asked the next boy and the next and the next. Nobody knew. Father Arnall became very quiet, more and more quiet as each boy tried to answer it and could not. But his face was black-looking and his eyes were staring though his voice was so quiet. Then he asked Fleming and Fleming said that the word had no plural. Father Arnall suddenly shut the book and shouted at him: --Kneel out there in the middle of the class. You are one of the idlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again the rest of you. Fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the two last benches. The other boys bent over their theme-books and began to write. A silence filled the classroom and Stephen, glancing timidly at Father Arnall's dark face, saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in. Was that a sin for Father Arnall to be in a wax or was he allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a wax? It was because he was allowed, because a priest would know what a sin was and would not do it. But if he did it one time by mistake what would he do to go to confession? Perhaps he would go to confession to the minister. And if the minister did it he would go to the rector: and the rector to the provincial: and the provincial to the general of the jesuits. That was called the order: and he had heard his father say that they were all clever men. They could all have become high-up people in the world if they had not become jesuits. And he wondered what Father Arnall and Paddy Barrett would have become and what Mr McGlade and Mr Gleeson would have become if they had not become jesuits. It was hard to think what because you would have to think of them in a different way with different coloured coats and trousers and with beards and moustaches and different kinds of hats. The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear. --Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class? He came to the middle of


Of course the girls went mad for him—half of the men, too, come to that. William knew this, and he handled it gently. He didn’t let it turn his head. He kept himself to himself—he was hard to read, same as she was. The first time their hands touched, they were both buttoned up in their gloves. He’d taken a breath, a deep one, as if steadying himself. They kept it secret, whatever it was between them. They didn’t even call it love for years. It was their thing, theirs alone. On their night walks they skirted Whitechapel, and he pressed her, curious: tell me who you are, tell me where you come from. “Who cares?” she said, laughing. “Let me be a mystery.” She led him down the old street, right past Mr. Parker’s house, in silence. Yellow-gray brick, and a broken lamppost, and a shadowy boy flipping ha’pennies at the end of the lane. She must have gone silent, fretting, remembering Mother. He’d clocked it, yet he didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to cause her pain. I remember everything when it comes to you. Those words made her throat dry. “Don’t repeat that to anyone.” He stared right back. “Which part?” “Any of it.” She closed up her face, turned her back on him. She could feel it: danger, pulsing through the garden. 18 Tilney Street, Mayfair. Mrs. Bone had rented lodgings for them on a side road off Park Lane, in order to maintain the closest possible presence to the de Vries residence. “Can she afford it?” Mrs. King murmured when they first inspected their new lodgings. “Why couldn’t she afford it?” said Winnie. Mrs. King’s expression smoothed out. “No reason.” Now Winnie sat in the parlor with a mountain of fabric, sewing tunics. She frowned, struggling with the machine, which whirred and rattled and threatened to destroy her faith in herself. She wasn’t making nearly enough progress. They needed to dress at least sixty men. She was barely a third of the way through. She called through to the bedroom. “How are you getting on in there, Hephzibah?” Hephzibah’s voice came back, rich and imperious. “Call me Lady Montagu!” Mrs. Bone had sent one of her own gigantic-looking mirrors to Tilney Street, and they’d propped it up at the end of the bed. Winnie peeked around the door. Hephzibah was examining herself, ruffled and rippling, awash with pink silks. A hat triple-barreled with roses floated merrily on her head. “I’m radiant,” she said. “You look like a regular Venus,” said Winnie, with care. Hephzibah eyed her beadily. “Because of the pink?” She sniffed. “Yes, I like that.” Winnie approached carefully. She touched Hephzibah’s neck, checked the buttons on the back of the dress. Studied the photograph they’d pinned to the glass. The real Duchess of Montagu stared back at her. Strong oval face. Fine, long nose. She looked at Hephzibah. The resemblance was remarkable. “Have you been learning your lines?” she said, trying to be cheerful. Hephzibah’s hands seemed jumpy. “There’s more to this job than learning


I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean, more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it - like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For, I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head, but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations), with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought


encouraged the boys to sit with him in his obi, and he told them stories of the land--masculine stories of violence and bloodshed. Nwoye knew that it was right to be masculine and to be violent, but somehow he still preferred the stories that his mother used to tell, and which she no doubt still told to her younger children--stories of the tortoise and his wily ways, and of the bird eneke-nti-oba who challenged the whole world to a wrestling contest and was finally thrown by the cat. He remembered the story she often told of the quarrel between Earth and Sky long ago, and how Sky withheld rain for seven years, until crops withered and the dead could not be buried because the hoes broke on the stony Earth. At last Vulture was sent to plead with Sky, and to soften his heart with a song of the suffering of the sons of men. Whenever Nwoye's mother sang this song he felt carried away to the distant scene in the sky where Vulture, Earth's emissary, sang for mercy. At last Sky was moved to pity, and he gave to Vulture rain wrapped in leaves of coco-yam. But as he flew home his long talon pierced the leaves and the rain fell as it had never fallen before. And so heavily did it rain on Vulture that he did not return to deliver his message but flew to a distant land, from where he had espied a fire. And when he got there he found it was a man making a sacrifice. He warmed himself in the fire and ate the entrails. That was the kind of story that Nwoye loved. But he now knew that they were for foolish women and children, and he knew that his father wanted him to be a man. And so he feigned that he no longer cared for women's stories. And when he did this he saw that his father was pleased, and no longer rebuked him or beat him. So Nwoye and Ikemefuna would listen to Okonkwo's stories about tribal wars, or how, years ago, he had stalked his victim, overpowered him and obtained his first human head. And as he told them of the past they sat in darkness or the dim glow of logs, waiting for the women to finish their cooking. When they finished, each brought her bowl of foo-foo and bowl of soup to her husband. An oil lamp was lit and Okonkwo tasted from each bowl, and then passed two shares to Nwoye and Ikemefuna. In this way the moons and the seasons passed. And then the locusts came. It had not happened for many a long year. The elders said locusts came once in a generation, reappeared every year for seven years and then disappeared for another lifetime. They went back to their caves in a distant land, where they were guarded by a race of stunted men. And then after another lifetime these men opened the caves again and the locusts came to Umuofia. They came in


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

I've told her it was a dog, but I don't think she believes me -- I shouldn't have hit him at the Quidditch match, that's why he's doing this." Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down. "It'll all be over at midnight on Saturday," said Hermione, but this didn't soothe Ron at all. On the contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat. "Midnight on Saturday!" he said in a hoarse voice. "Oh no oh no -- I've just remembered -- Charlie's letter was in that book Malfoy took, he's going to know we're getting rid of Norbert." Harry and Hermione didn't get a chance to answer. Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made them leave, saying Ron needed sleep. *** "It's too late to change the plan now," Harry told Hermione. "We haven't got time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be our only chance to get rid of Norbert. We'll have to risk it. And we have got the invisibility cloak, Malfoy doesn't know about that." They found Fang, the boarhound, sitting outside with a bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk to them. "I won't let you in," he puffed. "Norbert's at a tricky stage -- nothin' I can't handle." When they told him about Charlie's letter, his eyes filled with tears, although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg. "Aargh! It's all right, he only got my boot -- jus' playin' -- he's only a baby, after all." The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday couldn't come quickly enough. *** They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn't been so worried about what they had to do. It was a very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late arriving at Hagrid's hut because they'd had to wait for Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall, where he'd been playing tennis against the wall. Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate. "He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey," said Hagrid in a muffled voice. "An' I've packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely." From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his head torn off. "Bye-bye, Norbert!" Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered the crate with the invisibility cloak and stepped underneath it themselves. "Mommy will never forget you!" How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the entrance hall and along the dark corridors. UP another staircase, then another -- even one of Harry's shortcuts didn't make the work much easier. "Nearly there!" Harry panted as they reached the corridor beneath the tallest tower. Then a


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

myself a muffled but acceptable figure, to get money, and then to recover my books and parcels where they awaited me, take a lodging somewhere and elaborate plans for the complete realisation of the advantages my invisibility gave me (as I still imagined) over my fellow-men. "Closing time arrived quickly enough; it could not have been more than an hour after I took up my position on the mattresses before I noticed the blinds of the windows being drawn, and customers being marched doorward. And then a number of brisk young men began with remarkable alacrity to tidy up the goods that remained disturbed. I left my lair as the crowds diminished, and prowled cautiously out into the less desolate parts of the shop. I was really surprised to observe how rapidly the young men and women whipped away the goods displayed for sale during the day. All the boxes of goods, the hanging fabrics, the festoons of lace, the boxes of sweets in the grocery section, the displays of this and that, were being whipped down, folded up, slapped into tidy receptacles, and everything that could not be taken down and put away had sheets of some coarse stuff like sacking flung over it. Finally all the chairs were turned up on to the counters, leaving the floor clear. Directly each of these young people had done, he or she made promptly for the door with such an expression of animation as I have rarely observed in a shop assistant before. Then came a lot of youngsters scattering sawdust and carrying pails and brooms. I had to dodge to get out of the way, and as it was, my ankle got stung with the sawdust. For some time, wandering through the swathed and darkened departments, I could hear the brooms at work. And at last a good hour or more after the shop had been closed, came a noise of locking doors. Silence came upon the place, and I found myself wandering through the vast and intricate shops, galleries and showrooms of the place, alone. It was very still; in one place I remember passing near one of the Tottenham Court Road entrances and listening to the tapping of bootheels of the passers-by. "My first visit was to the place where I had seen stockings and gloves for sale. It was dark, and I had the devil of a hunt after matches, which I found at last in the drawer of the little cash desk. Then I had to get a candle. I had to tear down wrappings and ransack a number of boxes and drawers, but at last I managed to turn out what I sought; the box label called them lambswool pants, and lambswool vests. Then socks, a thick comforter, and then I went to the clothing place and got trousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat and a slouch hat --a clerical sort of hat with the brim turned down. I began to feel a human being again, and my next thought was food. "Upstairs was a refreshment department,


not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world. "Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby." While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning,and clattering everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan -- mdash; what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee? asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of


or sentiment, wit, humor, and pathos, were all thrown away, or worse than thrown away, on Clifford; either because he lacked an experience by which to test their truth, or because his own griefs were a touch-stone of reality that few feigned emotions could withstand. When Phoebe broke into a peal of merry laughter at what she read, he would now and then laugh for sympathy, but oftener respond with a troubled, questioning look. If a tear--a maiden's sunshiny tear over imaginary woe--dropped upon some melancholy page, Clifford either took it as a token of actual calamity, or else grew peevish, and angrily motioned her to close the volume. And wisely too! Is not the world sad enough, in genuine earnest, without making a pastime of mock sorrows? With poetry it was rather better. He delighted in the swell and subsidence of the rhythm, and the happily recurring rhyme. Nor was Clifford incapable of feeling the sentiment of poetry,--not, perhaps, where it was highest or deepest, but where it was most flitting and ethereal. It was impossible to foretell in what exquisite verse the awakening spell might lurk; but, on raising her eyes from the page to Clifford's face, Phoebe would be made aware, by the light breaking through it, that a more delicate intelligence than her own had caught a lambent flame from what she read. One glow of this kind, however, was often the precursor of gloom for many hours afterward; because, when the glow left him, he seemed conscious of a missing sense and power, and groped about for them, as if a blind man should go seeking his lost eyesight. It pleased him more, and was better for his inward welfare, that Phoebe should talk, and make passing occurrences vivid to his mind by her accompanying description and remarks. The life of the garden offered topics enough for such discourse as suited Clifford best. He never failed to inquire what flowers had bloomed since yesterday. His feeling for flowers was very exquisite, and seemed not so much a taste as an emotion; he was fond of sitting with one in his hand, intently observing it, and looking from its petals into Phoebe's face, as if the garden flower were the sister of the household maiden. Not merely was there a delight in the flower's perfume, or pleasure in its beautiful form, and the delicacy or brightness of its hue; but Clifford's enjoyment was accompanied with a perception of life, character, and individuality, that made him love these blossoms of the garden, as if they were endowed with sentiment and intelligence. This affection and sympathy for flowers is almost exclusively a woman's trait. Men, if endowed with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to despise it, in their contact with coarser things than flowers. Clifford, too, had long forgotten it; but found it again now, as he slowly revived from the chill torpor of his life. It is wonderful how many pleasant incidents continually came to pass in that secluded garden-spot when once Phoebe had set herself