It was a very handsome boy, wearing a thin silver glasses. He strode on the platform and began to speak of today's theme - west Africa recently discovered a topaz. Lecture from a long history, until recently of the research............ 

(0-0) I heard bored, sitting on the left of the once said in a low voice: "their amethyst picked up that are very similar with me." 

"See. After the meeting I find ChengYongHao to sample back testing." 

"He will agree to? 

"Sure." Who said firmly. 

"Are you dating him?" I want to QiMing John. 

"No, it is his unrequited love." M don't know where to take out a bag of popcorn. Her appetite is really make people worship. Khan. 

"Such a good boy why don't you?" 

"The yuan is also very good ah." 

A word is blocked all my language. By the way, tomorrow will reply to him, what should I do? I was so mad at the thought of this! 

"If confirmed amethyst is their club?" In a few minutes of time, has been directly half popcorn has been eliminated. 

"To a list member. I want to check to fragments of the owner. Please." 

"I want to eat haagen-dazs hot pot." 

"No problem. Just need to spend three months of my pocket money." Whoops, m the hag! 

ChengYongHao cheerfully on the stage also speak something, but I also can't hear a word in. 

Boys seem to be just the right sitting membership, holding a book on reading of amethyst. I saw the book part of the text, the lateral side, 

Mysterious natural amethyst is a pale purple, deep purple or grape purple transparent quartz crystal. Caused by a crystal containing manganese element. Color bright, clean and flawless, from deep purple background gives fully in shiny red light. 

Mysterious natural amethyst by westerners as the stone of "honesty", which is the symbol of honesty, integrity and kindness, symbol of innocence and happiness, also suitable for minors, presented to the younger generation. 

Mysterious purple as a noble color by people, combined with the legends and along with it, and thus five male nobles, Catholic (Roman Pope glass is made from natural amethyst) are proud of having amethyst, for fun, for the treasure. A symbol of wealth... 

Good boring ah! I can endure not bottom go to, quietly got up and went outside. 

Star bright, cool wind blowing through the ear. 

With winter approaching, the skin has become some dry. Recently have a night when jersey do nutrition soup to drink, the body also can keep enough moisture, now can only eat bad to the fullest of fast food, the stomach is almost cry is dead. Alas, is the so-called korona supermarket. 

I open fingers, look through fingers deep in the night sky shining stars in the light. Night - - ze, this name is not sad, night and hope for a bright, full of expectations and longings, beautiful scenery like tonight. 

Is he in the side day is very good. When angry when lifting heavy eyebrows, anger micro tear mole, when raise the corners of the mouth... Are beautiful enough... 

Miss him very much, really want to. 

Well, great tang bubble decide to withhold his anger. As a new era of women must have a broad mind, to disdain and little boy. Q (^_^) p so I out of the bag to touch phone dial the number. To know that by heart 

"Ah!" Suddenly there was a group of screaming girls in the gym. And then go toward outside on flash floods, people almost knock down me. 

What's going on? Have rice still in it! I through the crowd, anxiously upstream ran back to the museum. 

"He just shock." 

Just to the door she heard was m. Too good, she is ok! 

"What?" I was out of breath to ask. 

Empty in the lobby of a moment only ChengYongHao, meters and framingham. Once m move to open in the boy under the nose of hand, saw my one eye, didn't speak. 

"We are adjusting the collective biological field just now, he suddenly fell down." ChengYongHao glasses with light reflection. 

"The man!" Suddenly I stare big eyes, breath the air conditioning. 

"Do you know?" Asked the framingham. 

"Listening to the report, he sat on my right." I don't look away again dare not drumming heart jumping. Boys stiff body make me feel it is not a simple accident. 

"I've already called 120." Framingham walked beside ChengYongHao said. "they will soon arrive." 

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"He's chest pin broken." Had a glint of excited light meters. 

ChengYongHao frowned, and said nothing. 

1 yorum Devamini oku

Oh, well... 

Yes, my name is fish, is to make the curly become the hero of the hero. (curly in choke me. 

... 

Good. Then we focus on below or interview raghunathan r s classmates! 

To. To. I told you. 

Raghunathan r s students. 

Ah, you ask, you ask. 

Raghunathan r s classmate, would you please talk about, when you see the child fall into water, what is your first reaction? 

I, at that time, reaction, startled. Think, this child is really silly ah, how will go down? ... Oh no, I was very nervous, the child how so not be careful, people will fall down, it really is not careful! 

(see, spill the beans! The somebody else's children in pool play of good, not you tell people the small tadpoles in the pond is drowning, getting out quickly, after getting out, they can become a frog. The child a listen to, kerplunk will go down. You forget, wicked thing. 

So raghunathan r s classmate, you were desperateness jump in the water to save a child, you think of the mind? 

Yes! I thought of the area, huang jiguang,, QiuShaoYun... Luo shengjiao, to... And luo shengjiao, I remember him desperateness to save the children in the hole, and finally didn't climb heroic deeds. So many hero elder inspired me, and I... ...... Will go down...... 

(is that I put you tread down. The kids a jump down go to, curly hemp claw, we say that curly you are quick to give he pulled up! Curly said I won't water in the river. As a boy who grew up fool! I am one the feeling be nasty as his ass is a foot. The elder sister asked also has a problem, at that time also you mind thought about who, after you think it over, the somebody else all drowned. 

Hear, you jump to the water after beginning is to the bank, that is how to return a responsibility? 

(curly want to escape! Suddenly found the shore many people is called and clapping. 

Oh, oh, you said that moment, I turned to, the water is cool! I just lost the direction, ha ha, this is just so happened that is! 

Finally, then please tell me about your feelings! 

Feeling! I want to thank my teachers and classmates, family, not their education, care for and help, won't be where I am today. 

Well, that's very thank you raghunathan r s and your classmates, today we interview will finish, goodbye! 

Good, that you take care! 

Can calculate go, oh, my mama ah. I saw curly in secretly wipe sweat! 

A guilty conscience! 

Which have, how can I have? 

Lying is not blush with shame? 

Then you say I do, have been frame came up. I always can't say I... !!!!! Besides the child, I didn't mean it, I don't also make amends! Just this, I roll hair became a hero, I become famous! 

You said, that is, it is. I said not exposure is good. 

Days or one day a heaven and earth, calm, no wind, no waves. 

Curly said, you see heard reports yet? 

No. 

Have a problem! There no ah, could really be into exposure? 

Hanging! 

Over, see like this over. Small fish! ? ! 

I promise, I absolutely no secrets. 

I'm afraid the child himself awake, said. Alas...... Well, hero, also brought out the name. 

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Don't, a bad reputation is finished. 

1 yorum Devamini oku

"Doodle" club. 

Coming and going of guys and dolls, they face daub with monkey like, hair red yellow curled up into the sky, such as Turkey general. Flow of the body, the wear on chest, bare midriff, hot pants... Some BaiShengSheng ass if seems to be on the outside. 

LiHuan see more dazzling, FengFeng suddenly say with smile: "you see, here the beauty enough? Than your temple three thousand beauty is not bad!" 

He didn't know why she now about this, but I feel great novel, the whole world of BaiShengSheng arm thigh sway gadites cannot open eyes, as if into the old "days". He's out tour a few times, to the outside world amorous feelings is also very understanding. 

In here, somehow or other excited, his eyes chasing a a passing by or full or a slim figure toing and froing, suddenly saw a special breathtaking wear miniskirt of woman, tall and shapely two long, straight see person my throat is dry, can't help "roll" a sound. 

FengFeng looked at his face, the in the mind with the original point upset also immediately and disappeared. Goat is goat, just so, the work also fully suitable for his "love"! 

She light way: "you put here as your temple, will feel the work fun, it seems, you are completely will be competent..." 

Put here as their temple? The temple know fornication into what look like. 

FengFeng see him deprecating appearance, heart sneer at 1, men are like that, if another woman outside the sensuality is good, but, his house a woman is pure water best. 

Two people have been drived into the inside of the walk, through the deafening discos, and then go down two layer, noisy environment finally to the globe, quiet down. FengFeng dozen telephone, carve patterns or designs on woodwork wooden door opened, two people entered, door immediately and close to the outside world, seem to have completely isolated. 

Already is late into the night. 

It is a a delicate desk and chair, each table and chair sat a or across the sat a woman, dim lamplight, at that time also called the difference between the not clear height fat thin, old young. From time to time, some young men walking back and forth, these men are tall handsome or gigolo. 

FengFeng earlier accidentally know a woman -- runescape said "LiuJie" doing here the captain, at that time, they outside bar poster advertising, it is FengFeng to do. So, she can give he introduced the id card don't work. Before she came to the LiuJie has had a phone call. 

Look around, not for a while, a tall 30 s the beauty of a woman walked to come over, to FengFeng nodded his head. 

FengFeng immediately call LiHuan stood on the other side, with the LiuJie to speak on the edge. Chat a few words, FengFeng think, must to find a LiHuan what excuses, otherwise, the eldest brother a man running do cowboy, was a little strange. Mind turn a few times, he said: "LiuJie, his mother is ill, need money, please see to you. If he has any omissions place, please bear with me a lot..." 

LiuJie replied, his eyes to look LiHuan. Even a few eyes, seems to be rest assured of appearance, nodded: "well, there you go." 

"Thank you, please LiuJie care point. I walked first." 

"Well." 

LiHuan a man a fish out of water to stand there, the in the mind more and more feel strange, and, behold, FengFeng finally came and breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

"LiHuan, you good good do things right, this income is very high, the work you also fully cope with, it is estimated that you would like..." 

This is the lot everyone know a "duck shop", to consumption are generally big-spending money elder sister matron, provide service of course is the shuttle intercourse of handsome young man. 

He do when the emperor tonight in the palace, the temple tomorrow bridal chamber, anyway, all in a different woman, like a lot of different women to play, now, the job, also is skilled, "the bank" well operation. 

Besides, he to the current situation, no more than the money fast to the industry. 

LiHuan enraged to look around, and see her, you will like this job? Why one enter here feel special depressed? 

"LiHuan, I walk." 

He is enraged, catch up step, backwardness way: "I... can go home...... well, is there......" 

She was silent for once: "if you temporarily no other place to go to, also can come again crowded days. Also, the work, do not do with you, if you midway not happy, also can leave..." 

His heart is uneasy, to want to say anything, she has been turned off. 

Carve patterns or designs on woodwork wooden door open and close, LiHuan see her figure disappeared, the in the mind empty - yourself in this world only know a woman, was gone. 

He was sitting alone in a holder of a bench in front, put the tall glass. By his side, still sit ten young man, all of the dap, tall, handsome, each end the glass, or meditation, or laugh. 

What is this job? Here is the drink? 

He surprised. 

He looks at his presence has a wooden brand, scale "17", and then see the other man in front, all seemed to have this brand. To see a woman in, this can see more clearly, the woman, is generally more than thirty, sixty below everybody clothing showily. 

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Then, a gentle vague music, music, a group of wear yarn man plays out. LiHuan never know the man is can wear yarn, the applause ring out, gigolo jump jump simply revealed on the layer of yarn. So, the women began to throw to the flowers, candy, even some notes do roses. 

1 yorum Devamini oku

Friends say, a person like stray, there are two reasons, one is because you fall in love with many people, but many people fall in love with you. For this, I am not very much agree with, and said a like outcast was destined to lonely, because stray is lonely lonely, have many people company that is called tourism! 

But from the skin said I was a troubled person, but the heart always eager to stable life, and does not dare to indulge in calm in. The feeling of love can never experience, even if friends think I am in the process, but I didn't love the sweet! Is I think too much, I want to pursue in the book of love affair, in the reality but end up a wound, is a book had lied to me, or I live in a fairy tale in. 

When the lonely time, like lit a cigarette to calm look at the stars, like the flame burning in my lonely, the tiny dispersed smoke like at the moment of mood, slowly convergence, but in an instant pass away, only left a share comfortable taste. I want to lonely limit is micro no waves mood, only smell the smell of his loneliness. 

Calm, like holding a pen, in a clean white paper on writing my sorrow, like the light sad words jump paper feeling sad words, covered with white paper, also became a sad song, the song echoed across the bottom of the heart, take away all of your sorrow, and heart began to calm. 

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Boring, like that on a few friends, friends at the dinner table writing to the top of one's bent. Usually rarely drinks, but I like drunk like a dream, like that seems to wake up feeling, beverages so unhappy, until you don't know what to say? In fact the wine to me, just a medium, that YiBeiBei is in the heart of the unhappy, and drunk is to find a suitable reason to talk, the wine table in order to construct a right place. 

Love, like a person who want to, be immersed in their own imagination, not sure tomorrow the idea in his future. Like him in my unhappy when listen I said, do not need too much comfort, just let me know she listen carefully; Like her in my mood cheerful, I play the woman, who share my happiness; Like him confident said to me: the world's most beautiful and the most gentle girl is your girlfriend; Like she is very afraid, curled up in my arms, I know she needs me, Like her pretend very tired appearance, arbitrariness call me back her; I like her and took her by the hand, tightly hold my hands, let me understand that she is so love me... 

A friend said, see your log has a want to cry feeling, don't know why. I said, I like to use the sad words to tell my sad mood!!!!!! 

1 yorum Devamini oku

"Willing to! Just get together with him, I what all willing to. Two years or one year or as long as he can be happy, I will not." The girl said firmly, "doctor, an operation today!" 

The doctor while touching the girl's hair and say "good", and at this time, a line of tears from the doctor's cheeks down. 

... 

The operating table, two beds on each other. When they were before anesthesia, they are holding each other's hand, like to put each other's heart is set in together, who is not willing to lose each other. Heart will follow love together, and their love, will be like eternal myth, forever in their heart of hearts. 

After a few hours, the operation was a success. The doctor asked the sea dream eat more anti-rejection drugs, such as far as possible can be eased the pain, and always adhere to the hospital, until no more pain so far. In the dream birthday, Marine and bought her a red skirt. That night, they had a good time. 

Maybe it was two months, maybe after half a year, the sea dream is "good", and Marine? Don't know why, Marine like from the human life evaporate, no one know where he was going, and he also left a letter. 

Sea dream sorrow, sorrow doesn't know how to is good, she is just a person to stay in that with their once happy villa, every lacrimosa, lonely and miserable life. And day after day she will do the same dream, the dream they had seen the happy picture. In the dream in the heart have been random Marine face, just this one face more and more far away from the girl, until can't see clearly. And I was thinking the girl said, finally sea dream only long sigh, he is to go sooner or later. 

Sea dream, I really didn't expect things happen. I think we will be together forever, never apart, but I was wrong. For our god is not fair, perhaps at the beginning you shouldn't choose me. Sea dream, I really love you, but this time we really have to be apart...... 

I know that we are not for a long time, please forgive my selfish? I don't want you to be for me, more do not want to let you because I and sad. Since I can't bring you happiness, then it means that I left to. Think of you and I in hand picture and of our playing on the seashore, I think of you in the rain slow dance like...... I am really very happy. I feel I am the happiest person in the world, god sent you here for me, I did not cherish you, if there is next life, I hope that we are always together. In the future no matter what happens, you will be hard to live, brave to face everything. 

Sea dream, I go. Hope my leave won't bring you too much influence, you have to study hard, to find the real belong to your happiness... 

Marine (grass) 

Now -- 

Just enter a senior, has always been the academic record outstanding sea dream decided to one's deceased father grind. Because time is not allowed her to hesitate any more, more won't forgive her sad, and she also sincerely wish Marine happiness. She had every dream they are written in the heart, because she knows, that is her to continue to a reason to live. 

Perhaps god is not pieces of this kind girl, let her visit, as Marine in her side, she finally got a master's degree, and enjoy the tuition and living expenses is totally free treatment. Success will always go to visit each a sincere person, but sooner or later, is not the same. 

Admitted to the graduate student, hard to avoid to pay to have a meal. Because the sea dream know their living conditions, so she only invited her college first teacher and some of my classmates, and that was for her and Marine surgery doctor. 

The doctor saw the sea dreaming tears of joy, maybe he is very happy now. The doctor didn't think of sea dream are so strong. Yes, the destiny of man can change, as long as we firmly believe our line, trying to do will do. 

The world really is difficult to predict, the doctor parting on the sea dream said: "he has come back, maybe you can see him." 

Sea dream was stunned. Yes, in her heart, Marine never leave. Sea dream heart in pain, is this hatred? The hate? This sad? Or the left? Go home, she took out their photos, looked and looked. Inadvertently, the tears have from her cheek slip. And her ear and always think of Marine the sound of the singing, so familiar with, and so clear. 

When the year in turn runoff, persistent feelings in drift. 

Once thought, have deep feeling of love, it has become a lingering thoughts. 

When fate for reversal, early death fate is still in silence. 

Once the kind of dream, once through tears, whether also can feel the love and touching. 

1 yorum Devamini oku

Strap and I are terrified by an Apparition — Strap’s Conjecture — the Mystery explained by Joey — we arrive in London-our Dress and Appearance described — we are insulted in the Street — an Adventure in an Alehouse — we are imposed upon by a waggish Footman — set to rights by a Tobacconist — take Lodgings — dive for a Dinner — an Accident at our Ordinary

We arrived at our inn, supped, and went to bed; but Strap’s distemper continuing, he was obliged to rise in the middle of the night, and taking the candle in his hand, which he had left burning for the purpose, he went down to the house of office, whence in a short time he returned in a great hurry, with his hair standing on end, and a look betokening horror and astonishment. Without speaking a word, he set down the light and jumped into bed behind me, where he lay and trembled with great violence. When I asked him what was the matter, he replied, with a broken accent, “God have mercy on us! I have seen the devil!” Though my prejudice was not quite so strong as his, I was not a little alarmed at this exclamation, and much more so when I heard the sound of bells approaching our chamber, and felt my bedfellow cling close to me, uttering these words, “Christ have mercy upon us; there he comes!” At that instance a monstrous overgrown raven entered our chamber, with bells at his feet, and made directly towards our bed. As this creature is reckoned in our country a common vehicle for the devil and witches to play their pranks in, I verily believed we were haunted; and, in a violent fright, shrank under the bedclothes. This terrible apparition leaped upon the bed, and after giving us several severe dabs with its beak. through the blankets, hopped away, and vanished. Strap and I recommended ourselves to the protection of heaven with great devotion, and, when we no longer heard the noise, ventured to peep up and take breath. But we had not been long freed from this phantom, when another appeared, that had well nigh deprived us both of our senses. We perceived an old man enter the room, with a long white beard that reached to his middle; there was a certain wild peculiarity in his eyes and countenance that did not savour of this world; and his dress consisted of a brown stuff coat, buttoned behind and at the wrists, with an odd-fashioned cap of the same stuff upon his head. I was so amazed that I had not power to move my eyes from such a ghastly object, but lay motionless. and saw him come straight up to me: when he reached the bed, he wrung his hands, and cried, with a voice that did not seem to belong to a human creature, “Where is Ralph?” I made no reply: upon which he repeated, in an accent still more preternatural, “Where is Ralpho?” He had no sooner pronounced these words than I heard the sound of the bells at a distance; which the apparition, having listened to, tripped away, and left me almost petrified with fear. It was a good while before I could recover myself so far as to speak; and, when at length I turned to Strap, I found him in a fit, which, however, did not last long. When he came to himself, I asked his opinion of what had happened; and he assured me that the first must certainly be the soul of some person damned, which appeared by the chain about his legs (for his fears had magnified the creature to the bigness of a horse, and the sound of small morice-bells to the clanking of massy chains). As for the old man, he took it to be the spirit of somebody murdered long ago in this place, which had power granted to forment the assassin in the shape of a raven, and that Ralpho was the name of the said murderer. Although I had not much faith in this interpretation, I was too much troubled to enjoy any sleep: and in all my future adventures never passed a night so ill.

In the morning Strap imparted the whole affair to Joey, who, after an immoderate fit of laughter, explained the matter, by telling him that the old man was the landlord’s father, who had been an idiot some years, and diverted himself with a tame raven, which, it seems, had hopped away from his apartment in the night, and induced him to follow it to our chamber, where he had inquired after it under the name of Ralpho.

Nothing remarkable happened during the remaining part of our journey, which continued six or seven days longer: at length we entered the great city, and lodged all night at the inn where the waggon put up. Next morning all the passengers parted different ways, while my companion and I sallied out to inquire for the member of parliament, to whom I had a letter of recommendation from Mr. Crab. As we had discharged our lodging at the inn, Strap took up our baggage and, marched behind me in the street with the knapsack on his back, as usual, so that we made a very whimsical appearance. I had dressed myself to the greatest advantage; that is, put on a clean ruffled shirt, and my best thread stockings: my hair (which was of the deepest red) hung down upon my shoulders, as lank and straight as a pound of candles; and the skirts of my coat reached to the middle of my leg; my waistcoat and breeches were of the same piece, and cut in the same taste; and my hat very much resembled a barber’s basin, in the shallowness of the crown and narrowness of the brim. Strap was habited in a much less awkward manner: but a short crop-eared wig, that very much resembled Scrub’s in the play, and the knapsack on his back, added to what is called a queer phiz, occasioned by a long chin, a hook nose, and high cheek bones, rendered him, on the whole, a very fit subject of mirth and pleasantry. As he walked along, Strap, at my desire, inquired of a carman, whom we met, whereabouts Mr. Cringer lived: and was answered by a stare, accompanied with the word “Anan!” Upon which I came up, in order to explain the question, but had the misfortune to be unintelligible likewise, the carman damning us for a lousy Scotch guard, whipping his horses with a “Gee ho!” which nettled me to the quick, and roused the indignation of Strap so far that, after the fellow was gone a good way, he told me he would fight him for a farthing.

While we were deliberating upon what was to be done, a hackney coachman, driving softly along, and perceiving us standing by the kennel, came up close to us, and calling, “A coach, master!” by a dexterous management of the reins made his horses stumble in the wet, and bedaub us all over with mud. After which exploit he drove on, applauding himself with a hearty laugh, in which several people joined, to my great mortification; but one, more compassionate than the rest, seeing us strangers, advised me to go into an alehouse, and dry myself. I thanked him for his advice, which I immediately complied with; and, going into the house he pointed out, called for a pot of beer, and sat down by a fire in the public room. where we cleaned ourselves as well as we could. In the meantime, a wag, who sat in a box, smoking his pipe, understanding, by our dialect, that we were from Scotland, came up to me. and, with a grave countenance asked how long I had been caught. As I did not know the meaning of this question, I made no answer; and he went on, saying it could not be a great while, for my tail was not yet cut; at the same time taking hold of my hair, and tipping the wink to the rest of the company, who seemed highly entertained with his wit. I was incensed at this usage, but afraid of resenting it, because I happened to be in a strange place, and perceived the person who spoke to me was a brawny fellow, for whom I thought myself by no means a match. However, Strap, having either more courage or less caution, could not put up with the insults I suffered, but told him in a peremptory tone, “He was an uncivil fellow for making so free with his betters.” Then the wit going toward him, asked him what he had got in his knapsack? “Is it oatmeal or brimstone, Sawney?” said he, seizing him by the chin, which he shook, to the inexpressible diversion of all present. My companion, feeling himself assaulted in such an opprobrious manner, disengaged himself in a trice, and lent his antagonist such a box on the ear as made him stagger to the other side of the room; and, in a moment, a ring was formed for the combatants. Seeing Strap beginning to strip, and my blood being heated with indignation, which banished all other thoughts, I undressed myself to the skin in an instant, and declared, that as the affront that occasioned the quarrel was offered to me, I would fight it out myself; upon which one or two cried out, “That’s a brave Scotch boy; you shall have fair play.” His assurance gave me fresh spirits, and, going up to my adversary, who by his pale countenance did not seem much inclined to the battle, I struck him so hard on the stomach, that he reeled over a bench, and fell to the ground. Then I attempted to keep him down, in order to improve my success, according to the manner of my own country, but was restrained by the spectators, one of whom endeavoured to raise up my opponent, but in vain; for he protested he would not fight, for he was not quite recovered of a late illness. I was very well pleased with this excuse, and immediately dressed myself, having acquired the good opinion of the company for my bravery, as well as of my comrade Strap, who shook me by the hand, and wished me joy of the victory.

After having drunk our pot, and dried our clothes, we inquired of the landlord if he knew Mr. Cringer, the member of parliament, and were amazed at his replying in the negative; for we imagined he must be altogether as conspicuous here as in the borough he represented; but he told us we might possibly hear of him as we passed along. We betook ourselves therefore to the street, where seeing a footman standing at the door, we made up to him, and asked if he knew where our patron lived? This member of the particoloured fraternity, surveying us both very minutely, said he knew Mr. Cringer very well, and bade us turn down the first street on our left, then turn to the right, and then to the left again, after which perambulation we would observe a lane, through which we must pass, and at the other end we should find an alley that leads to another street, where we should see the sign of the Thistle and Three Pedlars, and there he lodged. We thanked him for his information, and went forwards, Strap telling me, that he knew this person to be an honest friendly man by his countenance, before he opened his mouth; in which opinion I acquiesced, ascribing his good manners to the company he daily saw in the house where he served.

We followed his directions punctually, in turning to the left, and to the right, and to the left again; but instead of seeing a lane before us, found ourselves at the side of the river, a circumstance that perplexed us not a little; and my fellow-traveller ventured to pronounce, that we bad certainly missed our way. By this time we were pretty much fatigued with our walk, and not knowing how to proceed, I went into a small snuff-shop hard by, encouraged by the sign of the Highlander, where I found, to my inexpressible satisfaction, the shopkeeper was my countryman. He was no sooner informed of our peregrination, and the directions we had received from the footman, than he informed us we had been imposed upon, telling us, Mr. Cringer lived in the other end of the town and that it would be to no purpose for us to go thither to-day, for by that time he was gone to the House. I then asked, if he could recommend us a lodging. He really gave us a line to one of his acquaintance who kept a chandler’s shop not far from St. Martin’s Lane; there we hired a bed-room, up two pair of stairs, at the rate of two shillings per week, so very small, that when the bed was let down, we were obliged to carry out every other piece of furniture that belonged to the apartment, and use the bedstead by way of chairs. About dinner-time, our landlord asked how we proposed to live? to which interrogation we answered, that we would be directed by him. “Well, then,” says he, “there are two ways of eating in this town for people of your condition — the one more creditable and expensive than the other: the first is to dine at an eating-house frequented by well-dressed people only; and the other is called diving, practised by those who are either obliged or inclined to live frugally.” I gave him to understand that, provided the last was not infamous, it would suit much better with our circumstances than the other. “Infamous!” cried he, “not at all; there are many creditable people, rich people, ay, and fine people, that dive every day. I have seen many a pretty gentleman with a laced waistcoat dine in that manner very comfortably for three pence halfpenny, and go afterwards to the coffee-house, where he made a figure with the best lord in the land; but your own eyes shall bear witness — I will go along with you to-day and introduce you.”

He accordingly conducted us to a certain lane, where stopping, he bade us observe him, and do as he did, and, walking a few paces, dived into a cellar and disappeared in an instant. I followed his example, and descending very successfully, found myself in the middle of a cook’s shop, almost suffocated with the steams of boiled beef, and surrounded by a company of hackney coachmen, chairmen, draymen, and a few footmen out of place or on board-wages; who sat eating shin of beef, tripe, cow-heel, or sausages, at separate boards, covered with cloths which turned my stomach. While I stood in amaze, undetermined whether to sit down or walk upwards again, Strap, in his descent, missing one of the stops, tumbled headlong into this infernal ordinary, and overturned the cook as she carried a porringer of soup to one of the guests. In her fall, she dashed the whole mess against the legs of a drummer belonging to the foot-guards, who happened to be in her way, and scalded him so miserably, that he started up, and danced up and down, uttering a volley of execrations that made my hair stand on end.

While he entertained the company in this manner, with an eloquence peculiar to himself, the cook got up, and after a hearty curse on the poor author of this mischance, who lay under the table with a woful countenance, emptied a salt-cellar in her hand, and, stripping down the patient’s stocking, which brought the skin along with it, applied the contents to the sore. This poultice was scarce laid on, when the drummer, who had begun to abate of his exclamations, broke forth into such a hideous yell as made the whole company tremble, then, seizing a pewter pint pot that stood by him, squeezed the sides of it together, as if it had been made of pliant leather, grinding his teeth at the same time with a most horrible grin. Guessing the cause of this violent transport, I bade the woman wash off the salt, and bathe the part with oil, which she did, and procured him immediate ease. But here another difficulty occurred, which was no other than the landlady’s insisting on his paying for the pot he had rendered useless. He said, he would pay for nothing but what he had eaten, and bade her be thankful for his moderation, or else he would prosecute her for damages. Strap, foreseeing the whole affair would lie at his door, promised to satisfy the cook, and called for a dram of gin to treat the drummer, which entirely appeased him, and composed all animosities. After this accommodation, our landlord and we sat down at a board, and dined upon shin of beef most deliciously; our reckoning amounting to twopence halfpenny each, bread and small beer included. "http://www.michaelkorscanadaa.com/michael-kors-jet-set-c-8.html" mce_href="http://www.michaelkorscanadaa.com/michael-kors-jet-set-c-8.html"Michael Kors Jet Set

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Margaret Anstruther had seen, in her vision, a single house, with two forms leaning from the same window. Time there had disappeared, and the dead man had been contemporaneous with the living. As if simultaneity approached the Hill, the experiences of its inhabitants had there become coeval; propinquity no longer depended upon sequence.

The chance that brought Lawrence Wentworth into such close spiritual contact with the dead was the mere manner of his ill luck. His was not worse than any other’s, though the hastening of time to its end made it more strange. It grew in him, like all judgment, through his negligence. A thing of which he had consistently refused to be aware, if action is the test of awareness, drew close to him: that is, the nature of the Republic. The outcast of the Republic had climbed a forlorn ladder to his own death. His death entered into the Republic, and into the lives of its other members. Wentworth had never acknowledged the unity. He had never acknowledged the victims of oppression nor the presence of victimization. It may be that such victimization is inevitable, and that the Republic after its kind must be as false to its own good as the lives of most of its children are to theirs. But Wentworth had neither admitted nor rejected this necessity, nor even questioned and been hurt by it; he had merely ignored it. He had refused the agony of the res publica, and of temporal justice. Another justice sharpened the senses of his res private. He was doubly open to its approach-in his scholarship, where the ignoring of others began to limit, colour, and falsify his work, and in his awareness of supernatural neighbours, if any should be near. One was.

The dead man had stood in what was now Wentworth’s bedroom, and listened in fear lest he should hear the footsteps of his kind. That past existed still in its own place, since all the past is in the web of life nothing else than a part, of which we are not sensationally conscious. It was drawing closer now to the present; it approached the senses of the present. But between them still there went-patter, patter-the hurrying footsteps which Margaret Anstruther had heard in the first circle of the Hill. The dead man had hardly heard them; his passion had carried him through that circle into death. But on the hither side were the footsteps, and the echo and memory of the footsteps, of this world. It was these for which Wentworth listened. He had come back into his own room after he had heard those steady and mocking footsteps of Hugh and Adela, and the voices and subdued laughter accompanying them. He had himself wandered up and down, and come to a rest at last at the finished window where, with no wall before him, the dead man had peered. He also peered. He listened, and his fancy created for him the unheard melody of the footsteps. His body renewed and absorbed the fatal knowledge of his desire. He listened, in the false faith of desire. It could not be that he would not hear, out of those double footsteps, one true pair separating themselves, coming up the street, approaching the gate; that he would not see a true form coming up the drive, approaching the door. It must happen; his body told him it must happen. He must have what he wanted, because . . . but still those feet did not come. The dead man stood by him, arm to arm, foot by foot, and listened, the rope in his hand, and that night neither of them heard anything at all.

The evening and the morning were the first day, of a few hours, or a few months, or both at once. Others followed. The business of the Hill progressed; the play went forward. Pauline fled, and Margaret died, or lived in process of death. Hugh went up and down to the City. Adela went about the Hill. Wentworth, now possessed by his consciousness of her, and demanding her presence and consent as its only fulfillment went about his own affairs. “Blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in Me”; the maxim applies to many stones of stumbling, and especially to all those of which the nature is the demand for a presence instead of the assent to an absence; the imposition of the self upon complacency. Wentworth made his spiritual voice hoarse in issuing orders to complacency, and stubbed his toes more angrily every day against the unmovable stone.

Once or twice he met Adela-once at Mrs. Parry’s, where they had no chance to speak. They smiled at each other-an odd smile; the faintest hint of greed, springing from the invisible nature of greed, was in it on both sides. Their greeds smiled. Again he ran into her one evening at the post office with Hugh, and Hugh’s smile charged theirs with hostility. It ordered and subdued Adela’s; it blocked and repulsed Wentworth’s. It forced on him the fact that he was not only unsuccessful, but old; he contended against both youth and a rival. He said: “How’s the play going?”

“We’re all learning our parts,” Adela said. “There doesn’t seem to be time for anything but the play. Shall we ever get another evening with you, Mr. Wentworth?”

He said: “I was sorry you could neither of you come.” That, he thought, would show that he hadn’t been taken in.

“Yes,” said Hugh; the word hung ambiguously. Wentworth, angered by it, went on rashly: “Did you have a pleasant time?”

He might have meant the question for either or both. Adela said: “O well, you know; it was rather a rush. Choosing colours and all that.”

“But fortunately we ran into each other later,” Hugh added, “and we almost ran at each other — didn’t we, Adela? so we fed in a hurry and dashed to a theatre. It might have been much worse.”

Wentworth heard the steps in his brain. He saw Hugh take Adela’s arm; he saw her look up at him; he saw an exchanged memory. The steps went on through him; double steps. He wanted to get away to give himself up to them: life and death, satisfaction of hate and satisfaction of lust, contending, and the single approach of the contention’s result — patter, patter, steps on the Hill. He knew they were laughing at him. He made normal noises, and abnormally fled. He went home.

In his study he automatically turned over his papers, aware but incapable of the organic life of the mind they represented. He found himself staring at his drawings of costumes for the play, and had an impulse to tear them, to refuse to have anything to do with the grotesque mummery, himself to reject the picture of the rejection of himself. But he did not trust his own capacity to manage a more remote force than Adela — Mrs. Parry. Mrs. Parry meant nothing to him; she could never become to him the nervous irritation, he obsession, which both Aston Moffatt and Adela now were. His intelligence warned him that she was, nevertheless, one of the natural forces which, like time and space, he could not overcome. She wanted the designs, and she would have them. He could refuse, but not reject, Adela; he could reject, but he certainly could not refuse, Mrs. Parry. Irritated at his knowledge of his own false strength, he flung down the rescued designs. Under them were his first drafts; he tore them instead.

The evening wore into night. He could not bring himself to go to bed. He walked about the room; he worked a little and walked, and walked a little and worked. He thought of going to bed, but then he thought also of his dream, and the smooth strange rope. He had never so much revolted against it as now; he had never, waking, been so strongly aware of it as now. It might have been coiled in some corner of the room, were it not that he knew he was on it, in the dream. Physically and emotionally weary, he still walked, and a somnambulism of scratched images closed on him. His body twitched jerkily; the back of his eyes ached as if he stared interiorly from the rope into a backward abysm. He stood irritably still.

His eyes stared interiorly; exteriorly they glanced down and saw the morning paper, which, by an accident, he had not opened. His hands took it up, and turned the pages. In the middle he saw a headline: “Birthday Honours”, and a smaller headline: “Knighthood for Historian”. His heart deserted him: his puppet-eyes stared. They found the item by the name in black type for their convenience: “Aston Moffatt”.

There was presented to him at once and clearly an opportunity for joy — casual, accidental joy, but joy. If he could not manage joy, at least he might have managed the intention of joy, or (if that also were too much) an effort towards the intention of joy. The infinity of-grace could have been contented and invoked by a mere mental refusal of anything but such an effort. He knew his duty — he was no fool — he knew that the fantastic recognition would please and amuse the innocent soul of Sir Aston, not so much for himself as in some unselfish way for the honour of history. Such honours meant nothing, but they were part of the absurd dance of the world, and to be enjoyed as such. Wentworth knew he could share that pleasure. He could enjoy; at least he could refuse not to enjoy. He could refuse and reject damnation.

With a perfectly clear, if instantaneous, knowledge of what he did, he rejected joy instead. He instantaneously preferred anger, and at once it came; he invoked envy, and it obliged him. He crushed the paper in a rage, then he tore it open, and looked again and again-there it still was. He knew that his rival had not only succeeded, but succeeded at his own expense; what chance was there of another historical knighthood for years? Till that moment he had never thought of such a thing. The possibility had been created and withdrawn simultaneously, leaving the present fact to mock him. The other possibility — of joy in that present fact — receded as fast. He had determined, then and for ever, for ever, for ever, that he would hate the fact, and therefore facts.

He walked, unknowing, to the window, and stared out. He loomed behind the glass, a heavy bulk of monstrous greed. His hate so swelled that he felt it choking his throat, and by a swift act transferred it; he felt his rival choking and staggering, he hoped and willed it. He stared passionately into death, and saw before him a body twisting at the end of a rope. Sir Aston Moffatt . . . Sir Aston Moffatt. . . . He stared at the faint ghost of the dead man’s death, in that half-haunted house, and did not see it. The dead man walked on his own Hill, but that Hill was not to be Wentworth’s. Wentworth preferred another death; he was offered it.

As he stood there, imagining death, close to the world of the first death, refusing all joy of facts, and having for long refused all unselfish agony of facts, he heard at last the footsteps for which he had listened. It was the one thing which could abolish his anger; it did. He forgot, in his excitement, all about Aston Moffatt; he lost sight, exteriorly and interiorly, of the dangling figure. He stood breathless, listening. Patter, patter; they were coming up the road. Patter-patter; they stopped at the gate. He heard the faint clang. The footsteps, softer now, came in. He stared intently down the drive. A little way up it stood a woman’s figure. The thing he had known must happen had happened. She had come.

He pushed the window up — careful, even so, not to seem to go fast, not to seem to want her. He leaned out and spoke softly. He said: “Is that you?” The answer startled him, for it was Adela’s voice and yet something more than Adela’s, fuller, richer, more satisfying. It said “I’m here.” He could only just hear the words, but that was right, for it was after midnight, and she was beckoning with her hand. The single pair of feet drawn from the double, the hand waving to him. He motioned to her to come, but she did not stir, and at last, driven by his necessity, he climbed through the window; it was easy enough, even for him-and went down to meet her. As he came nearer he was puzzled again, as he had been by the voice. It was Adela, yet it was not. It was her height, and had her movement. The likeness appeased him, yet he did not understand the faint unlikeness. For a moment he thought it was someone else, a woman of the Hill, someone he had seen, whose name he did not remember. He was up to her now, and he knew it could not be Adela, for even Adela had never been so like Adela as this. That truth which is the vision of romantic love, in which the beloved becomes supremely her own adorable and eternal self, the glory and splendour of her own existence, and her own existence no longer felt or thought as hers but of and from another, that was aped for him then. The thing could not astonish him, nor could it be adored. It perplexed. He hesitated.

The woman said: “You’ve been so long.”

He answered roughly: “Who are you? You’re not Adela.”

The voice said: “Adela!” and Wentworth understood that Adela was not enough, that Adela must be something different. even from Adela if she were to be satisfactory to him, something closer to his own mind and farther from hers. She had been in relation with Hugh, and his Adela could never be in relation with Hugh. He had never understood that simplicity before. It was so clear now. He looked at the woman opposite and felt a stirring of freedom in him.

He said: “You waved?” and she: “Or didn’t you wave to me?”

He said, under her eyes: “I didn’t think you’d be any use to me.”

She laughed: the laugh was a little like Adela’s, only better. Fuller; more amused. Adela hardly ever laughed as if she were really amused; she had always a small condescension. He said: “How could I know?”

“You don’t think about yourself enough,” she said; the words were tender and grateful to him, and he knew they were true. He had never thought enough about himself. He had wanted to be kind. He had wanted to be kind to Adela; it was Adela’s obstinate folly which now outraged him. He had wanted to give himself to Adela out of kindness. He was greatly relieved by this woman’s words, almost as much as if he had given himself. He went on giving. He said: “If I thought more of myself?”

“You wouldn’t have much difficulty in finding it,” she answered. “Let’s walk.”

He didn’t understand the first phrase, but he turned and went by her side, silent while he heard the words. Much difficulty in finding what? in finding it? the it that could be found if he thought of himself more; that was what he had said or she had said, whichever had said that the thing was to be found, as if Adela had said it, Adela in her real self, by no means the self that went with Hugh; no, but the true, the true Adela who was apart and his; for that was the difficulty all the while, that she was truly his, and wouldn’t be, but if he thought more of her truly being, and not of her being untruly away, on whatever way, for the way that went away was not the way she truly went, but if they did away with the way she went away, then Hugh could be untrue and she true, then he would know themselves, two, true and two, on the way he was going, and the peace in himself, and the scent of her in him, and the her, meant for him, in him; that was the she he knew, and he must think the more of himself. A faint mist grew round them as they walked, and he was under the broad boughs of trees, the trees of the Hill, going up the Hill, up to the Adela he kept in himself, where the cunning woman who walked by his side was taking him, and talking in taking. He had been slow, slow, very slow not to see that this was true, that to get away from Hugh’s Adela was to find somewhere and somehow the true Adela, the Adela that was his, since what he wanted was always and everywhere his; he had always known that, yet that had been his hardship, for he must know it was so, and yet it hadn’t seemed so. But here in the mists under the trees, with this woman, it was all clear. The mist made everything clear.

She said: “In here.” He went in; a wooden door swung before and behind him.

It was quite dark. He stood. A hand slipped into his hand. and pressed it gently. It drew him forward, and a little to one side. He said aloud: “Where are we?” but there was no answer, only he thought he heard the sound of water running, gently, a lulling and a lapping. It was not worth while, against that sound, asking again where he was. The darkness was quiet; his heart ceased to burn, though he could hear its beating, in time with the lapping and lulling waters. He had never heard his heart beating so loudly; almost as if he were inside his own body, listening to it there. It would be louder then, he thought, unless his senses were lulled and dulled. Likely enough that if he were inside his own body his senses would be lulled, though how he got there or how he would get out. . . . If he wanted to get out. Why? Why fly from that shelter, the surest shelter of all, though he could not be quite there yet because of the hand that guided him, round and round in some twisting path. He knew that there were hundreds of yards, or was it millions, of tubes or pipes or paths or ropes or something, coiled, many coils, in his body; he would not want to catch his foot in them or be twisted up in them; that was why the hand was leading him. He pressed it, for acknowledgment; it replied. They were going downhill now, it seemed, he and his guide, though he thought he could smell Adela, or if not Adela, something like Adela, some growth like Adela, and the image of a growth spread in his brain to trees and their great heavy boughs; it was not a lapping but a rustling; he had come out of himself into a wood, unless he was himself and a wood at the same time. Could he be a wood? and yet walk in it? He looked at that question for a long time while he walked, and presently found he was not thinking of that but of something else; he was slipping his fingers along a wrist, and up an arm-only a little way, for he still wished to be led on the way, though everything was so quiet he could hardly think there was any need. He liked going on, away, away, away, from somewhere behind, or indeed outside, outside the wood, outside the body, outside the door. The door wouldn’t open for anyone; it was his door, and though he hadn’t fastened it, it wouldn’t open, because it knew his wish, and his wish was to leave the two who had worried him outside the door. It was fun to think they were playing games on him when he wasn’t there; running round under his windows, and he was quite away, and they would never know, even if he saw them again, where and how and why he had been. It was good for him to be here, and great fun; one day he would laugh, but laughter would be tiring here, under trees and leaves, leaves-leaves and eaves-eaves and eves; a word with two meanings, and again a word with two meanings, eves and Eves. Many Eves to many Adams; one Eve to one Adam; one Eve to each, one Eve to all. Eve. . . .

They stopped. In the faint green light, light of a forest, faint mist in a forest, a river-mist creeping among the trees, moon in the mist, he could just see the shape of the woman beside him. He might be back again in Eden, and she be Eve, the only man with all that belonged to the only man. Others, those whose names he need not then remember, because they were the waking animals of the world-others were inconsiderable to the grand life that walked now in this glade. They hardly belonged to it at all; they belonged outside, they were outside, outside the sealed garden, no less sealed for being so huge through a secret gate of which he had entered, getting back to himself He was inside and at peace. He said aloud: “I won’t go back.”

His companion answered: “You needn’t go back really or you can take it with you if you do. Wouldn’t you like to?”

It took a while for this to reach him. He said, at last: “This? all this, d’you mean?” He was a little disturbed by the idea that he might have to go back among the shapes that ran about, harsh and menacing, outside the glade or the garden or the forest, outside the mist. They betrayed and attacked him. One had made fun of him and exposed him to her paramour. That was outside; inside, he knew the truth, and the truth was that she was quite subordinate to him. He breathed on her hand, and it was turned into stone, so that she couldn’t carry it, but it sank to the ground, slowly, in that misty air, and she was held there, crying and sobbing, by the weight of her petrified hand. He would go away for a year or two, and perhaps when he came back he would decide to set her free by blowing on the stone hand. The whole air of this place was his breath; if he took a very deep breath, there would be no air left, outside himself. He could stand in a vacuum, and nothing outside himself could breathe at all, until he chose to breathe again; which perhaps he wouldn’t do, so that he could infinitely prevent anything at all from existing merely by infinitely holding his breath. He held his breath for a century or so, and all the beasts and shapes of the wilderness, a tall young satyr and a plump young nymph among them, who were dancing to the music of their own chuckles, fell slowly down and died. The woman now beside him didn’t die, but that was because she could live without air, of which he was glad, for he wanted her to go on living, and if she had needed air she would have died. He would have destroyed her without meaning to.

She was saying, eagerly: “Yes, yes, yes: better than Eve, dearer than Eve, closer than Eve. It’s good for man to be alone. Come along, come along: farther in, farther in down under, down under.”

Down under what? down under where? down under the air that was or wasn’t? but he was there under the air, on the point of breathing out everything that would be just right. Why had he been so long content to have things wrong? it all came out of that silly name of Eve, which had prevented him realizing that he was what counted. Eve had never told him he had made her, and so he wouldn’t make her again, she should be left all a twisted rag of skin in the vacuum, and he would have a world in which no one went to the City, because there was no city unless he — but no, he wouldn’t have a City. Adela. . . .

He found he had been holding his breath; he released it. He found he was lying down, and that the woman was not there. He had exhaled, with a deep permission to Adela to exist. Now he was sleeping after that decision and act. He was awake in his sleep, and the moon was pouring itself over him. He wasn’t on a rope now. The moon was pouring down, quite out of the sky; presently there wouldn’t be any moon, only a hole in the sky: down, down! He felt hands moving over him, the moonlight changing to hands as it reached him, moonhands, cool and thrilling. The hands were delighting in him; these were what he would take back to his own world, if he went. The moon would always be his, though all the moonlight had poured down now, and there was a hole, a dark hole, because the moon had emptied itself of its glory, and was not there any more; he was at first in the smallest degree troubled, for if odd things could disappear like this, could he be certain that his own Adela would live? yes, because he was a god, and sometime he would make another moon. He forgot it now; he was quite given up to the hands that caressed him. He sank into oblivion; he died to things other than himself; he woke to himself.

He lay quiet; beyond heart and lungs he had come, in the depth of the Hill, to the bottom of the body. He saw before him, in the disappearing moonlight, a place of cisterns and broad tanks, on the watery surface of which the moon still shone and from which a faint mist still arose. Between them, covering acres of ground, an enormous shape lay, something like a man’s; it lay on its face, its shoulders and buttocks rose in mounds and the head beyond; he could not see the legs lower than the thighs, for that was where he himself lay, and they could not be seen, for they were his own. He and the Adam sprang from one source. high over him he felt his heart beat and his lungs draw breath. His machinery operated far away. He had decided that. He lay and waited for the complete creation that was his own.

The Adam slept; the mist rose from the ground. The son of Adam waited. He felt, coming over that vast form, that Hill of the dead and of the living, but to him only the mass of matter from which his perfect satisfaction was to approach, a road, a road up which a shape, no longer vast, was now coming; a shape he distrusted before he discerned it. It was coming slowly, over the mass of the Adam, a man, a poor ragged sick man. The dead man, walking in his own quiet world, knew nothing of the eyes to which his death-day walk was shown, nor of the anger with which he was seen. Wentworth saw him, and grew demented; was he to miss and be mocked again? what shape was this, and there? He sprang forward and up, to drive it away, to curse it lest it interpolated its horrid need between himself and his perfection. He would not have it: no canvassers, no hawkers, no tramps. He shouted angrily, making gestures; it offended him; it belonged to the City, and he would not have a City-no City, no circulars no beggars. No; no; no. No people but his, no loves but his.

It still came on, slowly, ploddingly, wearily, but it came: on down the road that was the Adam in the bottom of Eden determinedly plodding as on the evening when it had trudged towards its death, inexorably advancing as the glory of truth that broke out of the very air itself upon the agonized Florentine in the Paradise of Eden: “ben sem, ben sem, Beatrice” the other, the thing seen, the thing known in every fibre to be not the self, woman or beggar, the thing in the streets of the City. No, no; no canvassers, no beggars, no lovers; and away, away from the City into the wood and the mist, by the path that runs between past and present, between present and present, that slides through each moment of all experience, twisting and twining, plunging from the City and earth and Eve and all otherness, into the green mist that rises among the trees; by the path up which she was coming, the she of his longing, the she that was he, and all he in the she-patter-patter, the she that went hurrying about the Hill and the world, of whom it was said that they whom she overtook were found drained and strangled in the morning, and a single hair tight about the neck, so faint, so sure, so deathly, the clinging and twisting path of the strangling hair. She whose origin is with man’s, kindred to him as he to his beasts, alien from him as he from his beasts; to whom a name was given in a myth, Lilith or a name and Eden for a myth, and she a stirring more certain than name or myth, who in one of her shapes went hurrying about the refuge of that Hill of skulls, and pattered and chattered on the Hill, hurrying, hurrying, for fear of time growing together, and squeezing her out, out of the interstices, of time where she lived, locust in the rock; time growing together into one, and squeezing her out, squeezing her down, out of the pressure of the universal present, down into depth, down into the opposite of that end, down into the ever and ever of the void.

He was running down the path, the path that coiled round the edge of Eden, and the mist swooped to meet him. He had got right away from the road which was the shape of the Adam outstretched in the sleep precedent to the creation of fact, the separation of Eve, the making of things other than the self. He ran away into the comforting mist, partly because he liked it better, partly because there was nowhere else. He ran from sight; he found sensation. Arms met and embraced, a mouth kissed him, a@ sigh of content was loosed to him and from him. He was held, consoled, nourished, satisfied. Adela; he; sleep.

The door swung after him. He was standing on Battle Hill, not far from his house, but higher, towards the cemetery, towards the height. There, waiting for him, was a girl. She exactly resembled Adela. She came towards him softly, reached her hand to him, smiled at him, put up her mouth to him. It was night on the Hill. They turned together and went down it; after the single footsteps the double sounded again, his own and the magical creature’s drawn from his own recesses; she in him, he in him. He was complacent; they went home.

1 yorum Devamini oku

When the spring breeze again brushed HUANHUAXI crescent Changpu plexus, when the dim moonlight again floating on the windowsill, I do not know she was alone standing brook, suddenly recall all the past, this is how the mood.

The old song of honey has become now a lonely cold years prints, such as dry tear stains, condensation in her own system of color paper. "Amphibious green pool, daily total flying also. The more busy tending, concentric lotus leaf. " This is the old poem. Those gorgeous scenery is like yesterday, but have all the old.

A thousand miles away from the dream of longitudinal, but Emperor Wanli.

Perhaps from the beginning she expected, he will eventually leave. Because he is the yuan, an indulgent sentimental person. Met his life woman too much, but she just has nearly late eolian talented, but he was starting the Jing, a farewell, from Tiangeyifang, past relationship is like a cloud of duckweed, a flower, come with the wave, gone with the wind. " Last year and spring, tears wet red paper blame the departure. " She take more verses, still can't change the love deviated from the track, cannot pull it away heart. How can a piece of pink paper, how to retain that fade in color obsession of truth?

Don't have too much, confidante, smart as she is, calm as she, choose quietly buried this once blazing like fire. Dew of love, the brevity of life, why enenyuanyuan entangled again? Love comes, love with vigour and vitality, love; the love is gone, no entanglement, let it go, now facing river. Looking across the waters of Jinjiang, after missing candle ashes, she has been able to calm and alone in the window, accept to end this story.

Flowers have fallen, the moon also lack, such as is.

She has read the best of the things calm, calm to converge their mournful, retired Huanhua brook, put on Taoist garment, for the old days. Alas the spoony woman too much, can like her calm self-awareness off romance, it is rare. Later, people have freedom of speech, or praise her heart clean like snow, or sigh she wrong infatuation, then many words will finally make pale words, those pretty lonely night, the diffuse fog in the morning, those faint water gush of Acacia, only she knows.

Many years later, when time passes such as light, washing into the misty rain, speaking of woman called Xue Tao a thousand year agos, whether someone will understand, her heart lonely?

The brook spring roll, brushed the no longer young and lively face. A confidante, chanafanghua, towards such as hair twilight snow. Those old memories and past time, has gone.

She briefly shut our eyes, thin paper slip element skirt, Huanhua brook, fell to a lonely.

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1 yorum Devamini oku

　　The residence of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, onRiverside Drive is one of the leading eyesores of that breezy andexpensive boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or whileenjoying ten cents worth of fresh air on top of a green omnibus,it jumps out and bites at you. Architects, confronted with it,reel and throw up their hands defensively, and even the layobserver has a sense of shock. The place resembles in almostequal proportions a cathedral, a suburban villa, a hotel and aChinese pagoda. Many of its windows are of stained glass, andabove the porch stand two terra-cotta lions, considerably morerepulsive even than the complacent animals which guard New York'sPublic Library. It is a house which is impossible to overlook:

　　and it was probably for this reason that Mrs. Pett insisted onher husband buying it, for she was a woman who liked to benoticed.

　　Through the rich interior of this mansion Mr. Pett, its nominalproprietor, was wandering like a lost spirit. The hour was aboutten of a fine Sunday morning, but the Sabbath calm which was uponthe house had not communicated itself to him. There was a look ofexasperation on his usually patient face, and a muttered oath,picked up no doubt on the godless Stock Exchange, escaped hislips.

　　"Darn it!"He was afflicted by a sense of the pathos of his position. It wasnot as if he demanded much from life. He asked but little herebelow. At that moment all that he wanted was a quiet spot wherehe might read his Sunday paper in solitary peace, and he couldnot find one. Intruders lurked behind every door. The place wascongested.

　　This sort of thing had been growing worse and worse ever sincehis marriage two years previously. There was a strong literaryvirus in Mrs. Pett's system. She not only wrote voluminouslyherself--the name Nesta Ford Pett is familiar to all lovers ofsensational fiction--but aimed at maintaining a salon. Starting,in pursuance of this aim, with a single specimen,--her nephew,Willie Partridge, who was working on a new explosive which wouldeventually revolutionise war--she had gradually added to hercollections, until now she gave shelter beneath her terra-cottaroof to no fewer than six young and unrecognised geniuses. Sixbrilliant youths, mostly novelists who had not yet started andpoets who were about to begin, cluttered up Mr. Pett's rooms onthis fair June morning, while he, clutching his Sunday paper,wandered about, finding, like the dove in Genesis, no rest. Itwas at such times that he was almost inclined to envy his wife'sfirst husband, a business friend of his named Elmer Ford, who hadperished suddenly of an apoplectic seizure: and the pity which hegenerally felt for the deceased tended to shift its focus.

　　Marriage had certainly complicated life for Mr. Pett, as itfrequently does for the man who waits fifty years before tryingit. In addition to the geniuses, Mrs. Pett had brought with herto her new home her only son, Ogden, a fourteen-year-old boy of asingularly unloveable type. Years of grown-up society and theabsence of anything approaching discipline had given him aprecocity on which the earnest efforts of a series of privatetutors had expended themselves in vain. They came, full ofoptimism and self-confidence, to retire after a brief interval,shattered by the boy's stodgy resistance to education in any formor shape. To Mr. Pett, never at his ease with boys, Ogden Fordwas a constant irritant. He disliked his stepson's personality,and he more than suspected him of stealing his cigarettes. Itwas an additional annoyance that he was fully aware of theimpossibility of ever catching him at it.

　　Mr. Pett resumed his journey. He had interrupted it for a momentto listen at the door of the morning-room, but, a remark in ahigh tenor voice about the essential Christianity of the poetShelley filtering through the oak, he had moved on.

　　Silence from behind another door farther down the passageencouraged him to place his fingers on the handle, but a crashingchord from an unseen piano made him remove them swiftly. Heroamed on, and a few minutes later the process of elimination hadbrought him to what was technically his own private library--alarge, soothing room full of old books, of which his father hadbeen a great collector. Mr. Pett did not read old books himself,but he liked to be among them, and it is proof of his pessimismthat he had not tried the library first. To his depressed mind ithad seemed hardly possible that there could be nobody there.

　　He stood outside the door, listening tensely. He could hearnothing. He went in, and for an instant experienced that ecstaticthrill which only comes to elderly gentlemen of solitary habitwho in a house full of their juniors find themselves alone atlast. Then a voice spoke, shattering his dream of solitude.

　　"Hello, pop!"Ogden Ford was sprawling in a deep chair in the shadows.

　　"Come in, pop, come in. Lots of room."Mr. Pett stood in the doorway, regarding his step-son with asombre eye. He resented the boy's tone of easy patronage, all theharder to endure with philosophic calm at the present moment fromthe fact that the latter was lounging in his favourite chair.

　　Even from an aesthetic point of view the sight of the bulgingchild offended him. Ogden Ford was round and blobby and lookedoverfed. He had the plethoric habit of one to whom wholesomeexercise is a stranger and the sallow complexion of the confirmedcandy-fiend. Even now, a bare half hour after breakfast, his jawswere moving with a rhythmical, champing motion.

　　"What are you eating, boy?" demanded Mr. Pett, his disappointmentturning to irritability.

　　"Candy.""I wish you would not eat candy all day.""Mother gave it to me," said Ogden simply. As he had anticipated,the shot silenced the enemy's battery. Mr. Pett grunted, but madeno verbal comment. Ogden celebrated his victory by puttinganother piece of candy in his mouth.

　　"Got a grouch this morning, haven't you, pop?""I will not be spoken to like that!""I thought you had," said his step-son complacently. "I canalways tell. I don't see why you want to come picking on me,though. I've done nothing."Mr. Pett was sniffing suspiciously.

　　"You've been smoking.""Me!!""Smoking cigarettes.""No, sir!""There are two butts in the ash-tray.""I didn't put them there.""One of them is warm.""It's a warm day.""You dropped it there when you heard me come in.""No, sir! I've only been here a few minutes. I guess one of thefellows was in here before me. They're always swiping yourcoffin-nails. You ought to do something about it, pop. You oughtto assert yourself."A sense of helplessness came upon Mr. Pett. For the thousandthtime he felt himself baffled by this calm, goggle-eyed boy whotreated him with such supercilious coolness.

　　"You ought to be out in the open air this lovely morning," hesaid feebly.

　　"All right. Let's go for a walk. I will if you will.""I--I have other things to do," said Mr. Pett, recoiling from theprospect.

　　"Well, this fresh-air stuff is overrated anyway. Where's thesense of having a home if you don't stop in it?""When I was your age, I would have been out on a morning likethis--er--bowling my hoop.""And look at you now!""What do you mean?""Martyr to lumbago.""I am not a martyr to lumbago," said Mr. Pett, who was touchy onthe subject.

　　"Have it your own way. All I know is--""Never mind!""I'm only saying what mother . . .""Be quiet!"Ogden made further researches in the candy box.

　　"Have some, pop?""No.""Quite right. Got to be careful at your age.""What do you mean?""Getting on, you know. Not so young as you used to be. Come in,pop, if you're coming in. There's a draft from that door."Mr. Pett retired, fermenting. He wondered how another man wouldhave handled this situation. The ridiculous inconsistency of thehuman character infuriated him. Why should he be a totallydifferent man on Riverside Drive from the person he was in PineStreet? Why should he be able to hold his own in Pine Street withgrown men--whiskered, square-jawed financiers--and yet be unableon Riverside Drive to eject a fourteen-year-old boy from an easychair? It seemed to him sometimes that a curious paralysis of thewill came over him out of business hours.

　　Meanwhile, he had still to find a place where he could read hisSunday paper.

　　He stood for a while in thought. Then his brow cleared, and hebegan to mount the stairs. Reaching the top floor, he walkedalong the passage and knocked on a door at the end of it. Frombehind this door, as from behind those below, sounds proceeded,but this time they did not seem to discourage Mr. Pett. It wasthe tapping of a typewriter that he heard, and he listened to itwith an air of benevolent approval. He loved to hear the sound ofa typewriter: it made home so like the office.

　　"Come in," called a girl's voice.

　　The room in which Mr. Pett found himself was small but cosy, andits cosiness--oddly, considering the sex of its owner--had thatpeculiar quality which belongs as a rule to the dens of men. Alarge bookcase almost covered one side of it, its reds and bluesand browns smiling cheerfully at whoever entered. The walls werehung with prints, judiciously chosen and arranged. Through awindow to the left, healthfully open at the bottom, the sunstreamed in, bringing with it the pleasantly subdued whirring ofautomobiles out on the Drive. At a desk at right angles to thiswindow, her vivid red-gold hair rippling in the breeze from theriver, sat the girl who had been working at the typewriter. Sheturned as Mr. Pett entered, and smiled over her shoulder.

　　Ann Chester, Mr. Pett's niece, looked her best when she smiled.

　　Although her hair was the most obviously striking feature of herappearance, her mouth was really the most individual thing abouther. It was a mouth that suggested adventurous possibilities. Inrepose, it had a look of having just finished saying somethinghumorous, a kind of demure appreciation of itself. When itsmiled, a row of white teeth flashed out: or, if the lips did notpart, a dimple appeared on the right cheek, giving the whole facean air of mischievous geniality. It was an enterprising,swashbuckling sort of mouth, the mouth of one who would leadforlorn hopes with a jest or plot whimsically lawlessconspiracies against convention. In its corners and in the firmline of the chin beneath it there lurked, too, more than a hintof imperiousness. A physiognomist would have gathered, correctly,that Ann Chester liked having her own way and was accustomed toget it.

　　"Hello, uncle Peter," she said. "What's the trouble?""Am I interrupting you, Ann?""Not a bit. I'm only copying out a story for aunt Nesta. Ipromised her I would. Would you like to hear some of it?"Mr. Pett said he would not.

　　"You're missing a good thing," said Ann, turning the pages. "I'mall worked up over it. It's called 'At Dead of Night,' and it'sfull of crime and everything. You would never think aunt Nestahad such a feverish imagination. There are detectives andkidnappers in it and all sorts of luxuries. I suppose it's theeffect of reading it, but you look to me as if you were trailingsomething. You've got a sort of purposeful air."Mr. Pett's amiable face writhed into what was intended to be abitter smile.

　　"I'm only trailing a quiet place to read in. I never saw such aplace as this house. It looks big enough outside for a regiment.

　　Yet, when you're inside, there's a poet or something in everyroom.""What about the library? Isn't that sacred to you?""The boy Ogden's there.""What a shame!""Wallowing in my best chair," said Mr. Pett morosely. "Smokingcigarettes.""Smoking? I thought he had promised aunt Nesta he wouldn't smoke.""Well, he said he wasn't, of course, but I know he had been. Idon't know what to do with that boy. It's no good my talking tohim. He--he patronises me!" concluded Mr. Pett indignantly.

　　"Sits there on his shoulder blades with his feet on the tableand talks to me with his mouth full of candy as if I were hisgrandson.""Little brute."Ann was sorry for Mr. Pett. For many years now, ever since thedeath of her mother, they had been inseparable. Her father, whowas a traveller, explorer, big-game hunter, and general sojournerin the lonelier and wilder spots of the world and paid onlyinfrequent visits to New York, had left her almost entirely inMr. Pett's care, and all her pleasantest memories were associatedwith him. Mr. Chester's was in many ways an admirable character,but not a domestic one; and his relations with his daughter wereconfined for the most part to letters and presents. In the pastfew years she had come almost to regard Mr. Pett in the light ofa father. Hers was a nature swiftly responsive to kindness; andbecause Mr. Pett besides being kind was also pathetic she pitiedas well as loved him. There was a lingering boyishness in thefinancier, the boyishness of the boy who muddles along in anunsympathetic world and can never do anything right: and thisquality called aloud to the youth in her. She was at the valiantage when we burn to right wrongs and succour the oppressed, andwild rebel schemes for the reformation of her small world camereadily to her. From the first she had been a smoulderingspectator of the trials of her uncle's married life, and if Mr.

　　Pett had ever asked her advice and bound himself to act on it hewould have solved his domestic troubles in explosive fashion. ForAnn in her moments of maiden meditation had frequently devisedschemes to that end which would have made his grey hair standerect with horror.

　　"I've seen a good many boys," she said, "but Ogden is in a classby himself. He ought to be sent to a strict boarding-school, ofcourse.""He ought to be sent to Sing-Sing," amended Mr. Pett.

　　"Why don't you send him to school?""Your aunt wouldn't hear of it. She's afraid of his beingkidnapped. It happened last time he went to school. You can'tblame her for wanting to keep her eye on him after that."Ann ran her fingers meditatively over the keys.

　　"I've sometimes thought . . .""Yes?""Oh, nothing. I must get on with this thing for aunt Nesta."Mr. Pett placed the bulk of the Sunday paper on the floor besidehim, and began to run an appreciative eye over the comicsupplement. That lingering boyishness in him which endeared himto Ann always led him to open his Sabbath reading in thisfashion. Grey-headed though he was, he still retained both in artand in real life a taste for the slapstick. No one had ever knownthe pure pleasure it had given him when Raymond Green, his wife'snovelist protege, had tripped over a loose stair-rod one morningand fallen an entire flight.

　　From some point farther down the corridor came a muffledthudding. Ann stopped her work to listen.

　　"There's Jerry Mitchell punching the bag.""Eh?" said Mr. Pett.

　　"I only said I could hear Jerry Mitchell in the gymnasium.""Yes, he's there."Ann looked out of the window thoughtfully for a moment. Then sheswung round in her swivel-chair.

　　"Uncle Peter."Mr. Pett emerged slowly from the comic supplement.

　　"Eh?""Did Jerry Mitchell ever tell you about that friend of his whokeeps a dogs' hospital down on Long Island somewhere? I forgethis name. Smithers or Smethurst or something. People--old ladies,you know, and people--bring him their dogs to be cured when theyget sick. He has an infallible remedy, Jerry tells me. He makes alot of money at it.""Money?" Pett, the student, became Pett, the financier, at themagic word. "There might be something in that if one got behindit. Dogs are fashionable. There would be a market for a reallygood medicine.""I'm afraid you couldn't put Mr. Smethurst's remedy on themarket. It only works when the dog has been overeating himselfand not taking any exercise.""Well, that's all these fancy dogs ever have the matter withthem. It looks to me as if I might do business with this man.

　　I'll get his address from Mitchell.""It's no use thinking of it, uncle Peter. You couldn't dobusiness with him--in that way. All Mr. Smethurst does when anyone brings him a fat, unhealthy dog is to feed it next tonothing--just the simplest kind of food, you know--and make itrun about a lot. And in about a week the dog's as well and happyand nice as he can possibly be.""Oh," said Mr. Pett, disappointed.

　　Ann touched the keys of her machine softly.

　　"Why I mentioned Mr. Smethurst," she said, "it was because we hadbeen talking of Ogden. Don't you think his treatment would bejust what Ogden needs?"Mr. Pett's eyes gleamed.

　　"It's a shame he can't have a week or two of it!"Ann played a little tune with her finger-tips on the desk.

　　"It would do him good, wouldn't it?"Silence fell upon the room, broken only by the tapping of thetypewriter. Mr. Pett, having finished the comic supplement,turned to the sporting section, for he was a baseball fan of nolukewarm order. The claims of business did not permit him to seeas many games as he could wish, but he followed the nationalpastime closely on the printed page and had an admiration for theNapoleonic gifts of Mr. McGraw which would have gratified thatgentleman had he known of it.

　　"Uncle Peter," said Ann, turning round again.

　　"Eh?""It's funny you should have been talking about Ogden gettingkidnapped. This story of aunt Nesta's is all about anangel-child--I suppose it's meant to be Ogden--being stolen andhidden and all that. It's odd that she should write stories likethis. You wouldn't expect it of her.""Your aunt," said Mr. Pett, "lets her mind run on that sort ofthing a good deal. She tells me there was a time, not so longago, when half the kidnappers in America were after him. She senthim to school in England--or, rather, her husband did. They wereseparated then--and, as far as I can follow the story, they alltook the next boat and besieged the place.""It's a pity somebody doesn't smuggle him away now and keep himtill he's a better boy.""Ah!" said Mr. Pett wistfully.

　　Ann looked at him fixedly, but his eyes were once more on hispaper. She gave a little sigh, and turned to her work again.

　　"It's quite demoralising, typing aunt Nesta's stories," she said.

　　"They put ideas into one's head."Mr. Pett said nothing. He was reading an article of medicalinterest in the magazine section, for he was a man who ploughedsteadily through his Sunday paper, omitting nothing. Thetypewriter began tapping again.

　　"Great Godfrey!"Ann swung round, and gazed at her uncle in concern. He wasstaring blankly at the paper.

　　"What's the matter?"The page on which Mr. Pett's attention was concentrated wasdecorated with a fanciful picture in bold lines of a young man inevening dress pursuing a young woman similarly clad along whatappeared to be a restaurant supper-table. An enjoyable time wasapparently being had by both. Across the page this legend ran:

　　PICCADILLY JIM ONCE MOREThe Recent Adventures of Young Mr. Crockerof New York and LondonIt was not upon the title, however, nor upon the illustrationthat Mr. Pett's fascinated eye rested. What he was looking at wasa small reproduction of a photograph which had been inserted inthe body of the article. It was the photograph of a woman in theearly forties, rather formidably handsome, beneath which wereprinted the words:

　　Mrs. Nesta Ford PettWell-Known Society Leader and AuthoressAnn had risen and was peering over his shoulder. She frowned asshe caught sight of the heading of the page. Then her eye fellupon the photograph.

　　"Good gracious! Why have they got aunt Nesta's picture there?"Mr. Pett breathed a deep and gloomy breath.

　　"They've found out she's his aunt. I was afraid they would. Idon't know what she will say when she sees this.""Don't let her see it.""She has the paper downstairs. She's probably reading it now."Ann was glancing through the article.

　　"It seems to be much the same sort of thing that they havepublished before. I can't understand why the _Chronicle_ takes suchan interest in Jimmy Crocker.""Well, you see he used to be a newspaper man, and the _Chronicle_was the paper he worked for."Ann flushed.

　　"I know," she said shortly.

　　Something in her tone arrested Mr. Pett's attention.

　　"Yes, yes, of course," he said hastily. "I was forgetting."There was an awkward silence. Mr. Pett coughed. The matter ofyoung Mr. Crocker's erstwhile connection with the New York_Chronicle_ was one which they had tacitly decided to refrain frommentioning.

　　"I didn't know he was your nephew, uncle Peter.""Nephew by marriage," corrected Mr. Pett a little hurriedly.

　　"Nesta's sister Eugenia married his father.""I suppose that makes me a sort of cousin.""A distant cousin.""It can't be too distant for me."There was a sound of hurried footsteps outside the door. Mrs.

　　Pett entered, holding a paper in her hand. She waved it beforeMr. Pett's sympathetic face.

　　"I know, my dear," he said backing. "Ann and I were just talkingabout it."The little photograph had not done Mrs. Pett justice. Seenlife-size, she was both handsomer and more formidable than sheappeared in reproduction. She was a large woman, with a finefigure and bold and compelling eyes, and her personality crasheddisturbingly into the quiet atmosphere of the room. She was thetype of woman whom small, diffident men seem to marryinstinctively, as unable to help themselves as cockleshell boatssucked into a maelstrom.

　　"What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, sinkingheavily into the chair which her husband had vacated.

　　This was an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to Mr.

　　Pett. He had not contemplated the possibility of actually doinganything. Nature had made him out of office hours essentially apassive organism, and it was his tendency, when he found himselfin a sea of troubles, to float plaintively, not to take armsagainst it. To pick up the slings and arrows of outrageousfortune and fling them back was not a habit of his. He scratchedhis chin and said nothing. He went on saying nothing.

　　"If Eugenia had had any sense, she would have foreseen what wouldhappen if she took the boy away from New York where he wasworking too hard to get into mischief and let him run loose inLondon with too much money and nothing to do. But, if she had hadany sense, she would never have married that impossible Crockerman. As I told her."Mrs. Pett paused, and her eyes glowed with reminiscent fire. Shewas recalling the scene which had taken place three years agobetween her sister and herself, when Eugenia had told her of herintention to marry an obscure and middle-aged actor named BingleyCrocker. Mrs. Pett had never seen Bingley Crocker, but she hadcondemned the proposed match in terms which had ended definitelyand forever her relations with her sister. Eugenia was not awoman who welcomed criticism of her actions. She was cast in thesame formidable mould as Mrs. Pett and resembled her strikinglyboth in appearance and character.

　　Mrs. Pett returned to the present. The past could look afteritself. The present demanded surgery.

　　"One would have thought it would have been obvious even toEugenia that a boy of twenty-one needed regular work."Mr. Pett was glad to come out of his shell here. He was theApostle of Work, and this sentiment pleased him.

　　"That's right," he said. "Every boy ought to have work.""Look at this young Crocker's record since he went to live inLondon. He is always doing something to make himself notorious.

　　There was that breach-of-promise case, and that fight at thepolitical meeting, and his escapades at Monte Carlo, and--andeverything. And he must be drinking himself to death. I thinkEugenia's insane. She seems to have no influence over him atall."Mr. Pett moaned sympathetically.

　　"And now the papers have found out that I am his aunt, and Isuppose they will print my photograph whenever they publish anarticle about him."She ceased and sat rigid with just wrath. Mr. Pett, who alwaysfelt his responsibilities as chorus keenly during these wifelymonologues, surmised that a remark from him was indicated.

　　"It's tough," he said.

　　Mrs. Pett turned on him like a wounded tigress.

　　"What is the use of saying that? It's no use saying anything.""No, no," said Mr. Pett, prudently refraining from pointing outthat she had already said a good deal.

　　"You must do something."Ann entered the conversation for the first time. She was not veryfond of her aunt, and liked her least when she was bullying Mr.

　　Pett. There was something in Mrs. Pett's character with which theimperiousness which lay beneath Ann's cheerful attitude towardsthe world was ever at war.

　　"What can uncle Peter possibly do?" she inquired.

　　"Why, get the boy back to America and make him work. It's theonly possible thing.""But is it possible?""Of course it is.""Assuming that Jimmy Crocker would accept an invitation to comeover to America, what sort of work could he do here? He couldn'tget his place on the _Chronicle_ back again after dropping out forall these years and making a public pest of himself all thatwhile. And outside of newspaper work what is he fit for?""My dear child, don't make difficulties.""I'm not. These are ready-made."Mr. Pett interposed. He was always nervously apprehensive of aclash between these two. Ann had red hair and the nature whichgenerally goes with red hair. She was impulsive and quick oftongue, and--as he remembered her father had always been--alittle too ready for combat. She was usually as quicklyremorseful as she was quickly pugnacious, like most persons ofher colour. Her offer to type the story which now lay on her deskhad been the amende honourable following on just such a scenewith her aunt as this promised to be. Mr. Pett had no wish to seethe truce thus consummated broken almost before it had had timeto operate.

　　"I could give the boy a job in my office," he suggested.

　　Giving young men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doingbest. There were six brilliant youths living in his house andbursting with his food at that very moment whom he would havebeen delighted to start addressing envelopes down-town.

　　Notably his wife's nephew, Willie Partridge, whom he looked on asa specious loafer. He had a stubborn disbelief in the explosivethat was to revolutionise war. He knew, as all the world did,that Willie's late father had been a great inventor, but he didnot accept the fact that Willie had inherited the dead man'sgenius. He regarded the experiments on Partridgite, as it was tobe called, with the profoundest scepticism, and considered thatthe only thing Willie had ever invented or was likely to inventwas a series of ingenious schemes for living in fatted idlenesson other people's money.

　　"Exactly," said Mrs. Pett, delighted at the suggestion. "The verything.""Will you write and suggest it?" said Mr. Pett, basking in thesunshine of unwonted commendation.

　　"What would be the use of writing? Eugenia would pay noattention. Besides, I could not say all I wished to in a letter.

　　No, the only thing is to go over to England and see her. I shallspeak very plainly to her. I shall point out what an advantage itwill be to the boy to be in your office and to live here. . . ."Ann started.

　　"You don't mean live here--in this house?""Of course. There would be no sense in bringing the boy all theway over from England if he was to be allowed to run loose whenhe got here."Mr. Pett coughed deprecatingly.

　　"I don't think that would he very pleasant for Ann, dear.""Why in the name of goodness should Ann object?"Ann moved towards the door.

　　"Thank you for thinking of it, uncle Peter. You're always a dear.

　　But don't worry about me. Do just as you want to. In any case I'mquite certain that you won't be able to get him to come overhere. You can see by the paper he's having far too good a time inLondon. You can call Jimmy Crockers from the vasty deep, but willthey come when you call for them?"Mrs. Pett looked at the door as it closed behind her, then at herhusband.

　　"What do you mean, Peter, about Ann? Why wouldn't it be pleasantfor her if this Crocker boy came to live with us?"Mr. Pett hesitated.

　　"Well, it's like this, Nesta. I hope you won't tell her I toldyou. She's sensitive about it, poor girl. It all happened beforeyou and I were married. Ann was much younger then. You know whatschoolgirls are, kind of foolish and sentimental. It was my faultreally, I ought to have . . .""Good Heavens, Peter! What are you trying to tell me?""She was only a child."Mrs. Pett rose in slow horror.

　　"Peter! Tell me! Don't try to break it gently.""Ann wrote a book of poetry and I had it published for her."Mrs. Pett sank back in her chair.

　　"Oh!" she said--it would have been hard to say whether withrelief or disappointment. "Whatever did you make such a fuss for?

　　Why did you want to be so mysterious?""It was all my fault, really," proceeded Mr. Pett. "I ought tohave known better. All I thought of at the time was that it wouldplease the child to see the poems in print and be able to givethe book to her friends. She did give it to her friends," he wenton ruefully, "and ever since she's been trying to live it down.

　　I've seen her bite a young fellow's head off when he tried tomake a grand-stand play with her by quoting her poems which he'dfound in his sister's book-shelf.""But, in the name of goodness, what has all this to do with youngCrocker?""Why, it was this way. Most of the papers just gave Ann's book amention among 'Volumes Received,' or a couple of lines thatdidn't amount to anything, but the _Chronicle_ saw a Sunday featurein it, as Ann was going about a lot then and was a well-knownsociety girl. They sent this Crocker boy to get an interview fromher, all about her methods of work and inspirations and what not.

　　We never suspected it wasn't the straight goods. Why, that veryevening I mailed an order for a hundred copies to be sent to mewhen the thing appeared. And--" pinkness came upon Mr. Pett atthe recollection "it was just a josh from start to finish. Theyoung hound made a joke of the poems and what Ann had told himabout her inspirations and quoted bits of the poems just to kidthe life out of them. . . . I thought Ann would never get overit. Well, it doesn't worry her any more--she's grown out of theschool-girl stage--but you can bet she isn't going to get up andgive three cheers and a tiger if you bring young Crocker to livein the same house.""Utterly ridiculous!" said Mrs. Pett. "I certainly do not intendto alter my plans because of a trivial incident that happenedyears ago. We will sail on Wednesday.""Very well, my dear," said Mr. Pett resignedly.

　　"Just as you say. Er--just you and I?""And Ogden, of course."Mr. Pett controlled a facial spasm with a powerful effort of thewill. He had feared this.

　　"I wouldn't dream of leaving him here while I went away, afterwhat happened when poor dear Elmer sent him to school in Englandthat time." The late Mr. Ford had spent most of his married lifeeither quarrelling with or separated from his wife, but sincedeath he had been canonised as 'poor dear Elmer.' "Besides, thesea voyage will do the poor darling good. He has not been lookingat all well lately.""If Ogden's coming, I'd like to take Ann.""Why?""She can--" he sought for a euphemism.

　　"Keep in order" was the expression he wished to avoid. To hismind Ann was the only known antidote for Ogden, but he felt itwould be impolitic to say so."--look after him on the boat," heconcluded. "You know you are a bad sailor.""Very well. Bring Ann--Oh, Peter, that reminds me of what Iwanted to say to you, which this dreadful thing in the paperdrove completely out of my mind. Lord Wisbeach has asked Ann tomarry him!"Mr. Pett looked a little hurt. "She didn't tell me." Ann usuallyconfided in him.

　　"She didn't tell me, either. Lord Wisbeach told me. He said Annhad promised to think it over, and give him his answer later.

　　Meanwhile, he had come to me to assure himself that I approved. Ithought that so charming of him."Mr. Pett was frowning.

　　"She hasn't accepted him?""Not definitely.""I hope she doesn't.""Don't be foolish, Peter. It would be an excellent match."Mr. Pett shuffled his feet.

　　"I don't like him. There's something too darned smooth about thatfellow.""If you mean that his manners are perfect, I agree with you. Ishall do all in my power to induce Ann to accept him.""I shouldn't," said Mr. Pett, with more decision than was hiswont. "You know what Ann is if you try to force her to doanything. She gets her ears back and won't budge. Her father isjust the same. When we were boys together, sometimes--""Don't be absurd, Peter. As if I should dream of trying to forceAnn to do anything.""We don't know anything of this fellow. Two weeks ago we didn'tknow he was on the earth.""What do we need to know beyond his name?"Mr. Pett said nothing, but he was not convinced. The LordWisbeach under discussion was a pleasant-spoken and presentableyoung man who had called at Mr. Pett's office a short whilebefore to consult him about investing some money. He had broughta letter of introduction from Hammond Chester, Ann's father, whomhe had met in Canada, where the latter was at present engaged inthe comparatively mild occupation of bass-fishing. With theirbusiness talk the acquaintance would have begun and finished, ifMr. Pett had been able to please himself, for he had not taken afancy to Lord Wisbeach. But he was an American, with anAmerican's sense of hospitality, and, the young man being afriend of Hammond Chester, he had felt bound to invite him toRiverside Drive--with misgivings which were now, he felt,completely justified.

　　"Ann ought to marry," said Mrs. Pett. "She gets her own way toomuch now. However, it is entirely her own affair, and there isnothing that we can do." She rose. "I only hope she will besensible."She went out, leaving Mr. Pett gloomier than she had found him.

　　He hated the idea of Ann marrying Lord Wisbeach, who, even if hehad had no faults at all, would be objectionable in that he wouldprobably take her to live three thousand miles away in his owncountry. The thought of losing Ann oppressed Mr. Pett sorely.

　　Ann, meanwhile, had made her way down the passage to the gymnasiumwhich Mr. Pett, in the interests of his health, had caused to beconstructed in a large room at the end of the house--a room designedby the original owner, who had had artistic leanings, for a studio.

　　The _tap-tap-tap_ of the leather bag had ceased, but voices fromwithin told her that Jerry Mitchell, Mr. Pett's private physicalinstructor, was still there. She wondered who was his companion, andfound on opening the door that it was Ogden. The boy was leaningagainst the wall and regarding Jerry with a dull and superciliousgaze which the latter was plainly finding it hard to bear.

　　"Yes, sir!" Ogden was saying, as Ann entered. "I heard Biggsasking her to come for a joyride.""I bet she turned him down," said Jerry Mitchell sullenly.

　　"I bet she didn't. Why should she? Biggs is an awful good-lookingfellow.""What are you talking about, Ogden?" said Ann.

　　"I was telling him that Biggs asked Celestine to go for a ride inthe car with him.""I'll knock his block off," muttered the incensed Jerry.

　　Ogden laughed derisively.

　　"Yes, you will! Mother would fire you if you touched him. Shewouldn't stand for having her chauffeur beaten up."Jerry Mitchell turned an appealing face to Ann. Ogden'srevelations and especially his eulogy of Biggs' personalappearance had tormented him. He knew that, in his wooing of Mrs.

　　Pett's maid, Celestine, he was handicapped by his looks,concerning which he had no illusions. No Adonis to begin with, hehad been so edited and re-edited during a long and prosperousring career by the gloved fists of a hundred foes that in affairsof the heart he was obliged to rely exclusively on moral worthand charm of manner. He belonged to the old school of fighterswho looked the part, and in these days of pugilists who resemblematinee idols he had the appearance of an anachronism. He was astocky man with a round, solid head, small eyes, an undershotjaw, and a nose which ill-treatment had reduced to a merescenario. A narrow strip of forehead acted as a kind ofbuffer-state, separating his front hair from his eyebrows, and hebore beyond hope of concealment the badge of his late employment,the cauliflower ear. Yet was he a man of worth and a goodcitizen, and Ann had liked him from their first meeting. As forJerry, he worshipped Ann and would have done anything she askedhim. Ever since he had discovered that Ann was willing to listento and sympathise with his outpourings on the subject of histroubled wooing, he had been her slave.

　　Ann came to the rescue in characteristically direct fashion.

　　"Get out, Ogden," she said.

　　Ogden tried to meet her eye mutinously, but failed. Why he shouldbe afraid of Ann he had never been able to understand, but it wasa fact that she was the only person of his acquaintance whom herespected. She had a bright eye and a calm, imperious stare whichnever failed to tame him.

　　"Why?" he muttered. "You're not my boss.""Be quick, Ogden.""What's the big idea--ordering a fellow--""And close the door gently behind you," said Ann. She turned toJerry, as the order was obeyed.

　　"Has he been bothering you, Jerry?"Jerry Mitchell wiped his forehead.

　　"Say, if that kid don't quit butting in when I'm working in thegym--You heard what he was saying about Maggie, Miss Ann?"Celestine had been born Maggie O'Toole, a name which Mrs. Pettstoutly refused to countenance in any maid of hers.

　　"Why on earth do you pay any attention to him, Jerry? You musthave seen that he was making it all up. He spends his whole timewandering about till he finds some one he can torment, and thenhe enjoys himself. Maggie would never dream of going out in thecar with Biggs."Jerry Mitchell sighed a sigh of relief.

　　"It's great for a fellow to have you in his corner, Miss Ann."Ann went to the door and opened it. She looked down the passage,then, satisfied as to its emptiness, returned to her seat.

　　"Jerry, I want to talk to you. I have an idea. Something I wantyou to do for me.""Yes, Miss Ann?""We've got to do something about that child, Ogden. He's beenworrying uncle Peter again, and I'm not going to have it. Iwarned him once that, if he did it again, awful things wouldhappen to him, but he didn't believe me. I suppose, Jerry--whatsort of a man is your friend, Mr. Smethurst?""Do you mean Smithers, Miss Ann?""I knew it was either Smithers or Smethurst. The dog man, I mean.

　　Is he a man you can trust?""With my last buck. I've known him since we were kids.""I don't mean as regards money. I am going to send Ogden to himfor treatment, and I want to know if I can rely on him to helpme.""For the love of Mike."Jerry Mitchell, after an instant of stunned bewilderment, waslooking at her with worshipping admiration. He had always knownthat Miss Ann possessed a mind of no common order, but this, hefelt, was genius. For a moment the magnificence of the idea tookhis breath away.

　　"Do you mean that you're going to kidnap him, Miss Ann?""Yes. That is to say, _you_ are--if I can persuade you to doit for me.""Sneak him away and send him to Bud Smithers' dog-hospital?""For treatment. I like Mr. Smithers' methods. I think they woulddo Ogden all the good in the world."Jerry was enthusiastic.

　　"Why, Bud would make him part-human. But, say, isn't it takingbig chances? Kidnapping's a penitentiary offence.""This isn't that sort of kidnapping.""Well, it's mighty like it.""I don't think you need be afraid of the penitentiary. I can'tsee aunt Nesta prosecuting, when it would mean that she wouldhave to charge us with having sent Ogden to a dogs' hospital. Shelikes publicity, but it has to be the right kind of publicity.

　　No, we do run a risk, but it isn't that one. You run the risk oflosing your job here, and I should certainly be sent to mygrandmother for an indefinite sentence. You've never seen mygrandmother, have you, Jerry? She's the only person in the worldI'm afraid of! She lives miles from anywhere and has familyprayers at seven-thirty sharp every morning. Well, I'm ready torisk her, if you're ready to risk your job, in such a good cause.

　　You know you're just as fond of uncle Peter as I am, and Ogden isworrying him into a breakdown. Surely you won't refuse to helpme, Jerry?"Jerry rose and extended a calloused hand.

　　"When do we start?"Ann shook the hand warmly.

　　"Thank you, Jerry. You're a jewel. I envy Maggie. Well, I don'tthink we can do anything till they come back from England, asaunt Nesta is sure to take Ogden with her.""Who's going to England?""Uncle Peter and aunt Nesta were talking just now of sailing totry and persuade a young man named Crocker to come back here.""Crocker? Jimmy Crocker? Piccadilly Jim?""Yes. Why, do you know him?""I used to meet him sometimes when he was working on the_Chronicle_ here. Looks as if he was cutting a wide swathe in dearold London. Did you see the paper to-day?""Yes, that's what made aunt Nesta want to bring him over. Ofcourse, there isn't the remotest chance that she will be able tomake him come. Why should he come?""Last time I saw Jimmy Crocker," said Jerry, "it was a couple ofyears ago, when I went over to train Eddie Flynn for his go withPorky Jones at the National. I bumped into him at the N. S. C. Hewas a good deal tanked.""He's always drinking, I believe.""He took me to supper at some swell joint where they all had thesoup-and-fish on but me. I felt like a dirty deuce in a cleandeck. He used to be a regular fellow, Jimmy Crocker, but fromwhat you read in the papers it begins to look as if he washitting it up too swift. It's always the way with those boys whenyou take them off a steady job and let them run around loose withtheir jeans full of mazuma.""That's exactly why I want to do something about Ogden. If he'sallowed to go on as he is at present, he will grow up exactlylike Jimmy Crocker.""Aw, Jimmy Crocker ain't in Ogden's class," protested Jerry.

　　"Yes, he is. There's absolutely no difference between them.""Say! You've got it in for Jim, haven't you, Miss Ann?" Jerrylooked at her wonderingly. "What's your kick against him?"Ann bit her lip. "I object to him on principle," she said. "Idon't like his type. . . . Well, I'm glad we've settled thisabout Ogden, Jerry. I knew I could rely on you. But I won't letyou do it for nothing. Uncle Peter shall give you something forit--enough to start that health-farm you talk about so much.

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