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Tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:
"Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time."
Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.
"It's a bad sign," said Aunt Polly, gravely. "What you got on your mind, Tom?"
"Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.
"And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last night you said, 'It's blood, it's blood, that's what it is!' You said that over and over. And you said, 'Don't torment me so -- I'll tell!' Tell what? What is it you'll tell?"
Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly's face and she came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said:
"Sho! It's that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night myself. Sometimes I dream it's me that done it."

Renoir Girls at The Piano painting

Mary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed satisfied. Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every night. He never knew that Sid lay
-124-nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place again. Tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.
It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind. Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises; he noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness -- and that was strange; and Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled, but said nothing. However, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to torture Tom's conscience.

Vermeer View Of Delft painting

Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through to the "murderer" as he could get hold of. The jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's conscience.
The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather
-125-Injun Joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts at present.you'd never -- "
"Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.
Potter would have fallen if they had

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You bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. "Consound it, Tom Sawyer, you're just old pie, 'longside o' what I am. Oh, lordy , lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance."
Tom choked off and whispered:
"Look, Hucky, look! He's got his BACK to us!"
Hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
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"Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?"
"Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you know. Now who can he mean?"
The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.
"Sh! What's that?" he whispered.
"Sounds like -- like hogs grunting. No -- it's somebody snoring, Tom."
"That is it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?"

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Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He muttered:
"If he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he
-108-won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself -- chicken-heart!"
Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's. The stillness was complete again, too.THE two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet.
"If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer."

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"Governess, or something of that sort."
"What the deuce is she at our table for?"
"Friend of the old lady's."
"Handsome head, but no style."
"Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on."
I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!
Thursday
Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the

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arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German -- rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"
I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.
"Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him.

Degas After the Bath, Woman Drying Herself painting

When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home."
Jo's Journal
New York, November
Dear Marmee and Beth,
I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.
Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.
Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor -- all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice

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"No, Mother."
"May I know the others?"
Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but -- I'm afraid -- Laurie is getting too fond of me."
"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?' And Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.
"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."
"I'm glad of that, Jo."
"Why, please?'
"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."
"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

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As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, "I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful land aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.

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Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original. One of these was the `P.C', for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big `P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman

Edward hopper paintings

THE sun had just risen above the mountains and was shedding its first golden rays over the hut and the valley below. Alm-Uncle, as was his custom, had been standing in a quiet and, devout attitude for some little while, watching the light mists gradually lifting, and the heights and valley emerging from their twilight shadows and awakening to another day.
The light morning clouds overhead grew brighter and brighter, till at last the sun shone out in its full glory, and rock and wood and hill lay bathed in golden light.
Uncle now stepped back into the hut and went softly up the ladder. Clara had just opened her eyes and was looking with wonder at the bright sunlight that shone through the round window and danced and sparkled about her bed. She could not at first think what she was looking at or where she was. Then she caught sight of Heidi sleeping beside her, and now she heard the grandfather's cheery voice asking her if she had slept well and was

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at this and immediately began to attend upon her with so much gentleness and understanding that it seemed as if his chief calling had been to look after sick children.
Heidi now awoke and was surprised to see Clara dressed, and already in the grandfather's arms ready to be carried down. She must be up too, and she went through her toilette with lightning-like speed. She ran down the ladder and out of the hut, and there further astonishment awaited her, for grandfather had been busy the night before after they were in bed. Seeing that it was impossible to get Clara's chair through the hut-door, he had taken down two of the boards at the side of the shed and made an opening large enough to admit the chair; these he left loose so that they could be taken away and put up at pleasure. He was at this moment wheeling Clara out into the sun; he left her in front of the hut while he went to look after the goats, and Heidi ran up to her friend

Mediterranean paintings

The fresh morning breeze blew round the children's faces, and every fresh puff brought a waft of fragrance from the fir trees. Clara drew it in with delight and lay back in her chair with an unaccustomed feeling of health and comfort.
It was the first time in her life that she had been out in the open country at this early hour and felt the fresh morning breeze, and the pure mountain air was so cool and refreshing that every breath she drew was a pleasure. And then the bright sweet sun, which was not hot and sultry up here, but lay
-298-soft and warm on her hands and on the grass at her feet. Clara had not imagined that it would be like this on the mountain.
"O Heidi, if only I could stay up here for ever with you," she exclaimed happily, turning in her chair from side to side that she might drink in the air and sun from all quarters

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Now you see that it is just what I told you," replied Heidi delighted; "that it is the most beautiful thing in the world to be up here with grandfather."
The latter at that moment appeared coming from the goat shed and bringing two small foaming bowls of snow-white milk -- one for Clara and one for Heidi.
"That will do the little daughter good," he said, nodding to Clara; "it is from Little Swan and will make her strong. To your health, child! drink it up."
Clara had never tasted goat's milk before; she hesitated and smelt it before putting it to her lips, but seeing how Heidi drank hers up without hesitating, and how much she seemed to like it, Clara did the same, and drank till there was not a drop left, for she too found it delicious, tasting just as if sugar and cinnamon had been mixed with it.
"To-morrow we will drink two," said the grandfather, who had looked on with satisfaction at seeing her follow Heidi's example.
Peter now arrived with the goats, and while Heidi was receiving her usual crowded morning greetings, Uncle drew Peter aside to speak to him, for the goats,

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But you are not going home yet, Heidi, not for years," put in Clara. "When grandmother goes away, I shall want you to stay on with me."
When, Heidi went to her room that night she had another look at her book before going to bed, and from that day forth her chief pleasure was to read the tales which belonged to the beautiful pictures over and over again. If the grandmother said, as they were sitting together in the evening, "Now Heidi will read aloud to us," Heidi was delighted, for reading was no trouble to her now, and when she read the tales aloud the scenes seemed to grow more beautiful and distinct, and then grandmother would explain and tell her more about them still.
Still the picture she liked best was the one of the shepherd leaning on his staff with his flock around him in the midst of the green pasture, for he was now at home and happy, following his father's sheep and goats. Then came the picture where he was seen
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"Have you never been taught to pray, Heidi; do you not know even what it means?"
"I used to say prayers with the first grandmother, but that is a long time ago, and I have forgotten them."
"That is the reason, Heidi, that you are so unhappy, because you know no one who can help you. Think what a comfort it is when the heart is heavy
-153-with grief to be able at any moment to go and tell everything to God, and pray Him for the help that no one else can give us. And He can help us and give us everything that will make us happy again."
A sudden gleam of joy came into Heidi's eyes. "May I tell Him everything, everything?"
"Yes, everything, Heidi, everything." Heidi drew her hand away, which the grandmother was holding affectionately between her own, and said quickly, "May I go?"
"Yes, of course," was the answer, and Heidi ran out of the room into her own, and sitting herself on a stool, folded her hands together and told God about everything that was making her so sad and unhappy, and begged Him earnestly to help her and to let her go home to her grandfather.

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Why, to read, it is too difficult."
"You don't say so! and who told you that?"
"Peter told me, and he knew all about it, for he had tried and tried and could not learn it."
"Peter must be a very odd boy then! But listen, Heidi, we must not always go by what Peter says, we must try for ourselves. I am certain that you did not give all your attention to the tutor when he was trying to teach you your letters."
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"It's of no use," said Heidi in the tone of one who was ready to endure what could not be cured. "Listen to what I have to say," continued the grandmother. "You have not been able to learn your alphabet because you believed what Peter said; but now you must believe what I tell you -- and I tell you that you can learn to read in a very little while, as many other children do, who are made like you and not like Peter. And now hear what comes after -- you see that picture with the shepherd and the animals -- well, as soon as you are able to read you shall have that book for your own, and then you will know all about the sheep and the goats, and what the shepherd did, and the wonderful things that happened to him, just as if some one were telling you the whole tale. You will like to hear about all that, won't you

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any order they were given. But no person could command these strange creatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had used the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her slaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys had helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought against the Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the West. The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.
So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:
"Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"

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Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said, "It was a good fight, friend."
They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.
Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle and looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her country. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver whistle twice.
Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough to darken the sky.
And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, "Fly at once to the strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces."
The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.

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After a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so difficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks, which were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or missing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy walked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains, he walked straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length on the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing merrily at his own mishap. The farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther back. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.
At noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy opened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the Scarecrow, but he refused.
"I am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing I am not, for my mouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat, the straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the shape of my head."
Dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on eating her bread.
"Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from," said the Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all about Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone had carried her to this queer Land of Oz.

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itself; it was a bridge that would not need to be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old campaigner, and used to inventing shifts and expedients; no doubt he would be able to find a way. Yes, he would strike for the capital. Maybe his father's old friend, Sir Humphrey Marlow, would help him-"good old Sir Humphrey, Head Lieutenant of the late king's kitchen, or stables, or something"-Miles could not remember just what or which. Now that he had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly defined object to accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression that had settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he raised his head and looked about him. He was surprised to see how far he had come; the village was away behind him. The king was jogging along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's newborn cheerfulness; would the boy be willing to go again to a city where, during all his brief life, he had never known anything but ill usage and pinching want? But the question must be asked; it could not be avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called out:

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Meantime Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinment and inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further imprisonment should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about that. He was in a fine fury when he found himself described as a 'sturdy vagabond" and sentenced to sit two hours in the pillory for bearing that character and for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall. His pretensions as to brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful heirship to the Hendon honors and estates, were left contemptuously unnoticed, as being not even worth examination.
He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an occasional cuff, besides, for his unreverent conduct

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

The earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard with the order:
"Let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning, the occasion of its movement. By the king's command!"
A few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in flashing steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the highway in front of the multitude. A messenger returned, to report that the crowd were following a man, a woman, and a young girl to execution for crimes committed against the peace and dignity of the realm. Death-and a violent death-for these poor unfortunates! The thought wrung Tom's heartstrings. The spirit of compassion took control of him, to the exclusion of all other considerations; he never thought of the offended laws, or of the grief or loss which these three criminals had inflicted upon their victims, he could think of nothing but the scaffold and the grisly fate hanging over the heads of the condemned. His concern made him even forget, for the moment, that he was but the false shadow of a king, not the substance; and before he knew it he had blurted out the command:
"Bring them here!"

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Bunting noticed that Mr. Sleuth kept his distance in a rather strange way; he walked at the edge of the pavement, leaving the rest of it, on the wall side, to his landlord.
"I lost my way," he said abruptly. "I've been over Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man with whom I studied when I was a lad, and then, coming back, I lost my way.
Now they had come right up to the little gate which opened on the shabby, paved court in front of the house - that gate which now was never locked.
Mr. Sleuth, pushing suddenly forward, began walking up the flagged path, when, with a "By your leave, sir," the ex-butler, stepping aside, slipped in front of his lodger, in order to open the front door for him.
As he passed by Mr. Sleuth, the back of Bunting's bare left hand brushed lightly against the long Inverness cape the lodger was wearing, and, to Bunting's surprise, the stretch of cloth against which his hand lay for a moment was not only damp, damp maybe from stray flakes of snow which had settled upon it, but wet - wet and gluey.
Bunting thrust his left hand into his pocket; it was with the other that he placed the key in the lock of the door.
The two men passed into the hail together.

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The house seemed blackly dark in comparison with the lighted-up road outside, and as he groped forward, closely followed by the lodger, there came over Bunting a sudden, reeling sensation of mortal terror, an instinctive, assailing knowledge of frightful immediate danger.
A stuffless voice - the voice of his first wife, the long-dead girl to whom his mind so seldom reverted nowadays - uttered into his ear the words, "Take care!"
And then the lodger spoke. His voice was harsh and grating, though not loud.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Bunting, that you must have felt something dirty, foul, on my coat? It's too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill."
"No, sir, no. I didn't notice nothing. I scarcely touched you, sir."
It seemed as if a power outside himself compelled Bunting to utter these lying words. "And now, sir, I'll be saying good-night to you," he said.

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Stepping back he pressed with all the strength that was in him against the wall, and let the other pass him. There was a pause, and then - "Good-night," returned Mr. Sleuth, in a hollow voice. Bunting waited until the lodger had gone upstairs, and then, lighting the gas, he sat down there, in the hall. Mr. Sleuth's landlord felt very queer - queer and sick.
He did not draw his left hand out of his pocket till he heard Mr. Sleuth shut the bedroom door upstairs. Then he held up his left hand and looked at it curiously; it was flecked, streaked with pale reddish blood.
Taking off his boots, he crept into the room where his wife lay asleep. Stealthily he walked across to the wash-hand-stand, and dipped a hand into the water-jug.
"Whatever are you doing? What on earth are you doing?" came a voice from the bed, and Bunting started guiltily.
"I'm just washing my hands."
"Indeed, you're doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a thing - putting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my face to-morrow morning!"
"I'm very sorry, Ellen," he said meekly; "I meant to throw it away. You don't suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?"

Aubrey Beardsley paintings

She said no more, but, as he began undressing himself, Mrs. Bunting lay staring at him in a way that made her husband feel even more uncomfortable than he was already.
At last he got into bed. He wanted to break the oppressive silence by telling Ellen about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but that sovereign now seemed to Bunting of no more account than if it had been a farthing he had picked up in the road outside.
Once more his wife spoke, and he gave so great a start that it shook the bed.
"I suppose that you don't know that you've left the light burning in the hall, wasting our good money?" she observed tartly.
He got up painfully and opened the door into the passage. It was as she had said; the gas was flaring away, wasting their good money - or, rather, Mr. Sleuth's good money. Since he had come to be their lodger they had not had to touch their rent money.
Bunting turned out the light and groped his way back to the room, and so to bed. Without speaking again to each other, both husband and wife lay awake till dawn

Anne-Francois-Louis Janmot paintings

The next morning Mr. Sleuth's landlord awoke with a start; he felt curiously heavy about the limbs, and tired about the eyes.
Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven o'clock. Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the blind a little to one side. It was snowing heavily, and, as is the way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, curiously still. After he had dressed he went out into the passage. As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of its being pushed through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful sleep.
He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper wide open on the table, and bent over it.
As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression of intense relief shone upon his stolid face. The item of news he had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet was not there.

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was not late even now, for the inquest had begun very punctually, but Mrs. Bunting felt that no power on earth should force her to go to Ealing. She felt quite tired out and as if she could think of nothing.
Pacing along very slowly, as if she were an old, old woman, she began listlessly turning her steps towards home. Somehow she felt that it would do her more good to stay out in the air than take the train. Also she would thus put off the moment - the moment to which she looked forward with dread and dislike - when she would have to invent a circumstantial story as to what she had said to the doctor, and what the doctor had said to her.
Like most men and women of his class, Bunting took a great interest in other people's ailments, the more interest that he was himself so remarkably healthy. He would feel quite injured if Ellen didn't tell him everything that had happened; everything, that is, that the doctor had told her.
As she walked swiftly along, at every corner, or so it seemed to her, and outside every public-house, stood eager boys selling the latest edition of the afternoon papers to equally eager buyers. "Avenger Inquest?" they shouted exultantly. "All the latest evidence!" At one place, where there were a row of contents-bills pinned to the pavement by

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however nomad he may be in his habit; must have some habitat where his ways are known to at least one person. Now the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. The more so that only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. Unless he was caught red-handed in the act, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime committed to any individual, for English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence."
"There's something worth listening to in that letter," said Joe, leaning forward.
Now he was almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she turned her gay, pretty little face the better to hear what he was saying.
"Yes, Mr. Chandler?" she said interrogatively.
"Well, d'you remember that fellow what killed an old gentleman in a railway carriage? He took refuge with someone - a woman his mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a long time. But at last she gave him up, and she got a big reward, too!"

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"I don't think I'd like to give anybody up for a reward," said Bunting, in his slow, dogmatic way.
"Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bunting," said Chandler confidently. "You'd only be doing what it's the plain duty of everyone - everyone, that is, who's a good citizen. And you'd be getting something for doing it, which is more than most people gets as does their duty."
"A man as gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common informer," went on Bunting obstinately. "And no man 'ud care to be called that! It's different for you, Joe," he added hastily. "It's your job to catch those who've done anything wrong. And a man'd be a fool who'd take refuge - like with you. He'd be walking into the lion's mouth - " Bunting laughed.
And then Daisy broke in coquettishly: "If I'd done anything I wouldn't mind going for help to Mr. Chandler," she said.
And Joe, with eyes kindling, cried, "No. And if you did you needn't be afraid I'd give you up, Miss Daisy!"
And then, to their amazement, there suddenly broke from Mrs. Bunting, sitting with towed head over the table, an exclamation of impatience and anger, and, it seemed to those listening, of pain.

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Mrs. Bunting had got up from her chair. "What nonsense you do talk!" she said angrily. "Not but what it's a good thing if these murders have emptied the public-houses of women for a bit. England's drink is England's shame - I'll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, child, get up, do! Put down that paper. We've heard quite enough. You can be laying the cloth while I goes down the kitchen."
"Yes, you mustn't be forgetting the lodger's supper," called out Bunting. "Mr. Sleuth don't always ring - " he turned to Chandler. "For one thing, he's often out about this time."
"Not often - just now and again, when he wants to buy' something," snapped out Mrs. Bunting. "But I hadn't forgot his supper. He never do want it before eight o'clock."
"Let me take up the lodger's supper, Ellen," Daisy's eager voice broke in. She had got up in obedience to her stepmother, and was now laying the cloth.
"Certainly not! I told you he only wanted me to wait on him. You have your work cut out looking after things down here - that's where I wants you to help me."
Chandler also got up. Somehow he didn't like to be doing nothing while Daisy was so busy. "Yes," he said, looking across at Mrs. Bunting, "I'd forgotten about your lodger. Going on all right, eh?"

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"Why, Ellen, don't you feel well?" asked Bunting quickly.
"Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side, like," answered the poor woman heavily. "It's over now. Don't mind me."
"But I don't believe - no, that I don't - that there's anybody in the world who knows who The Avenger is," went on Chandler quickly. "It stands to reason that anybody'd give him up - in their own interest, if not in anyone else's. Who'd shelter such a creature? Why, 'twould be dangerous to have him in the house along with one!"
"Then it's your idea that he's not responsible for the wicked things he does?" Mrs. Bunting raised her head, and looked over at Chandler with eager, anxious eyes.
"I'd be sorry to think he wasn't responsible enough to hang!" said Chandler deliberately. "After all the trouble he's been giving us, too!"
"Hanging'd be too good for that chap," said Bunting.
"Not if he's not responsible," said his wife sharply. "I never heard of anything so cruel - that I never did! If the man's a madman, he ought to be in an asylum - that's where he ought to be."
"Hark to her now!" Bunting looked at his Ellen with amusement. "Contrary isn't the word for her! But there, I've noticed the last few days that she seemed to be taking that monster's part. That's what comes of being a born total abstainer."

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Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent, miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife, with careworn, troubled Ellen.
A hot wave of unease almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen would never have spent that penny on herself - he knew that well enough - and if it hadn't been so cold, so foggy, so - so drizzly, he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread the glance of Ellen's cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a paper, and that well he knew it!
Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, "What on earth are you doing out there, Bunting? Come in - do! You'll catch your death of cold! I don't want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!" Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays.

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Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated. The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go.
Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting, being sorely tempted - fell. "Give me a Sun," he said roughly, "Sun or Echo!',
But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. "Only penny papers left," he gasped. "What'll yer 'ave, sir?"
With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny out of his pocket and took a paper - it was the Evening Standard - from the boy's hand.
Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw, cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful anticipation.

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And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the gas, the oblong card, though not the word "Apartments" printed on it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned fanlight above the front door.
Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife, and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he, Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately.
A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting's pale face. She was not used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly upset, was the mildest of men.
She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there.

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rough the front door of his cheerless house. "I went out to get a paper," he said sullenly.
After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him - not on Ellen - by that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen, so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring.
He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a very mild, oath - Ellen had very early made it clear she would have no swearing in her presence - he lit the hall gas full-flare.
"How can we hope to get lodgers if they can't even see the card?" he shouted angrily.

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Had this criticism been made at the time, we could only have answered that the assassin had disappeared from the gallery in such a way that we thought he was no longer anywhere! He had eluded us when we all had our hands stretched out ready to seize him - when we were almost touching him. We had no longer any ground for hoping that we could clear up the mystery of that night.
"As soon as I rapped at the door it was opened, and the keeper asked us quietly what we wanted. He was undressed and preparing to go to bed. The bed had not yet been disturbed.
"We entered and I affected surprise.
"'Not gone to bed yet?'
"'No,' he replied roughly. 'I have been making a round of the park and in the woods. I am only just back - and sleepy. Good-night!'
"'Listen,' I said. 'An hour or so ago, there was a ladder close by your window.'
"'What ladder? - I did not see any ladder. Good-night!'
"And he simply put us out of the room. When we were outside I looked at Larsan. His face was impenetrable.
'Well?' I said.

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Then follows a silence. What a silence! We are all there - looking at her - her father, Larsan, Daddy Jacques and I. What were we all thinking of in the silence? After the events of that night, of the mystery of the inexplicable gallery, of the prodigious fact of the presence of the murderer in her room, it seemed to me that all our thoughts might have been translated into the words which were addressed to her. 'You who know of this mystery, explain it to us, and we shall perhaps be able to save you. How I longed to save her - for herself, and, from the other! - It brought the tears to my eyes.
"She is there, shedding about her the perfume of the lady in black. At last, I see her, in the silence of her chamber. Since the fatal hour of the mystery of The Yellow Room, we have hung about this invisible and silent woman to learn what she knows. Our desires, our wish to know must be a torment to her. Who can tell that, should we learn the secret of her mystery, it would not precipitate a ragedy more terrible than that which had already been enacted here? Who can tell if it might not mean her death? Yet it had brought her close to death, - and we still knew nothing. Or, rather, there are some of us who know nothing. But I - if I knew who, I should know all. Who? - Who? - Not knowing who, I must remain silent, out of pity for her. For there is no doubt that she knows how he escaped from The Yellow Room, and yet she keeps the secret. When I know who, I will speak to him - to him!"

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She looked at us now - with a far-away look in her eyes - as if we were not in the chamber. Monsieur Stangerson broke the silence. He declared that, henceforth, he would no more absent himself from his daughter's apartments. She tried to oppose him in vain. He adhered firmly to his purpose. He would install himself there this very night, he said. Solely concerned for the health of his daughter, he reproached her for having left her bed. Then he suddenly began talking to her as if she were a little child. He smiled at her and seemed not to know either what he said or what he did. The illustrious professor had lost his head. Mademoiselle Stangerson in a tone of tender distress said: 'Father! - father!' Daddy Jacques blows his nose, and Frederic Larsan himself is obliged to turn away to hide his emotion. For myself, I am able neither to think or feel. I felt an infinite contempt for myself.
"It was the first time that Frederic Larsan, like myself, found himself face to face with Mademoiselle Stangerson since the attack in The Yellow Room. Like me, he had insisted on being allowed to question the unhappy lady; but he had not, any more than had I, been permitted. To him, as to me, the same answer had always been given: Mademoiselle Stangerson was too weak to receive us. The questionings of the examining magistrate had over-fatigued her. It was evidently intended not to give us any assistance in our researches. I was not surprised; but Frederic Larsan had always resented this conduct. It is true that he and I had a totally different theory of the crime.

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Like an arrow I crossed the room, but noticed a letter on the table as I rushed. I almost came up with the man in the ante-room, for he had lost time in opening the door to the gallery. I flew on wings, and in the gallery was but a few feet behind him. He had taken, as I supposed he would, the gallery on his right, - that is to say, the road he had prepared for his flight. 'Help, Jacques! - help, Larsan!' I cried. He could not escape us! I raised a shout of joy, of savage victory. The man reached the intersection of the two galleries hardly two seconds before me for the meeting which I had prepared - the fatal shock which must inevitably take place at that spot! We all rushed to the crossing-place - Monsieur Stangerson and I coming from one end of the right gallery, Daddy Jacques coming from the other end of the same gallery, and Frederic Larsan coming from the 'off-turning' gallery.
"The man was not there!
"We looked at each other stupidly and with eyes terrified. The man had vanished like a ghost. 'Where is he - where is he?' we all asked.
'It is impossible he can have escaped!' I cried, my terror mastered by my anger.
"'I touched him!' exclaimed Frederic Larsan.

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The innkeeper said to her roughly:
"Get out! - and if the Green Man comes, don't let me see him."
She disappeared. Rouletabille took the eggs, which had been brought to him in a bowl, and the meat which was on a dish, placed all carefully beside him in the chimney, unhooked a frying-pan and a gridiron, and began to beat up our omelette before proceeding to grill our beefsteak. He then ordered two bottles of cider, and seemed to take as little notice of our host as our host did of him. The landlord let us do our own cooking and set our table near one of the windows.
Suddenly I heard him mutter:
"Ah! - there he is."
His face had changed, expressing fierce hatred. He went and glued himself to one of the windows, watching the road. There was no need for me to draw

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I saw at once that the Donjon Inn was at least two centuries old - perhaps older. Under its sign-board, over the threshold, a man with a crabbed-looking face was standing, seemingly plunged in unpleasant thought, if the wrinkles on his forehead and the knitting of his brows were any indication.
When we were close to him, he deigned to see us and asked us, in a tone anything but engaging, whether we wanted anything. He was, no doubt, the not very amiable landlord of this charming dwelling-place. As we expressed a hope that he would be good enough to furnish us with a breakfast, he assured us that he had no provisions, regarding us, as he said this, with a look that was unmistakably suspicious.
"You may take us in," Rouletabille said to him, "we are not policemen."
"I'm not afraid of the police - I'm not afraid of anyone!" replied the man

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you reason too much; you do not allow yourself to be guided by what you have seen. What do you say to the handkerchief full of blood, and the red mark of the hand on the wall? You have seen the stain on the wall, but I have only seen the handkerchief."
"Bah!" cried Rouletabille, "the murderer was wounded in the hand by Mademoiselle Stangerson's revolver!"
"Ah! - a simply instinctive observation! Take care! - You are becoming too strictly logical, Monsieur Rouletabille; logic will upset you if you use it indiscriminately. You are right, when you say that Mademoiselle Stangerson fired her revolver, but you are wrong when you say that she wounded the murderer in the hand."
"I am sure of it," cried Rouletabille.
Fred, imperturbable, interrupted him:

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The bicycle explains the disappearance of the murderer's big foot-prints," I said. "The murderer, with his rough boots, mounted a bicycle. His accomplice, the wearer of the neat boots, had come to wait for him on the edge of the lake with the bicycle. It might be supposed that the murderer was working for the other."
"No, no!" replied Rouletabille with a strange smile. "I have expected to find these footmarks from the very beginning. These are not the footmarks of the murderer!"
"Then there were two?"
"No - there was but one, and he had no accomplice."
"Very good! - Very good!" cried Frederic Larsan.
"Look!" continued the young reporter, showing us the ground where it had been disturbed by big and heavy heels; "the man seated himself there, and took off his hobnailed boots, which he had worn only for the purpose of misleading detection, and then no doubt, taking them away with him, he stood up in his own boots, and quietly and slowly regained the high road, holding his bicycle in his hand, for he could not venture to ride it on this rough path. That accounts for the

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One alone persisted with tender tenacity and deserved the name of "eternal fiance," a name he accepted with melancholy resignation; that was Monsieur Robert Darzac. Mademoiselle Stangerson was now no longer young, and it seemed that, having found no reason for marrying at five-and-thirty, she would never find one. But such an argument evidently found no acceptance with Monsieur Robert Darzac. He continued to pay his court - if the delicate and tender attention with which he ceaselessly surrounded this woman of five-and-thirty could be called courtship - in face of her declared intention never to marry.
Suddenly, some weeks before the events with which we are occupied, a report - to which nobody attached any importance, so incredible did it sound - was spread about Paris, that Mademoiselle Stangerson had at last consented to "crown" the inextinguishable flame of Monsieur Robert Darzac! It needed that Monsieur Robert Darzac himself should not deny this matrimonial rumour to give it an appearance

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But this deserted condition of the place had been the determining reason for the choice made by Monsieur Stangerson and his daughter. Monsieur Stangerson was already celebrated. He had returned from America, where his works had made a great stir. The book which he had published at Philadelphia, on the "Dissociation of Matter by Electric Action," had aroused opposition throughout the whole scientific world. Monsieur Stangerson was a Frenchman, but of American origin. Important matters relating to a legacy had kept him for several years in the United States, where he had continued the work begun by him in France, whither he had returned in possession of a large fortune. This fortune was a great boon to him; for, though he might have made millions of dollars by exploiting two or three of his chemical discoveries relative to new processes of dyeing, it was always repugnant to him to use for his own private gain the wonderful gift of invention he had received from nature. He considered he owed it to mankind, and all that his genius brought into the world went, by this philosophical view of his duty, into the public lap.

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Pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on a foot warmer, and awakens the next day with his feet all burned off
Pinocchio hated the dark street, but he was so hungry that, in spite of it, he ran out of the house. The night was pitch black. It thundered, and bright flashes of lightning now and again shot across the sky, turning it into a sea of fire. An angry wind blew cold and raised dense clouds of dust, while the trees shook and moaned in a weird way.
Pinocchio was greatly afraid of thunder and lightning, but the hunger he felt was far greater than his fear. In a dozen leaps and bounds, he came to the village, tired out, puffing like a whale, and with tongue hanging.
The whole village was dark and deserted. The stores were closed, the doors, the windows. In the streets, not even a dog could be seen. It seemed the Village of the Dead.
Pinocchio, in desperation, ran up to a doorway, threw himself upon the bell, and pulled it wildly, saying to himself: "Someone will surely answer that!"
He was right. An old man in a nightcap opened the window and looked out. He called down angrily:
"What do you want at this hour of night?"
"Will you be good enough to give me a bit of bread? I am hungry."
"Wait a minute and I'll come right back," answered the old fellow, thinking he had to deal with one of those boys who love to roam around at night ringing people's bells while they are peacefully asleep.

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In the Shark's body Pinocchio finds whom? Read this chapter, my children, and you will know
Pinocchio, as soon as he had said good-by to his good friend, the Tunny, tottered away in the darkness and began to walk as well as he could toward the faint light which glowed in the distance.
As he walked his feet splashed in a pool of greasy and slippery water, which had such a heavy smell of fish fried in oil that Pinocchio thought it was Lent.
The farther on he went, the brighter and clearer grew the tiny light. On and on he walked till finally he found --I give you a thousand guesses, my dear children! He found a little table set for dinner and lighted by a candle stuck in a glass bottle; and near the table sat a little old man, white as the snow, eating live fish. They wriggled so that, now and again, one of them slipped out of the old man's mouth and escaped into the darkness under the table.
At this sight, the poor Marionette was filled with such great and sudden happiness that he almost dropped in a faint. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, he wanted to say a thousand and one things, but all he could do was to stand still, stuttering and stammering brokenly. At last, with a great effort, he was able to let out a scream of joy and, opening wide his arms he threw them around the old man's neck.
"Oh, Father, dear Father! Have I found you at last? Now I shall never, never leave you again!"
"Are my eyes really telling me the truth?" answered the old man, rubbing his eyes. "Are you really my own dear Pinocchio?"

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`There I object,' said Filby. `Of course a solid body may exist. All real things--'
`So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an INSTANTANEOUS cube exist?'
`Don't follow you,' said Filby.
`Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a real existence?'
Filby became pensive. `Clearly,' the Time Traveller proceeded, `any real body must have extension in FOUR directions: it must have Length, Breadth, Thickness, and--Duration. But through a natural infirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, we incline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions, three which we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time. There is, however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction between the former three dimensions and the latter, because it happens that our consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along the latter from the beginning to the end of our lives.'
`That,' said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to relight his cigar over the lamp; `that . . . very clear indeed.'

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them and kept them pressing on—across swamps and blasted fields and past indolent, alien streams. This enemy was labeled Aggressor, on maps brightly spattered with arrows and symbolic tanks and guns, but although there was no sign of his aggression he fled them nonetheless and they pushed the sinister chase, sending up shells and flares as they went. Five hours' pause, five hours in a tent somewhere, lent to the surrounding grove of trees a warm, homelike familiarity that was almost like permanence, and he left each command post feeling lonely and uprooted, as they pushed on after the spectral foe into the infinite strangeness of another swamp or grove. Fatigue pressed down on his shoulders like strong hands, and he awoke in the morning feeling weary, if he ever slept at all. Since their constant movement made the sunlight come from ever-shifting points of the compass, he was often never quite sure—in his steady exhaustion—whether it was morning or afternoon. The displacement and the confusion filled him with an anxiety which would not have been possible six years before, and increased his fatigue. The tent itself, in its tiny, momentary permanence, might have had all of the appeal of the Homewhich he so desperately hungered for, had it not been so cold, and had it not seemed, as he sat there suddenly shivering with fear, so much more like a coffin instead.
Then it occurred to him that he was actually terrified of the march, of the thirty-six miles: not because of the length—which was beyond comprehension—but because he

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"I've tried," Culver repeated, "but I just can't get used to sleeping on the ground any more. I'm getting old and rheumatic. Anyway, the Old Rock was in here for about two hours before you came, using up my sack time while he told the Major and O'Leary and me all about his Shanghai days."
"He's a son of a bitch." Mannix morosely cupped his chin in his hands, blinking into space, at the bare canvas wall. He was chewing on the butt of a cigar. The glare seemed to accentuate a flat Mongoloid cast in his face; he looked surly and tough and utterly exhausted. Shivering, he pulled his field jacket closer around his neck, and then, as Culver watched, his face broke out into the comical, exasperated smile which always heralded his bitterest moments of outrage —at the Marine Corps, at the system, at their helpless plight, the state of the world—tirades which, in their unqualified cynicism, would have been intolerable were they not always delivered with such gusto and humor and a kind of grisly delight. "Thirty . . . six ... miles," he said slowly, his eyes alive and glistening, "thirty . . . six . . . miles! Christ on a crutch! Do you realize how far that is? Why that's as far as it is from Grand Central to Stamford, Connecticut! Why, man, I haven't walked a hundred consecutive yards since 1945. I couldn't go thirty-six miles if I were sliding downhill the whole way on a sled. And a forced march, mind you.

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stored on Guam ever since '45. Jesus, you'd think they'd have better sense. Why, I seen those shells stacked up high as a man out there just last year, getting rained on every day and getting the jungle rot and Jesus, they put tarps over 'em but five years is one hell of a long time to let 81-shells lay around. I remember once . . ." Culver let him talk, without hearing the words, and drowsed. O'Leary was an old-timer (though only a few years older than Culver), a regular who had just signed over for four more years, and it was impossible to dislike him. On Guadalcanal he had been only a youngster, but in the intervening years the Marine Corps had molded him—perhaps by his own unconscious choice—in its image, and he had become as inextricably grafted to the system as any piece of flesh surgically laid on to arm or thigh. There was great heartiness and warmth in him but at the same time he performed all infantry jobs with a devoted, methodical competence. He could say sarcastically, "The Colonel's really got a wild hair, ain't he?" but shrug his shoulders and grin, and by that ambivalent gesture sum up an attitude which only a professional soldier could logically retain: I doubt the Colonel's judgment a little, but I will willingly do what he says. He also shared with Hobbs, the radioman, some sort of immunity. And thus it had been last night, Culver recalled, that upon the Colonel's announcement about this evening's forced march—which was to take thirteen hours and extend the nearly thirty-six miles back to the main

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there glittered a bead of saliva. "Reluctantly," the Colonel went on slowly, "reluctantly, I came to this conclusion: the Battalion's been doping off." He paused again. "Doping off. Especially," he said, turning briefly toward Mannix with a thin smile, "a certain component unit known as Headquarters and Service Company." He leaned back on the camp stool and slowly caressed the pewter-colored surface of his hair. "I decided a little walk might be in order for tomorrow night, after we secure the problem. Instead of going back to the base on the trucks. What do you think, Billy?"
"I think that's an excellent idea, sir. An excellent idea. In fact I've been meaning to suggest something like that to the Colonel for quite some time. As a means of inculcating a sort of group esprit."
"It's what they need, Billy."
"Full marching order, sir?" O'Leary put in seriously.
"No, that'd be a little rough."
"Aaa-h," O'Leary said, relieved.
Suddenly Culver heard Mannix's voice: "Even so—"
"Even so, what?" the Colonel interrupted. Again, the voice was not hostile, only anticipatory, as if it already held the answer to whatever Mannix might ask or suggest.
"Well, even so, Colonel," Mannix went on mildly, while Culver, suddenly taut and concerned, held his breath, "even without packs thirty-six miles is a long way for anybody, much less for guys who've gone soft for the past five or six years. I'll admit my company isn't the hottest outfit in the world, but most of them are reserves—"

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我打量四周，这是一间用木板搭建的房间，狭长而低矮，除了我躺的床和小童身旁的案几外，就再没有其它的东西了，不时的挂在头顶照明的灯火会左右的摇晃，隐约中耳边更传来哗哗的划桨声，难不成我是在一条船上，我暗自猜测着。
　　“小绩，你大惊小怪作什么，惊扰了病人我不打破你的头才怪！”伴着这一声轻柔娇嗔，女子轻碎的脚步声由远及近，我觅声看去，只见一个穿着淡紫色衣衫的少女正向我走过来，在她纤手上，还提着一只盛满了熬好药汁的陶罐。
　　“醒了！”她俯下身，轻抚了一下我的额头。
　　一张清秀无尘的俏脸嵌入我的脑中，在她那双尘世无染的眼睛里，我看到了自已满着戒备和疲惫的眸子，她牵动了一下嘴角，浅浅的酒窝便到了脸上，映着一旁整齐洁白的贝齿，显得更是可爱亲切。
　　“我——。”犹如惊鸿一瞥，又似灵犀突现，我在这一刹那几乎在停住呼吸。她转过头去，一点点把陶罐中的药汁倒出来，身影在摇曳灯光的映射下现出曼妙的姿态来。
　　“好了，好了，醒过来就没事了，快张嘴把这碗药喝了！”她的声音里有一种让人不可抗拒的信任。我依言张嘴，药汁是苦涩的，但我却分明感到了甘甜的滋味，而在我的记忆中，我好象从来还没有对另外一个人的话这么顺从过。

oil painting artist

在陈武的紧逼下，我慌不怿路，策马遁入神亭岭深处的山林，前面已无道路，风呼呼的从耳边掠过，不时有树枝遮挡住道路，尖利的倒刺如同一把利刃划过脸颊，扯出一道长长的血痕，这些痛楚我现在已顾及不上了，只记得不住的击打着战马的后臀，催促它加快脚步。
　　山路越来越难走，陡峭不平的卵石磨擦着马掌，使得战马不时发出痛楚的悲鸣，突然间，我跨下战马一声长嘶，随后前蹄跪倒，将我一下子从马上掀了下来，幸好有一枝大树杈横在当路，我才没有被扭断脖颈。
　　我回头细看，只见战马满身是汗，如水洗了一般，马嘴里更是不住涌出白沫，倾倒的身躯一阵阵的抽搐，在经历过数番恶战后，连马都已禁受不住了。
　　陈武见我倒撞下马，大喜道：“这一回我看你还能有什么招数？”
　　我深吸一口气，看了一下四周，然后一转身朝着旁边的山坡爬去，我知道如此坡度陡立的山坡马是上不去的，陈武要想追上我，也只能下马步行，这样的话，我们的机会又均等了。
　　“真是个冥顽不化的难缠家伙！”不得已，陈武也只能下马持刀在我身后猛追。
　　陈武越追越近，而我的双手双脚却再也使不出一点力气。

China oil paintings

我抬起头，双眼紧盯着孙策的身形，左手握紧缰绳，双腿一夹马腹，俯身做出前冲的姿态，随后，藏在胁下的短戟猛得拔出，我的右手此时已蓄满劲道，在全力一掷下，短戟顿如一支张弓离弦的利箭向孙策而去。
　　短戟划过尖锐的破空声，夹杂着强烈的劲风疾射向孙策的面门，事起突然，孙策眼前只觉得劲风扑面，寒光摇动，要想再举枪格挡已是不及，遂急中生智一个后仰侧身，戟尖快速的从他的左耳根处插过，削落几缕发丝。
　　“你不是太史慈？”借着寒光的反射，孙策已然看清我的脸庞。
　　“殄寇将军可还记得神亭岭上一无名小卒乎！”未等孙策在马上坐稳，我早就擒矟在手，奋起一矟直刺孙策胸膛，此时两马已是跑到马头相对，那孙策端是好生了得，一拧身躯，闪过长矟的急刺，遂后用臂膀夹住矟身，用力一扯，试图要把我生生从马上拉下来。
　　同时，孙策的枪也已抬起，横扫我的腰腹软胁。
　　霸王枪终于出鞘！
　　这一次它的对手是我——高宠。既然无法抵御，那我何不就以身相祭。
　　我冷笑一声，毫不理会孙策的枪招，果断的弃矟拔刀，全力一刀劈下。

mona lisa painting

然道：“将军勇贯三军，陷阵拔营从无惧色，怎是贪生怕死之徒，只是这一次，请让我去。”
　　太史慈狠狠的瞪着我，看他的那样子仿佛要把我吃了，他道：“为何？”
　　我凄然笑道：“子义将军，我且问你，将军与我相比，武艺孰高孰低？”
　　太史慈道：“这还用说。”
　　我又道：“那将军与孙策相比，又是如何？”
　　太史慈傲然道：“昨日岭上一战少冲看得真切，何故还有此一问？”
　　我虎目蓄泪，言词切切道：“你我身陷重围，此一去乃是赴死之战，为的是引开敌人的注意，从而让余下的弟兄有机会突围出去，今将军若去赴死，我又身负重创，试问何人能带着这帮兄弟杀将出去，而若让我去，以将军之能，杀出阵去不是没有机会。”
　　太史慈默然无语，仗打得这个份上，确实如我所说，要想全身而退是不可能了，唯一可做的就是以局部牺牲来换取整体突围了。
　　我手指着身后追随的三骑，惨然道：“宠出身卑微，至今日亦不过一什长耳！我们这些个卑微的生命，在那些达官显要眼中，不过是如草荠一般，想扔就扔，想弃就弃。而在我眼中，任何一个人的生命都

picture of the last supper

说罢，拍马便要出阵，我大惊，撕杀了近三个时辰，太史慈竟还有这般博杀的勇气，实非我所能及。只是如今孙策以逸待劳，我恐太史慈力有不敌，便拦道：“子义将军，今敌众我寡，非持勇之时，宜速避之，何能久战。”
　　太史慈见我回马与他并肩而战，敢情也是一个重情重义的热血男儿，心中也存下了敬重，这时听我言之在理，凛然道：“幸得少冲提醒，差一点中了孙策小儿激将之计。”
　　孙策那边周瑜、程普等人知太史慈之勇，这时见胜券在手，恐横生枝节，万一孙策与太史慈交战有失，又当如何是好，忙在一旁劝得孙策息了火气。
　　得了这片刻的喘息，我加紧时间调息了一下胸中翻涌不定的气血，方才一阵被程普震伤的内脏隐隐作痛，现在总算是稍稍恢复了些力气。待看周围，见孙策大军已四下相围，要突出重围实难上加难。
　　天近黄昏，只要再挨过一段时间，等天色完全黑下来，也许能够乘乱杀将出去，我暗忖道。
　　只是不知道孙策给不给我们这个机会。
　　时间在一点点的流逝。
　　孙策没有动。
　　我们则不能动。
　　北风吹动孙策军的旗帜，猎猎作响。我瞧着敌方“孙”字的帅旗，灵机一动，道：“子义将军，可曾听说摧其坚、夺其魁，可解其体之理。”

Gustav Klimt Painting

上海沪东中华造船（集团）公司昨天交付了中国第一艘自主设计建造的液化天然气运输船"大鹏昊"号，公司管理层、技术专家都毫不掩饰自己的喜悦，认为中国造船厂已掌握世界尖端造船技术，缩短了与日本、韩国的差距。
　　目的

　　确保实现中国能源规划
　　在国际油价不断飙升和环保压力不断加大的今天，天然气作为一种高效清洁的能源日益受到世界各国青睐。
　　根据中国的能源战略，未来我国将积极参与世界油气市场的开发和资源分享，从国外进口天然气是缓解我国能源紧缺状态的重要途径。
　　据中国石油化工股份有限公司公布的资料，２００６年６月，中国第一个液化天然气项目在深圳投产，中国由此开启了进口液化天然气的历史进程；２００６年中国共进口液化天然气约６８万吨。
　　随着规划中的液化天然气项目相继投产，到２０１０年，我国每年将进口约１０００万吨液化天然气。除了已经投产的广东液化天然气项目，福建、上海等正在建设的液化天然气项目也将相继投产。

Famous painting

新华网快讯：在北京大学建校110周年之际，中共中央总书记、国家主席、中央军委主席胡锦涛3日到北京大学考察，向全体师生员工和海内外校友表示热烈的祝贺和诚挚的问候。
　　CCTV今晚《新闻联播》节目用了大约16分钟报导胡主席在北大建校110周年时视察北大，共有两段胡主席的同期声，第二段同期声就是胡主席在看望北大的留学生时发表的一个讲话！

　　很可惜，这段精彩的讲话网上没有文字报道，我看了胡主席的讲话，感到非常振奋！
　　我们的主席绝对是大智慧！他用平易近人的口气谆谆教导说："留学生是传递友好与和平的使者，是。。。。。。"
　　我的记忆力不强，但总书记用了很大篇幅对北大留学生的讲话，明确阐述了我们国家对留学生工作的重视与支持！
　　我想，总书记的讲话不仅仅是讲给在场的耶鲁大学留学生听的，也不仅仅是讲给中国人民听的，更是利用这个机会讲给南朝鲜的"总桶"听的！是让李明博之辈明白我们中国政府是如何对待本国留学生的！
　　我想，我们的主席、我们的政府这一招很高明！也很智慧

China oil paintings

马其诺防线可不是什么废物防线，工事南起地中海沿岸、北至北海之滨的法比边境，漫长的防线完成了建造时所期望它的价值，因为从始至终都没有一名德国士兵在正面逾越过它，比起法国的马其诺防线，日本人建造的“东方马其诺防线”伪满国境要塞群那才叫一个不值一提，从1919年关东军占据东北以来就开始修筑所谓的“东方马其诺”伪满国境要塞群，惨淡经营了20余年。。。可是苏军用了不到十天就挺进东北腹地400-800公里，从东面挺进200-300公里，从北面挺进200-300公里。。。，所以我认为伪满国境要塞群才是二战中最废物的工程。马其诺防线的目的是保卫整个法国，出于这个目的，法国才投入巨量的人力、物力修建马其诺防线，并且挤占了很多原本用于更新装备，研制武器的资源。从马其诺防线的任务和它的实际效果比较，马其诺防线确实是条废物，因为它没有做到它应该做到的事情。说到荷兰和比利时，搞笑的是在修建马其诺防线时他们都宣布中立，结果导致马其诺防线实际是条半截子工程。

mona lisa painting

第一次世界大战后，法国军方开始研究如何防御德国和意大利入侵。1930年，上台伊始的法国国防部长马其诺，将由其前任综合了法国福煦、贝当和晓夫勒三位元帅争论多年的防御计划交由议会讨论，获得90%以上的多数通过，并在此后的十年中在法德和法意边境建造了一系列防御工事，这就是举世闻名的“马其诺防线”。
这个登峰造极的防御工事并没能在二战中挡住德国法西斯装甲化、摩托化的部队。1940年5月，德军攀越阿登山区，经比利时绕过马其诺防线，很快占领了法国全境。被神话般信奉的马其诺防线最终成了无用的摆设和对战败者的讽刺，并在日后成为法国著名的旅游景点。

告别诺曼底，我们的采访路线沿法比和法德边境一路东折，从比利时的巴斯托涅，经法国色当，抵德国境内的特里尔。在这条绵延数百公里的路线上，无需你特意寻找，当年马其诺防线残存下来的各种遗迹就会每隔不长时间闯入你的视线一次。就是这条曾让法国人感到无比骄傲和高枕无忧的马其诺防线，却并没有像事先预料的那样成为德军无法越过的屏障，在希特勒的闪电战和坦克集群的突袭下，它只是成为了一堆被德军抛在身后的废物

picture of the last supper

十二月初二, 一队缅甸士兵突然来到永历住地，口称：“中国有 兵来近城，我国发兵由此抵敌，宜速移去。”说完，七手八脚把朱由榔连同座椅抬起就走，另外备轿供太后、皇后乘用，太子朱慈烺和其他随从一并起行。在缅兵押 送下陆行五里即抵河岸，戌时渡河，只听见对岸兵马往来，人声嘈杂，也不知道是谁家兵马。清军先锋噶喇昂邦担心永历帝室得知实情可能在渡河时投水自尽，事先 安排了不久前降清的铁骑前营武功伯王会到河边等候，永历座船抵岸时，他即上前拜见，自称奉晋王李定国之命特来迎驾。朱由榔还蒙在鼓里，对王会慰劳有加。直 到王会把永历一行人送入清军营中，朱由榔才发觉上当，愤慨不已，斥责王会的叛卖行径。王会内心有愧，无言而退。
　　 十二月初三,吴三桂往见永历帝,史料记载: 三桂送王及宫眷于公所。王南面坐，达旦。三桂标下旧官相继入见，或拜，或叩首而返。少顷，三桂进见，初甚倔傲，见王长揖。王问为谁？三桂噤不敢对。再问 之。遂伏地不能起。及问之数至，始称名应。王切责曰：‘汝非汉人乎？汝非大明臣子乎，何甘为汉奸叛国负君若此？汝自问汝之良心安在？’三桂缄口伏地若死 人。王卒曰：‘今亦已矣，我本北京人，欲还见十二陵而死，尔能任之乎？’对曰：‘某能任之。’王令之去，三桂伏不能起，左右扶之出，则色如死灰，汗浃背， 自后不复敢见。”我觉得这些记载有些

fine art oil painting

新的银元正式定名为东北银元，重量30克，银9铜1含银24克含银量达90％，已经开始加班赶制中，目前已生产5000万枚，年前完成1.2亿枚东北银元的制作。届时废止一切其他或披在市面上流通。”
　　听了最后一句话，赵刚有些皱眉：“那百姓手里持的白银黄金怎么办？还有外国的银元流进来的不在少数，有没有办法解决？会不会影响我国境内的贸易？”
　　“目前，外洋在清朝国内大约流行2亿元左右，成色不一，流行一千万枚者六种，被列为可以交易外币，在交易过程中按照实际含银量折价。其他的银元制造粗糙，含银量不均一概不予承认。金银因为成色不均，所以已经开办金银市场，由市场决定价值，银行不介入其中。”
　　“而且，我们已经在山西秘密的试发了1000万枚银元，全部是按一两价值发售，结果反响良好，目前已经升水到一两白银了。”
　　赵刚对这个不太懂，但是升还是知道的，就问道：
　　“是不是我们赚了？”
　　“是的，我们的银元含银量不过八钱五却换了一两白银，这里面去了制造运输费用，还剩了半钱的银子，当然赚了。”
　　“那么我们就制造银元，不断地换银子过来，然后再造，几年之后我们不就发了吗？”
　　“是这样的，但是我们离南方路途遥远，银元的影响力可能小了点。”

abstract art painting

学习袁世凯，趁势取而代之？”这条路也不好，袁世凯的下场赵刚十分清楚，弄到最后就是众叛亲离的下场，这也不是自己想要的。
　　到最后，赵刚想的头疼也没想出一个好办法来，只好自我安慰道：“车到山前必有路，老天爷饿不死瞎家雀。反正最大的敌人日本倒下了，自己还有大把的时间等待。先把自己的基础打好，以待风云之变。”
　　第二天一早，黑牛就赶到赵刚府上汇报，与往日不同的是，黑牛还带了两个人过来。
　　黑牛对赵刚说到：“赵巡检，这是侦缉营负责日俄分布的刘家海“
　　黑牛顿了顿，身后左侧的高个子上前一步，向赵刚行了一礼，退回到黑牛身后。
　　“李永富“
　　右侧的大高个上前一步，向赵刚行了一礼，退回到黑牛身后。
　　“今天日本和俄国都发生了极重大的事件，我想让他们两个说说。“
　　“嗯，说吧。“
　　“小的叫刘家海，负责俄国分部的。十五天之前，俄国佬皇帝死了，新皇帝即位，叫亚烈山大二世，上台后就派了三万哥萨克到我们这里来。七天前，俄国人看朝鲜瘟疫消了，就在黑河子一带调了六万多军队。但是经过我们调查，发现黑河子的六万多人竟然都是流民组成的，战斗力极弱。真正的主力已经不知去向，但是在边境进行拉网式搜查后发现，在我国边境外一百公里处，没有发现大规模集结的正规军队。而令人意外的是，海参崴的粮食，衣物价格飞涨。已派十六名侦察员前去侦察，但是十三人死亡，三人失踪。侦察毫无结果，只能先期判断俄军已经集结在海参崴一带，目标很可能是日本。“

无框画油画直销网

对李伦来说，2003年的4月是个纷乱繁忙的季节，忙着揽人，找办公室，筹备开播，几个从《百姓故事》出来的老编导和一帮实习生成为这块地的首批长工，何萍也在此时得以进入这个新栏目工作。
《社会记录》这个名字其实也是偶然。李伦回忆，开始想过一系列名字， “新记录”、“镜面”，甚至“世说新语”、“世语新说”等等，李伦希望借这些现在看来也还相当另类的名字，表达一种有别于央视常规语境的视角：最后，时任新闻评论部主任的梁建增定下了“《社会记录》”这名字，梁同时给李伦找来的主持人邱孟煌定了一个后来迅速窜红的名字：阿丘。
如同栏目的名称一样，《社会记录》的LOGO，也有过诸多选择。开始试图用一个迷宫图案，最后确定下来的LOGO，是一块“拼图”，每天晚上准时出现在央视新闻频道屏幕上阿丘背后的淡蓝色布景上。但李至今觉得这个使用了好几年的“拼图”LOGO，还是未能准确传达出这档节目蕴含的意味。
他最满意的，是片头曲音乐，这首曲子至今保存在李的手机里。这首猛一听有点像天气预报音乐的曲子，创作者是演员周迅的音乐制作人曾雨。李记得曾向对方如此描述他想要的音乐标准：要现代、清新，又不要像《新闻联播》那样情绪太强；要有行进感，又不要像《焦点访谈》那样强势……

Mary Cassatt painting

1月14日这一天，何的一位同事在博客里留下一篇题为“天使折翼”的帖子，说想哭，哭不出来；另一位女编导则留下一首诗：空气漫过了，没有气息，时间经过时，突然停了，这群人很悲伤。一位还没来得及签约的编导则在博客里写道：我家的《士兵突击》很照顾我的感情，一到14集就卡壳……
《士兵突击》第14集是钢七连解散。从2007年下半年开始，《社会记录》制片人李伦就强烈推荐大家看这部电视剧。彼时央视刚开始大张旗鼓地清理黑工，相当一批数量的未签约员工被迫以各种方式离开了节目组。大家判断李的用意，是让团队学习这个片子主流价值观创新表达的同时，进一步凝聚工作之上的价值观共识。
三个月后，《社会记录》被宣布撤销。事后回想起来，何萍感叹一语成谶。虽然新闻频道改版的风声早有耳闻，但每一个《社会记录》的人都没能想到，这个开播近五年的栏目，恰和钢七连的结局一样。