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The next morning she brought him a bowl of soup, which was his usual food these days. She told him she had read forty pages of his typescript. She told him she didn't think it was as good as his others. 'It's hard to follow,' she complained. 'It keeps jumping from one time to another.' 'Yes,' said Paul. 'That's because the boy is confused. So the changes in time reflect the confusion in his mind.' He thought she might be interested in a writer's ways. 'He's confused, all right,' replied Annie. She was feeding him soup automatically and wiping the corner of his mouth with the tip of a cloth, like a true professional; he realized that she must once have been a nurse. 'And he swears all the time. Nearly every word is a swear-word.' 8 'That's true to life, Annie, don't you think?' Paul asked. 'People do talk that way in real life.' 'No, they don't,' she said, giving him a hard look. 'What do you think I do when I go shopping in town? Do you think 1 say, "Now, give me some of that swear-word bread, and that swear-word butter"? And does the shopkeeper say, "All right, Annie. Here you swear-word are"?' Her face was as dark as a thunderstorm now, and she was shouting. It wasn't at all amusing that she couldn't bring herself to say the real words; this made the situation all the more threatening. Paul lay back, frightened. The soup bowl was at an angle in her hands and soup was starting to spill out. 'And then do I go to the bank and say, "Here's one big swear-word cheque and you'd better give me fifty swear-word dollars"? Do you think that when I was in court in Denver-' A stream of soup fell on to the blanket. She looked at it, then at him, and her face twisted. 'Now look what you've made me do!' 'I'm sorry.' 'I'm sure you are!' she screamed, and she threw the bowl into the corner. It broke into tiny pieces and soup splashed up the wall. Paul gasped in shock. She turned off then. She just sat there for maybe thirty seconds. During that time Paul's heart seemed to stop. Gradually she came back. 'I have such a temper,' she confessed like a little girl. 'I'm sorry,' he said out of a dry throat. 'You should be. I think I'll finish Misery's Child and then return to the other book afterwards.' 'Don't do that if it makes you angry,' he said. 'I don't like it when you get angry. I . . . I do need you, you know.' She did not return his smile. 'Yes, you do. You do, don't you, Paul?' She came back into the room two hours later. 'I suppose you want your stupid medicine now,' she said. 9 'Yes,' said Paul, and then remembered. 'Yes, phase.' 'Well, you're going to have to wait for me to clean up this mess,' she said. 'The mess you made.' She took a bucket of water and a cloth over to the comer and started to clean up the soup. 'You dirty bird,' she said. 'It's all dried now. This is going to take some time, I'm afraid, Paul.' Paul didn't dare to say anything, although she was already late with his medicine and the pain was terrible. He watched in horror and fascination while she cleaned the wall. She did it slowly, deliberately. Paul watched the stain disappear. He couldn't see her face, but he was afraid that she had gone blank and would stay there for ever, wiping the wall with the cloth. At last, after half an hour of growing pain, she finished. She got up. Now, thought Paul. Now give me the medicine. But to his amazement she left the room. He heard her pouring the water away and then refilling the bucket. She came back with the bucket and cloth. 'Now I must wash all that soap off the wall.' she said. 'I must do everything right. My mother taught me that.' 'No, please . . . the pain. I'm dying.' 'Don't be silly. You're not dying. It just hurts. In any case it's your fault that I have to clean up this mess.' 'I'll scream.' he said, starting to cry. Crying hurt his legs and hurt his heart. 'Go ahead, then,' she replied. 'Scream. No one will hear.' He didn't scream. He watched her endlessly lift the cloth, wipe the wall and squeeze the cloth into the bucket. At last she got up again and came over to his bed. 'Here you arc,' she said tenderly, holding out his two tablets. He took them quickly into his mouth, and when he looked up he saw her lifting the yellow plastic bucket towards him. 'Use this to swallow them,' she said. Her voice was still tender. He stared at her. 'I know you can swallow them without water,' she said, 'but 10 if you do that I will make you bring them straight back out. Please believe me when I say that I can make you do that.' He looked inside the bucket and saw the cloth in the grey water and soap floating on the surface. He drank quickly. His stomach started to move as if he was going to be sick. 'Don't be sick, Paul.' she laid. 'There'll be no more tablets fot four hours.' She looked at him for a moment with her flat. empty face, and then smiled. 'You won't make me angry again, will you?' 'No,' he whispered. 'I love you,' she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Paul drifted into sleep. His last conscious thoughts were: Why was she in court in Denver? And why would she want to take me prisoner?
While his comrades translated Virgil and Demosthenes, he had begun to write a Treatise upon the Will, a symbolic work which contained the germs of his entire destiny. His fellow students, rendered curious by his sustained application, continuing month after month, tried in vain to steal glimpses over his shoulder, but Honore de Balzac would permit no profane eye to fall upon his manuscript. He eluded their persistence and entrusted the precious pages to a box which he could secure under lock and key. A conspiracy was formed. They wanted to know what he had been writing all this time with such serious intent that nothing could take his attention from it. During a recreation period Honore was copying, as usual, some extra lines as a punishment. A turbulent troupe invaded the classroom and flung themselves upon the box which concealed the manuscript. They wanted to know and they were going to know! Honore defended the box energetically, for it was his heart and brain which they wanted to know, it was all his knowledge and beautiful dreams that they wished to lay bare to the light of day. There followed a veritable battle around that little wooden casket. Attracted by the outcries of the assailants, one of the masters, Father Haugoult, arrived in the midst of the tumult. Balzac’s crime was proclaimed, he was hiding papers in his box and refused to show them. The master straightway ordered this bad pupil to surrender these secret and forbidden writings. Honore could not do otherwise than obey, for the box would be broken open if he did not unlock it of his own accord; so, with trembling hands, he despoiled himself of his treasures.
She stopped short, and there was a gasp of interest and commiseration among the listeners. Peggy caught it; she glanced sharply at the vicar’s face, saw its sternness replaced by a momentary softness, and was quick to make the most of her opportunity. Out flew the dramatic little hand, her eyes flashed, her voice thrilled with suppressed excitement.
Save certainly whan that the month of Maie
Chapter 19 Bad Money
“I am not sure what Lady Chavasse would wish me to do,” she ventured to say, believing it might be looked upon as next door to a crime to be seen idle, in a place where she was to receive thirty guineas a-year. “There appears to be no work here.”
"I say," said Jimmy, as they moved away, "who is that fellow Wesson?"
2.As she moved along the corridor, she caught sight of a figure in the darkness, by the window at the head of the stair, outlined against the sky, and at once recognised M. de Soubirane. He was waiting for his servant to bring him a candle, and, as Armance stood motionless gazing at the face of the Commander whom she had just recognised, the light of the candle, which was now being carried upstairs, appeared upon the ceiling of the corridor.>
Up and down the river and from village to village, from town to town, across rivers, penetrating dimly to the quiet deeps of the forest the story was flung. N'gori, the Chief of the Akasava, having some grievance against the Government over a question of fine for failure to collect according to the law, waited for no more than this intelligence of Sandi's going. His swift loud drums called his people to a dance-of-many-days. A dance-of-many-days spells "spears" and spears spell trouble. Bosambo heard the message in the still of the early night, gathered five hundred fighting men, swept down on the Akasava city in the drunken dawn, and carried away two thousand spears of the sodden N'gori.
The text of this biography and the words of each valued volume in the little "library" were absorbed into the memory of the reader. It was his practice when going into the field for work, to take with him written-out paragraphs from the book that he had at the moment in mind and to repeat these paragraphs between the various chores or between the wood-chopping until every page was committed by heart. Paper was scarce and dear and for the boy unattainable. He used for his copying bits of board shaved smooth with his jack-knife. This material had the advantage that when the task of one day had been mastered, a little labour with the jack-knife prepared the surface of the board for the work of the next day. As I read this incident in Lincoln's boyhood, I was reminded of an experience of my own in Louisiana. It happened frequently during the campaign of 1863 that our supplies were cut off through the capture of our waggon trains by that active Confederate commander, General Taylor. More than once, we were short of provisions, and, in one instance, a supply of stationery for which the adjutants of the brigade had been waiting, was carried off to serve the needs of our opponents. We tore down a convenient and unnecessary shed and utilised from the roof the shingles, the clean portions of which made an admirable substitute for paper. For some days, the morning reports of the brigade were filed on shingles.
The club of Universal Fraternity, in Paris, having placed him upon its list of candidates for the legislative elections, he sent to its president the following public letter, proud and somewhat disillusioned, in reply to the question of a member, who wished to know his political opinions: