Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                          • “There’s rest beneath the yew; I know

                                                                                                                                                  • "That's what people say in books," she said doubtfully. "The trouble is there aren't any men to love at Beau Desert." She said shyly, "You're the first Englishman I've ever talked to. I liked you from the beginning. I don't mind telling you these things at all. I suppose there are plenty of other people I should like if I could get away."
                                                                                                                                                    Now I realized why he had lain like that, with his right hand doubled under the pillow. I guessed that he always slept like that. I thought his must be rather like a fireman's life, always waiting for a call. I thought how extraordinary it must be to have danger as your business.
                                                                                                                                                    'What is a box?'
                                                                                                                                                    ‘I have so much to be grateful for, I wish that I were of a more thankful spirit. It seems as if this year had aged me. When I saw a bright creature like ——, I mentally contrasted her with myself, and thought,—“She has not the gee out of her. Cheerfully and hopefully she enters on her untried sphere of work. In her place I should be taking cares!”—very wrong of me. I often take myself to task.
                                                                                                                                                    On the surface, his life could hardly be calmer. Peter Maas gets up every morning to have breakfast with his 12-year-old son, then heads for his midtown office, where he spends about five hours at the typewriter. He rarely goes out in the evening, and his idea of fun is a weekend of fishing, a set of tennis or a game of backgammon. "I don't have to live in New York," he says. "When I'm working on a book, I might as well be living in the wilds of Maine."


                                                                                                                                                    'Perhaps it's his sorrow,' said Peggotty, stroking my hair.
                                                                                                                                                    INTRODUCTORY NOTE
                                                                                                                                                    'Perhaps it's a good thing, Traddles,' said I, 'to have an unsound Hobby ridden hard; for it's the sooner ridden to death.'
                                                                                                                                                    I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again. She says I waltz so well! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long, with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections; but I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished flower.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'Is it a large school, aunt?' I asked.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Bond walked into the small living-room and closed the door behind him.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Often the poob was simply the ancient village church or temple. In cities it might be the cathedral or the city hall or some other historic building. Meetings of essentially the same type as the village meetings, but more ritualistic, took place in all the cities and in each national metropolis. Specially important meetings occurred in the four great cultural world-centres, Peking, Benares, Moscow, and San Francisco. But most exalted of all were the annual commemorations in sacred Lhasa.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • “Lady Julia L. is vastly lovely! Is she not?” he proceeded, after they had secured their ground. The lady was wondering how Captain Montgomery, or any body else, could have been[124] preferred to Lord Fitz-Ullin, he was so handsome; and only answered, “Yes, very pretty indeed: and what a beautiful dress she has on!”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Chapter 8 Precarious Advance

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • "Just going to have another look. I've rather taken to that tall blonde with the cello," Bond said to Sender. "Didn't notice her," said Sender, uninterested. He went into the kitchen. Tea, guessed Bond. Or perhaps Horlick's. Bond donned his cowl, went back to his firing position, and depressed the sniperscope to the doorway of the Haus der Ministerien. Yes, there they went, not so gay and laughing now. Tired perhaps. And now here she came, less lively, but still with that beautiful careless stride. Bond watched the blown golden hair and the fawn raincoat until it had vanished into the indigo dusk up the Wilhelmstrasse. Where did she live? In some miserable flaked room in the suburbs? Or in one of the privileged apartments in the hideous lavatory-tiled Stalinallee?