Leiter, groaned, more in anger with himself than from the pain. "There was blood all over the place." The voice was a halting whisper between clenched teeth. "His shirt was soaked in it. Eyes closed. Thought if he wasn't cold he'd go with the others on the bridge." He smiled faintly. "How did you dig the River Kwai stunt? Go off all right?"
'Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless about it!'
I came home across America from San Francisco to New York, visiting Utah and Brigham Young on the way. I did not achieve great intimacy with the great polygamist of the Salt Lake City. I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologising for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. “I guess you’re a miner,” said he. I again assured him that I was not. “Then how do you earn your bread?” I told him I did so by writing books. “I’m sure you’re a miner,” said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name.
"When I was on my book promotion tour, people would ask, 'How does it feel to be a politician?' as if it was a dirty word. I have always been proud of being a politician, and I've never felt otherwise. But I found that all of us involved in politics were painted with the same brush."
SMERSH, a contraction of Smiert Spionam-Death to Spies-exists and remains today the most secret department of the Soviet government. At the beginning of 1956, when this book was written, the strength of SMERSH at home and abroad was about 40,000 and General Grubozaboyschikov was its chief. My description of his appearance is correct.
Bond followed his route of the afternoon. When he had turned off the main road he drove on his sidelights. He nosed the car off the lane into a clearing in the woods and switched off the engine. He sat and listened. In the heavy silence there was only a soft ticking from the hot metal under the bonnet and the hasty trip of the dashboard clock. Bond got out, eased the door shut and walked softly down the little path through the trees.
He walked to the door. "So long, Lil," he said, "regards to 008 and tell him to be careful of you. I'll be in France. Station F will have the address. But only in an emergency."
the Woodwards, and now and again putting over a fast fix like Shy Smile. They aim to net fifty Grand on that job, and that's better than knocking off a bookie for a few C's. Sure, some of the names have changed around Saratoga. So's the mud in the mud baths there." A big road sign loomed up on the right. It said :
"So do the customs men," she said dryly. She sat silent for a moment, reflecting. Then she pulled a piece of paper and a pencil towards her. "What sort of golf balls do you use?" she asked unsmilingly.
There was a hum of excitement and a fluttering of catalogs. Mr. Snowman wiped his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. He turned to Bond. "Now I'm afraid you are more or less on your own. I've got to pay attention to the bidding and anyway for some unknown reason it's considered bad form to look over one's shoulder to see who's bidding against you-if you're in the trade that's to say-so I'll only be able to spot him if he's somewhere up front here, and I'm afraid that's unlikely. Pretty well all dealers, but you can stare around as much as you like. What you've got to do is to watch Peter Wilson's eyes and then try and see who he's looking at, or who's looking at him. If you can spot the man, which may be quite difficult, note any movement he makes, even the very smallest. Whatever the man does-scratching his head, pulling at the lobe of his ear or whatever, will be a code he's arranged with Peter Wilson. I'm afraid he won't do anything obvious like raising his catalog. Do you get me? And don't forget that he may make absolutely no movement at all until right at the end when he's pushed me as far as he thinks I'll go, then he'll want to sign off. Mark you," Mr. Snowman smiled, "when we get to the last lap I'll put plenty of heat on him and try and make him show his hand. That's assuming of course that we are the only two bidders left in." He looked enigmatic. "And I think you can take it that we shall be."
There is little or nothing in her letters of that date bearing on this subject; but the above seems to have been her manner of regarding it. While feeling the need to draw for herself some line of demarcation between things expedient and things inexpedient, she does not appear to have fallen into the error, so common amongst really earnest and excellent people, of counting that the line which she rightly drew for herself must of necessity be the only right line for everybody else. Such a view leads to many a harsh and un-Christian judgment. What is dangerous for one may not be perilous for another, who is differently constituted. What is needless for one may be an absolute duty for another, who is in quite a different position. Probably Charlotte saw this. It is worth remarking that, while she kept aloof from many entertainments out of the house, she never, either then or in later years, refused to join in home-parties, or failed to do her utmost to entertain the guests. There was nothing morbid or repellent about the development of her sense of duty.
'For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed,' sobbed my mother.
Oddjob got to his feet. So did the whole of Goldfinger's team. The faces of the Koreans were indifferent, unchanged, only their eyes flickered constantly like nervous animals. The
That pull well together, when yoked twain and twain.
I wish I could give some adequate picture of the gloom of that farmhouse. My elder brother — Tom as I must call him in my narrative, though the world, I think, knows him best as Adolphus — was at Oxford. My father and I lived together, he having no means of living except what came from the farm. My memory tells me that he was always in debt to his landlord and to the tradesmen he employed. Of self-indulgence no one could accuse him. Our table was poorer, I think, than that of the bailiff who still hung on to our shattered fortunes. The furniture was mean and scanty. There was a large rambling kitchen-garden, but no gardener; and many times verbal incentives were made to me — generally, I fear, in vain — to get me to lend a hand at digging and planting. Into the hayfields on holidays I was often compelled to go — not, I fear, with much profit. My father’s health was very bad. During the last ten years of his life, he spent nearly the half of his time in bed, suffering agony from sick headaches. But he was never idle unless when suffering. He had at this time commenced a work — an Encyclopedia Ecclesiastica, as he called it — on which he laboured to the moment of his death. It was his ambition to describe all ecclesiastical terms, including the denominations of every fraternity of monks and every convent of nuns, with all their orders and subdivisions. Under crushing disadvantages, with few or no books of reference, with immediate access to no library, he worked at his most ungrateful task with unflagging industry. When he died, three numbers out of eight had been published by subscription; and are now, I fear, unknown, and buried in the midst of that huge pile of futile literature, the building up of which has broken so many hearts.