Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                              鈥業 am quite glad that my furniture is so simple. Had I had plenty of gimcracks, I might have been a fidgety old maid. As it is, there is no harm in having a nursery instead of a drawing-room. But I have a nice little drawing-room of my own; a screened-off bit of my fine large sleeping-room. I used it for my classes when sweet Margaret was here; for I think that a married couple should not be always having interruptions. This arrangement does nicely in the cool weather; and in the hot weather dear Nellie and her babes will be in the Hills. It will be the old arrangement of Auntie and one choice nephew,鈥攆or Herbert is choice, and kind to my Leila鈥檚 attached godmother.鈥橖br> 'Very interesting. Unfortunately our talk was too short and we discussed only my own subject. I was longing to ask him about his research work. I hope he didn't think me very rude.'

                                                                                                                        'Thanks.' The room emptied. Bond took the fragile little parcel out of his pocket. It contained a dry-cell battery wired to a small vacuum tube. He ran his eye over the wiring and put the apparatus back in his coat pocket and waited.
                                                                                                                        'Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve you of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and thoughtless' my mother blushed but laughed, and seemed not to dislike this character - 'to have any duties imposed upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you'll be so good as give me your keys, my dear, I'll attend to all this sort of thing in future.'
                                                                                                                        'Then, why don't you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?' said my mother.
                                                                                                                        It was dark when Bond awoke in the soft cradle of her lap. At once, as if she had been waiting for the moment, Tatiana took his face between her hands and looked down into his eyes and said urgently, `Duschka, how long shall we have this for?'
                                                                                                                        It must, I think, be painful to all men to feel inferiority. It should, I think, be a matter of some pain to all men to feel superiority, unless when it has been won by their own efforts. We do not understand the operations of Almighty wisdom, and are, therefore, unable to tell the causes of the terrible inequalities that we see — why some, why so many, should have so little to make life enjoyable, so much to make it painful, while a few others, not through their own merit, have had gifts poured out to them from a full hand. We acknowledge the hand of God and His wisdom, but still we are struck with awe and horror at the misery of many of our brethren. We who have been born to the superior condition — for, in this matter, I consider myself to be standing on a platform with dukes and princes, and all others to whom plenty and education and liberty have been given — cannot, I think, look upon the inane, unintellectual, and tossed-bound life of those who cannot even feed themselves sufficiently by their sweat, without some feeling of injustice, some feeling of pain.


                                                                                                                        “The Vicar of Bullhampton”—“Sir Harry Hotspur”—“An Editor’s Tales”—“Caesar”
                                                                                                                        M. slowly swivelled his chair round. He looked up at the tired, worried face that showed the strain of being the equivalent of Number Two in the Secret Service for ten years and more. M. smiled. "Thank you, Chief of Staff. But I'm afraid it's not as easy as all that. I sent 007 out on his last job to shake him out of his domestic worries. You remember how it all came about. Well, we had no idea that what seemed a fairly peaceful mission was going to end up in a pitched battle with Blofeld. Or that 007 was going to vanish off the face of the earth for a year. Now we've got to know what happened during that year. And 007's quite right. I sent him out on that mission, and he's got every right to report back to me personally. I know 007. He's a stubborn fellow. If he says he won't tell anyone else, he won't. Of course I want to hear what happened to him. You'll listen in. Have a couple of good men at hand. If he turns rough, come and get him. As for his gun"-M. gestured vaguely at the ceiling-"I can look after that. Have you tested the damned thing?"

                                                                                                                        In fact, there’s no evidence that running shoes are any help at all in injury prevention. In a 2008research paper for the British Journal of Sports Medicine, Dr. Craig Richards, a researcher at theUniversity of Newcastle in Australia, revealed that there are no evidence-based studies—not one—that demonstrate that running shoes make you less prone to injury.
                                                                                                                        'Well, that's what happened. You asked.'

                                                                                                                                                                                  Major Smythe shrugged. "Well then, it must have been my gun. But"-he put rather angry impatience into his voice-"what, if I may ask, is all this in aid of?"

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            With a slight shrug of the shoulders, she opened the door and Bond walked out into the corridor.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Bond's muscles relaxed. He shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I get out of line? I'm looking for a job. And you can tell your outfit that I'm not particular so long as the pay's good."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Bond laid down the receiver and slowly started to put on his clothes. . . Kerim had been firm about the evening. Bond had wanted to stay in his hotel room and wait for the first contact to be made-a note, a telephone call, whatever it might be. But Kerim had said no. The girl had been adamant that she would choose her own time and place. It would be wrong for Bond to seem a slave to her convenience. `That is bad psychology, my friend,' Kerim had insisted. `No girl likes a man to run when she whistles. She would despise you if you made yourself too available. From your face and your dossier she would expect you to behave with indifference-even with insolence. She would want that. She wishes to court you, to buy a kiss,'-Kerim had winked-`from that cruel mouth. It is with an image she has fallen in love. Behave like the image. Act the part.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Almost at once they were over the Rhine and Basle lay ahead under a thick canopy of chimney-smoke. They reached two thousand feet and the pilot held it, skirting the town to the north. Now there came a crackle of static over Bond's ear-phones and Swiss Air Control, in thick Schwyzerdьtch, asked them politely to identify themselves. The pilot made no reply and the question was repeated with more urgency. The pilot said in French, 'I don't understand you.' There was a pause, then a French voice again queried them. The pilot said, 'Repeat yourself more clearly.' The voice did so. The pilot said, 'Helicopter of the Red Cross flying blood plasma to Italy.' The radio went dead. Bond could imagine the scene in the control room somewhere down below - the arguing voices, the doubtful faces. Another voice, with more authority to it, spoke in French. 'What is your destination?' 'Wait,' said the pilot. 'I have it here. A moment please.' After minutes he said, 'Swiss Air. Control?' 'Yes, yes.' 'FL-BGS reporting. My destination is Ospedale Santa Monica at Bellinzona.' The radio again went dead, only to come to life five minutes later. 'FL-BGS, FL-BGS.' 'Yes,' said the pilot. 'We have no record of your identification symbol. Please explain.' 'Your registration manual must be out of date. The aircraft was commissioned only one month ago.' Another long pause. Now Zurich lay ahead and the silver boomerang of the Zьrichersee. Now Zurich Airport came on the air. They must have been listening to Swiss Air Control. 'FL-BGS, FL-BGS.' 'Yes, yes. What is it now?' 'You have infringed the Civil Airlines Channel. Land and report to Flying Control. I repeat. Land and report.' The pilot became indignant. 'What do you mean "land and report"? Have you no comprehension of human suffering? This is a mercy flight carrying blood plasma of a rare category. It is to save the life of an illustrious Italian scientist at Bellinzona. Have you no hearts down there? You tell me to "land and report" when a life is at stake? Do you wish to be responsible for murder?' This Gallic outburst gave them peace until they had passed the Zurichersee. Bond chuckled. He gave a thumbs-up sign to the pilot. But then Federal Air Control at Berne came on the air and a deep, resonant voice said,' FL-BGS, FL-BGS. Who gave you clearance? I repeat. Who gave you clearance for your flight?' 'You did." Bond smiled into his mouthpiece. The Big Lie! There was nothing like it. Now the Alps were ahead of them - those blasted Alps, looking beautiful and dangerous in the evening sun. Soon they would be in the shelter of the valleys, off the radar screens. But records had been hastily checked in Berne and the sombre voice came over to them again. The voice must have realized that the long debate would have been heard at every airport and by most pilots flying over Switzerland

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              "Nothing more about that operation in the Tirol-place called Oberaurach, about a mile east of Kitzbьhel?"