But Bowerman had an idea: maybe you could grab a little extra distance if you stepped ahead ofyour center of gravity. Stick a chunk of rubber under the heel, he mused, and you could straightenyour leg, land on your heel, and lengthen your stride. In Jogging, he compared the styles: with thetime-tested “flat foot” strike, he acknowledged, “the wide surface area pillows the footstrike and iseasy on the rest of the body.” Nevertheless, he still believed a “heel-to-toe” stride would be “theleast tiring over long distances.” If you’ve got the shoe for it.
IT was 12.30 when Bond went down in the elevator and out on to the roasting street.
What a glorious piece of synchronicity. My beautifulfriend Kerry Nowensky, who commanded, "Write it down!
Change what you do until you get what you want.
The patience of Lincoln and that of the country behind Lincoln were at last exhausted. McClellan was ordered to report to his home in New Jersey and the General who had come to the front with such flourish of trumpets and had undertaken to dictate a national policy at a time when he was not able to keep his own army in position, retires from the history of the War.
'I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous - or I fancy so.'
'Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,' cried Miss Mowcher, wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to and fro again upon the fender, 'why did you praise her so, and blush, and look disturbed? '
I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his name.
Rachel Ray underwent a fate which no other novel of mine has encountered. Some years before this a periodical called Good Words had been established under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor in Glasgow. In 1863 he asked me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me that his principles did not teach him to confine his matter to religious subjects, and paying me the compliment of saying that he would feel himself quite safe in my hands. In reply I told him I thought he was wrong in his choice; that though he might wish to give a novel to the readers of Good Words, a novel from me would hardly be what he wanted, and that I could not undertake to write either with any specially religious tendency, or in any fashion different from that which was usual to me. As worldly and — if any one thought me wicked — as wicked as I had heretofore been, I must still be, should I write for Good Words. He persisted in his request, and I came to terms as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it and sent it to him, and shortly afterwards received it back — a considerable portion having been printed — with an intimation that it would not do. A letter more full of wailing and repentance no man ever wrote. It was, he said, all his own fault. He should have taken my advice. He should have known better. But the story, such as it was, he could not give to his readers in the pages of Good Words. Would I forgive him? Any pecuniary loss to which his decision might subject me the owner of the publication would willingly make good. There was some loss — or rather would have been — and that money I exacted, feeling that the fault had in truth been with the editor. There is the tale now to speak for itself. It is not brilliant nor in any way very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. There is some dancing in one of the early chapters, described, no doubt, with that approval of the amusement which I have always entertained; and it was this to which my friend demurred. It is more true of novels than perhaps of anything else, that one man’s food is another man’s poison.
'The point is, Sir Hilary, I was tremendously excited by what you were saying at lunch today, about Miss Bunt perhaps being a duchess. I mean, is that really possible?'
"Kong Tiger, sah."
“Sudden was the trembling joy
iii. Armed Peace