手游类似taptap|kediribertutur

Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                              • He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his eyes were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast down, and shaded by his hand; but I had noticed them a little while before.
                                                “Oh dear, no!” said Mrs. Montgomery: “Frances’ undisguised affection is evidently that of a sister. Besides, I have the most perfect confidence in Edmund’s honour.”

                                                                                          • Chapter 3 Why Likability Works


                                                                                            'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!'
                                                                                            We little thought, any one of us, I dare say, when I ate my breakfast that first morning, and went to sleep under the shadow of the peacock's feathers to the sound of the flute, what consequences would come of the introduction into those alms-houses of my insignificant person. But the visit had its unforeseen consequences; and of a serious sort, too, in their way.

                                                                                             

                                                                                            Agn. Can he speak thus who hath so long espoused
                                                                                            This leaden gallantry got what it deserved. There came a spirited crackle of Japanese from Grey Pearl. Tiger translated.
                                                                                            Bond could imagine that the hulking body with the ogre's teeth had not been very welcome at an English private school. And being a foreign count with a mouthful of names would not have helped much.
                                                                                            The glories that beam in thy eye?
                                                                                            He looked up at Mathis to see how bored he was getting with these introspective refinements of what, to Mathis, was a simple question of duty.

                                                                                                                                      • Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles.

                                                                                                                                                                                  • Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an intelligent one at that. "Well," he said seriously, "I'm here on the Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone asked for it? I don't want to be indiscreet, so don't answer if you don't want to. I'm just inquisitive."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              • It would have been wholly inconsistent with my father's ideas of duty, to allow me to acquire impressions contrary to his convictions and feelings respecting religion: and he impressed upon me from the first, that the manner in which the world came into existence was a subject on which nothing was known: that the question, "Who made me?" cannot be answered, because we have no experience or authentic information from which to answer it; and that any answer only throws the difficulty a step further back, since the question immediately presents itself, Who made God? He, at the same time, took care that I should be acquainted with what had been thought by mankind on these impenetrable problems. I have mentioned at how early an age he made me a reader of ecclesiastical history; and he taught me to take the strongest interest in the Reformation, as the great and decisive contest against priestly tyranny for liberty of thought.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • I stopped. "You'll have to do the rest."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      • 'I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • Bond looked surreptitiously round the cabin. Yes. There it was! The long Jamaican cutlass, this one filed to an inch blade with a deadly point. It was on a rack by the man's hand. Was this the way he was supposed to go? Bond doubted it. Scaramanga would do the deed in a suitably dramatic fashion and one that could give him an alibi. Second executioner would be Hendriks. Bond looked back over the low coal-tender. Hendriks' eyes, bland and indifferent, met his. Bond shouted above the iron clang of the engine, "Great fun, what?" Hendriks' eyes looked away and back again. Bond stooped so that he could see under the surrey roof. All the other four men were sitting motionless, their eyes also fixed on Bond. Bond waved a cheerful hand. There was no response. So they had been told! Bond was a spy in their midst, and this was his last ride. In mobese, he was "going to be hit." It was an uncomfortable feeling having those ten enemy eyes watching him like ten gun barrels. Bond straightened himself. Now the top half of his body, like the iron "man" in a pistol range, was above the roof of the surrey, and he was looking straight down the flat yellow surface to where Scaramanga sat on his solitary throne, perhaps twenty feet away, with all his body in full view. He also was looking down the little train at Bond-the last mourner in the funeral cortege behind the cadaver that was James Bond. Bond waved a cheery hand and turned back. He opened his coat and got a moment's reassurance from the cool butt of his gun. He felt in his trouser pocket. Three spare magazines. Ah well! He'd take as many of them as he could with him. He flipped down the codriver's seat and sat on it. No point in offering a target until he had to. The Rasta flicked his cigarette over the side and lit another. The engine was driving herself. He leant against the cabin wall and looked at nothing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              • 鈥榃e were very thankful that it was possible to delay the meeting at Batala till Tuesday, as it gave opportunity for friends from some distance to be present. We all met in the Church for the first part of the Service and sermon by Mr. Clark,鈥攖he dear familiar face no longer among the worshippers, but in the King鈥檚 Presence.... The walk from the Church to the little Cemetery, quite near her own home, is long, and occupied an hour; during which time many hymns of faith and love were softly sung, and at the grave her own hymn, one she had composed not six weeks ago for her own funeral.... Dr. Weitbrecht then completed the Service.... The silence of the onlookers, as one went towards the grave, was very noticeable. Many of them felt that they had indeed lost a friend. A large number of the Native gentlemen of the City were present in the Church and during the Service, with reverent demeanour; and when we had left, I was told, many of the poor women came to weep at her grave.