Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                                • That good creature - I mean Peggotty - all untired by her late anxieties and sleepless nights, was at her brother's, where she meant to stay till morning. An old woman, who had been employed about the house for some weeks past, while Peggotty had been unable to attend to it, was the house's only other occupant besides myself. As I had no occasion for her services, I sent her to bed, by no means against her will, and sat down before the kitchen fire a little while, to think about all this.
                                                                                  "Really! And why do you say that?"

                                                                                                                                                                • 'But the fame -' I was beginning.
                                                                                                                                                                  Blofeld turned to Irma Bunt. 'My dear girl, you were right! It is indeed the same Britischer. Remind me to buy you another string of the excellent Mr Mikimoto's grey pearls. And now let us be finished with this man once and for all. It is beyond our bedtime.'

                                                                                                                                                                  "I live in the cellars. I've lived there since I was five. It was burned down then and my parents were killed. I can't remember anything about them so you needn't say you're sorry. At first I lived there with my black nanny. She died when I was fifteen. For the last five years I've lived there alone."
                                                                                                                                                                  Suddenly there passed us - evidently following them - a young woman whose approach we had not observed, but whose face I saw as she went by, and thought I had a faint remembrance of. She was lightly dressed; looked bold, and haggard, and flaunting, and poor; but seemed, for the time, to have given all that to the wind which was blowing, and to have nothing in her mind but going after them. As the dark distant level, absorbing their figures into itself, left but itself visible between us and the sea and clouds, her figure disappeared in like manner, still no nearer to them than before.


                                                                                                                                                                  "If we shall suppose that slavery is one of those offences which in the providence of God needs must come, and which having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those Divine attributes, which the believers in the Living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills that it should continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsmen in two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid for by another drop of blood drawn by the War, as was said two thousand years ago so still it must be said, that the judgments of the Lord are true, and righteous altogether.... With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and for his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."
                                                                                                                                                                  Marc-Ange put back the receiver. He spread his hands apologetically. 'All we know is that he is in Switzerland. We have no exact address for him. Will that help? Surely your men there can find him - if the Swiss Securite will help. But they are difficult brutes when it comes to the privacy of a resident, particularly if he is rich.'
                                                                                                                                                                  ‘The Tales which I now venture to offer to you for publication were originally composed for young children under my own charge, and were listened to with an appearance of interest, which gives me hopes that they may meet with no unfavourable reception from others of the same tender years.
                                                                                                                                                                  And now this was my last night at The Dreamy Pines and tomorrow I would be off again. It had been a slice of life, not totally unpleasant in spite of the Phanceys, and I had learned the fringes of a job that might stand me in good stead. I looked at my watch. It was nine o'clock, and here was the doomful WOKO from Albany with its storm bulletin. The Adirondacks would be clear by midnight. So, with any luck, I would have dry roads in the morning. I went behind the cafeteria bar, turned on the electric cooker, and put out three eggs and six slices of hickory-smoked bacon. I was hungry.
                                                                                                                                                                  Mysterious Change, O Man! But 'tis, 'tis He,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • It was at this moment in his reflections that the Syncra-phone in his trouser pocket began to bleep. Bond accelerated out of the park and drew up beside the public telephone booth at Marble Arch. The Syncraphone had recently been introduced and was carried by all officers attached to Headquarters. It was a light plastic radio receiver about the size of a pocket watch. When an officer was somewhere in London, within a range of ten miles of Headquarters, he could be bleeped on the receiver. When this happened, it was his duty to go at once to the nearest telephone and contact his office. He was urgently needed.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • `You will need many weeks of training and preparation. On this assignment you will be operating in the guise of an English agent. Your manners and appearance are uncouth. You will have to learn at least some of the tricks,' the voice sneered, `of a chentleman. You will be placed in the hands of a certain Englishman we have here. A former chentleman of the Foreign Office in London. It will be his task to make you pass as some sort of an English spy. They employ many different kinds of men. It should not be difficult. And you will have to learn many other things. The operation will be at the end of August, but you will start your training at once. There is much to be done. Put on your clothes and report back to the A.D.C. Understood?'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • Number Two of Secret Service Station WB was a lean, tense man in his early forties. He wore the uniform of his profession-well-cut, well-used, lightweight tweeds in a dark green herringbone, a soft white silk shirt, and an old school tie (in his case Wykehamist). At the sight of the tie, and while they exchanged conventional greetings in the small musty lobby of the apartment, Bond's spirits, already low, sank another degree. He knew the type-backbone of the civil service... overcrammed and underloved at Winchester... a good second in P.P.E. at Oxford... the war, staff jobs he would have done meticulously-perhaps an O.B.E.... Allied Control Commission in Germany where he had been recruited into the I Branch.... And thence-because he was the ideal staff man and A-one with Security, and because he thought he would find life, drama, romance-the things he had never had-into the Secret Service. A sober, careful man had been needed to chaperone Bond on this ugly business. Captain Paul Sender, late of the Welsh Guards, had been the obvious choice. He had bought it. Now, like a good Wykehamist, he concealed his distaste for the job beneath careful, trite conversation as he showed Bond the layout of the apartment and the arrangements that had been made for the executioner's preparedness and, to a modest extent, his comfort.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • WESTSIDER MELBA MOORE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • Ere Lord L. and his daughters departed, Mrs. Montgomery discharged the painful duty she had imposed upon herself, of informing Lord L. of every particular of Henry’s very improper conduct, respecting his attachment to his cousin. Lord L. was, at first, distressed and alarmed; but, on questioning his daughter, was so perfectly satisfied by her assurances of indifference to Henry himself, and repugnance to his addresses, that he determined to treat the young man’s presumption, with the contempt it merited. Should St. Aubin,[106] however, in future, persevere in making himself troublesome; his Lordship would, of course, forbid him his house.