Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                                                                                        • The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor's table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor's arm.
                                                                                                                                          `Money and influence. Five hundred dollars to the conductor. Some big talk to the police. It was lucky our friend tried a bribe. A pity that crafty Benqd next door,' he gestured at the wall, `didn't get involved. I couldn't do the passport trick twice. We will have to get him some other way. The man with the boils was easy. He knew no German and travelling without a ticket is a serious matter. Ah well, the day has started favourably. We have won the first round, but our friend next door will now be very careful. He knows what he has to reckon with. Perhaps that is for the best. It would have been a nuisance having to keep you both under cover all day. Now we can move about-even have lunch together, as long as you bring the family jewels with you. We must watch to see if he makes a telephone call at one of the stations. But I doubt if he could tackle the Greek telephone exchange. He will probably wait until we are in Yugoslavia. But there I have my machine. We can get reinforcements if we need them. It should be a most interesting journey. There is always excitement on the Orient Express,' Kerim got to his feet. He opened the door, `and romance.' He smiled across the compartment. `I will call for you at lunchtime! Greek food is worse than Turkish, but even my stomach is in the service of the Queen.'
                                                                                                                                          `Click!' Bond felt the recoil. `Click-click-click-click.' Now Bond felt the heat under his fingers. The hands on his legs were going limp. The glistening face was drawing back. A noise came from the throat, a terrible gurgling
                                                                                                                                          In 1864, when I was campaigning on the Red River in Louisiana, I noticed with interest a device that had been put into shape for the purpose of lifting river steamers over shoals. This device took the form of stilts which for the smaller vessels (and only the smaller steamers could as a rule be managed in this way) were fastened on pivots from the upper deck on the outside of the hull and were worked from the deck with a force of two or three men at each stilt. The difficulty on the Red River was that the Rebel sharp-shooters from the banks made the management of the stilts irregular.
                                                                                                                                          “You should not speak in that manner, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.


                                                                                                                                          Major Smythe frowned, trying to remember. "Can't say it does." It was eighty degrees in the shade, but he shivered.
                                                                                                                                          Good God! The plot was indeed thickening! Bond concealed his surprise. He said, 'Then I agree.' He smiled, '"Herkos Odonton" it is.'
                                                                                                                                          For a moment M. continued to look at the telephone as if in doubt about what had been said. Then he twisted his chair away from the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.
                                                                                                                                          But there was an even more important reason that Lieberman was the perfect guy to tackle theRunning Man mystery: the solution seemed to be linked to his specialty, the head. Everyone knewthat at some point in history, early humans got access to a big supply of protein, which allowedtheir brains to expand like a thirsty sponge in a bucket of water. Our brains kept growing until theywere seven times larger than the brains of any comparable mammal. They also sucked up anungodly number of calories; even though our brains account for only 2 percent of our body weight,they demand 20 percent of our energy, compared with just 9 percent for chimps.
                                                                                                                                          The story is one of dozens told in Harold Kennedy's book, No Pickle, No Performance, published this month by Doubleday. The book is a fascinating collection of true-life anecdotes stored up by Kennedy during his four decades in the theatre as a director, actor, and playwright on Broadway and across the country. The subtitle of his book is "An Irreverent Theatrical Excursion from Tallulah to Travolta," and he has written chapters about his experiences with both of these stars, in addition to Orson Welles, Charlton Heston, Thornton Wilder, Gloria Swanson, Steve Allen, and others who are less well known today but were legends in their time.

                                                                                                                                                                                                            • His body was as rigid as a board against her, and he hardly breathed as he listened to the incredible story.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • Mr. Creakle whispered, 'Hah! What's this?' and bent his eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    • Behind him he felt the guard throw himself at the door, but Bond had his back to it and it held. The man, ten feet away behind the desk, within easy range for the knife, called out something, an order, a cheerful, gay order in some language Bond had never heard. The pressure on the door ceased. The man smiled a wide, a charming smile that cracked his creased walnut of a face in two. He got to his feet and slowly raised his hands. 'I surrender. And I am now a much bigger target. But do not kill me, I beg of you. At least not until we have had a stiff whisky and soda and a talk. Then I will give you the choice again. OK?'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        • 'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away tomorrow.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            • 'Toss for honour?' Goldfinger flicked a coin.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • She kept on patching up the edifice of her deceit until Bond wanted to spank her and tell her to relax and tell the truth. Instead he just gave her a reassuring pat on the back outside her room and told her to hurry up and have her bathe.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    • BOND SAT at his favourite restaurant table in London, the right-hand corner table for two on the first floor, and watched the people and the traffic in Piccadilly and down the Haymarket.