Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                • He was answered at once. There came the crack of Quarrel's Remington. A spark flew off the domed cabin and there was a dull clang. Quarrel fired another single shot and then a burst. The bullets hammered ineffectually against the cabin. There was not even a check in speed. The thing rolled on, swerving slightly to make for the source of the gunfire. Bond cradled the Smith & Wesson on his forearm and took careful aim. The deep cough of his gun sounded above the rattle of the Remington. One of the headlamps shattered and went out. He fired four shots at the other and got it with the fifth and last round in the cylinder. The thing didn't care. It rolled straight on towards Quarrel's hiding place. Bond reloaded and began firing at the huge bulge of the tyres under the bogus black and gold wings. The range was now only thirty yards and he could have sworn that he hit the nearest wheel again and again. No effect. Solid rubber? The first breath of fear stirred Bond's skin.
                                                                  'Mama has been dead ever since I was born,' she said, in her quiet way. 'I only know her picture, downstairs. I saw you looking at it yesterday. Did you think whose it was?'

                                                                                                                              • THE PLANE throbbed on, high above the weather, over the great moonlit landscape. The lights had been turned out. Bond sat quietly in the darkness and sweated with fear at what he was going to do.
                                                                                                                                Bond put out a hand to her left breast and held it hard. He lifted her captive, wounded hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring.
                                                                                                                                鈥楢s regards health, we are between Scylla and Charybdis. People in India cannot help thinking a great deal about it, because five minutes鈥 carelessness may wreck health for life; yet it is a great matter for us, if possible, to keep from sinking to the languid 鈥渃annot-do-anything鈥 point. To rest there is something like letting the head go under water. I often think of dear Uncle Tom鈥檚 expression,鈥斺€淣ever say die!鈥濃
                                                                                                                                “When I last saw him,” said Lady D., “it was at his father’s table. A mild looking young man with a sweet smile. I remember he sat opposite to me, talking to a daughter of the Duke of B. I said, you know,” she added turning to the Colonel, “that this man’s countenance was not quite what I thought I could recollect of Lord Ormond.”


                                                                                                                                9.15,9.30,9.45,10! Bond felt the excitement ball up inside him like cat's fur. He found that his hands were wet. He wiped them down the sides of his trousers. He got up and stretched. He went into the bathroom and made appropriate noises, retrieved the gloves, and laid them on the bathroom floor just inside the door. Then, naked, he came back into the room and got into bed and switched off the light. He regularized his breathing and, in ten minutes, began to snore softly. He gave it another ten, then slid out of bed and, with infinite precaution, dressed himself in his ski clothes. He softly retrieved his gloves from the bathroom, put on the goggles so that they rested in his hair above the forehead, tied the dark-red handkerchief tightly across his nose, schnapps into pocket, passport into hip-pocket and, finally, Gillette through the fingers of the left hand and the Rolex transferred to his right, the bracelet clasped in the palm of his hand and round the fingers so that the face of the watch lay across his middle knuckles.
                                                                                                                                The gradual failure of agriculture was of course a very slow process. Ordinary citizens of the empire did not notice it. True, there were great desert tracts in which the ruins of former farmsteads might be observed; but the slow-witted populace never dreamed that this was a symptom of an ever-spreading disaster. Only by comparing the present output with past records could the trouble be realized. But the records and the sacred proportions of agricultural production were known only to the ‘mystery’ of agriculture, in fact to the heads of the world agricultural system. These magnates knew vaguely that something was wrong; but since for sundry reasons it was unlikely that there would be trouble in their day, they held their tongues. The decline was in fact easily concealed, because, while supplies were dwindling, the population of the world was also rapidly decreasing.
                                                                                                                                The Property of a Lady
                                                                                                                                'Carries a bag?' said he - 'bag with a good deal of room in it - is gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?'
                                                                                                                                'When are you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.

                                                                                                                                                                                            • Admit one to the Main Sale Room

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Chapter 6

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    • "Thank you, sir," said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • 'It's a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis!' I said, as an act of politeness.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                • The searchlights went out. Bond turned slowly. He expected to see Doctor No, but still the room was empty. It looked static and lifeless compared with the pulsing mysteries outside the window. Bond looked back. What must this be like in the colours of day, when one could see everything perhaps for twenty yards or more? What must it be like in a storm when the waves crashed noiselessly against the glass, delving almost to the floor and then sweeping up and out of sight. What must it be like in the evening when the last golden shafts of the sun shone into the upper half of the room and the waters below were full of dancing motes and tiny water insects? What an amazing man this must be who had thought of this fantastically beautiful conception, and what an extraordinary engineering feat to have carried it out! How had he done it? There could only be one way. He must have built the glass wall deep inside the cliff and then delicately removed layer after layer of the outside rock until the divers could prise off the last skin of coral. But how thick was the glass? Who had rolled it for him? How had he got it to the island? How many divers had he used? How much, God in heaven, could it have cost?