Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                                          Tiffy reached out a hand and timidly touched his sleeve. "Go careful over there, Mister Mark. There's gangster money in that place. And watch out for yourself." She jerked her head towards the exit: "That's the worstest man I ever heard tell of."

                                                                                                                                                  鈥業t is much cooler. These two last nights I have needed no pankah, and was able to bear a blanket. I have resumed wearing a merino vest by day, and it is very comfortable. The darzi,[48] who squats in the verandah, is busy on a magnificent dressing-gown, which I have ordered. I brought out flannel from England, but not a flannel dressing-gown, so I have bought a rich shawl-pattern, and the flannel will line it, and I shall look like a Malik谩[49] and feel鈥攁lmost as comfortable as a sparrow.... It seemed to be a question with the darzi whether the white flannel was to be inside or outside! The matter appeared to interest some of the servants. One lives in such a public way in India. Whatever one gives to be made or mended is made or mended in the verandah; and the darzi, as he cuts out, clips, and sews, talks鈥攑erhaps with the pankah-wala, perhaps a stranger, perhaps the munshi (tutor) whose pupil is not quite ready to take her lesson.... There is no shutting the world out; and the Indian world is such a curious world.
                                                                                                                                                  Bond glanced at the four thin shafts of light, and then he looked up again into the great African sky.
                                                                                                                                                  ‘C. M. Tucker.’
                                                                                                                                                  'I do not judge him from what I saw of you the other night,' she quietly replied.
                                                                                                                                                  Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Barkis gave me a little more room at once, and got away by degrees. But I could not help observing that he seemed to think he had hit upon a wonderful expedient for expressing himself in a neat, agreeable, and pointed manner, without the inconvenience of inventing conversation. He manifestly chuckled over it for some time. By and by he turned to Peggotty again, and repeating, 'Are you pretty comfortable though?' bore down upon us as before, until the breath was nearly edged out of my body. By and by he made another descent upon us with the same inquiry, and the same result. At length, I got up whenever I saw him coming, and standing on the foot-board, pretended to look at the prospect; after which I did very well.


                                                                                                                                                  With these insights under my belt, I decided to look a littledeeper.
                                                                                                                                                  'Davy,' said my mother. 'What's the matter?'
                                                                                                                                                  James Bond's hand moved nonchalantly to his right-hand coat pocket. M., with equal casualness, shifted his chair back from his desk. His left hand felt for the button under the arm of the chair.
                                                                                                                                                  Needless to say, all the above are more useful thanrevenge and disrespect.
                                                                                                                                                  The ma?tre d'h?tel bowed.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          In the evening they walked back to the jetty. The sea was a dark slate colour and mirror-calm. The little boats, bedecked with coloured flags which meant that it had been an exceptional day's fishing, were winging their way back. The entire population of Kuro, perhaps two hundred souls, was lined up along the shore to greet the heroines of the day, the older people holding carefully folded shawls and blankets to warm up the girls on their way to their homes where, according to Tiger, they would be given hot basin-baths to get back their circulation and remove all traces of salt.Itwas now five o'clock. They would be asleep by eight, said Tiger, and out again with the dawn. Tiger was sympathetic. 'You will have to adjust your hours, Bondo-san. And your way of life. The Ama live very frugally, very cheaply, for their earnings are small - no more than the price of sparrows' tears, as we say. And for heaven's sake be very polite to the parents, particularly the father. As for Kissy…' He left the sentence hanging in the air.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  'I am glad to hear you are sorry, David,' he replied.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          "It's cut off."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          An hour later, Bond walked into the Hermitage bar and chose a table near one of the broad windows.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  While I was still learning my duty as an usher at Mr. Drury’s school at Brussels, I was summoned to my clerkship in the London Post Office, and on my way passed through Bruges. I then saw my father and my brother Henry for the last time. A sadder household never was held together. They were all dying; except my mother, who would sit up night after night nursing the dying ones and writing novels the while — so that there might be a decent roof for them to die under. Had she failed to write the novels, I do not know where the roof would have been found. It is now more that forty years ago, and looking back over so long a lapse of time I can tell the story, though it be the story of my own father and mother, of my own brother and sister, almost as coldly as I have often done some scene of intended pathos in fiction; but that scene was indeed full of pathos. I was then becoming alive to the blighted ambition of my father’s life, and becoming alive also to the violence of the strain which my mother was enduring. But I could do nothing but go and leave them. There was something that comforted me in the idea that I need no longer be a burden — a fallacious idea, as it soon proved. My salary was to be £90 a year, and on that I was to live in £ondon, keep up my character as a gentleman, and be happy. That I should have thought this possible at the age of nineteen, and should have been delighted at being able to make the attempt, does not surprise me now; but that others should have thought it possible, friends who knew something of the world, does astonish me. A lad might have done so, no doubt, or might do so even in these days, who was properly looked after and kept under control — on whose behalf some law of life had been laid down. Let him pay so much a week for his board and lodging, so much for his clothes, so much for his washing, and then let him understand that he has — shall we say? — sixpence a day left for pocket-money and omnibuses. Any one making the calculation will find the sixpence far too much. No such calculation was made for me or by me. It was supposed that a sufficient income had been secured to me, and that I should live upon it as other clerks lived.