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Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                          • She had so far improved me, for the time, that though I was angry with her, I felt ashamed, and with a short 'Goori!' (which I intended for 'Good night!') got up and went away. They followed, and I stepped at once out of the box-door into my bedroom, where only Steerforth was with me, helping me to undress, and where I was by turns telling him that Agnes was my sister, and adjuring him to bring the corkscrew, that I might open another bottle of wine.

                                                                                                                  • If you want others to believe that you can be trusted,you must be congruent. Your spoken language and yourbody language must say the same thing. If they don't,the other person's body will signal its discomfort toyour body. In response to this communication, your
                                                                                                                    'I had my plans. I'd have been over the frontier by midnight.'
                                                                                                                    'There was - pardon me - really such a person, and at all in his power?' hinted Traddles.
                                                                                                                    'I married that lady,' said the Doctor, 'when she was extremely young. I took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!'

                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                    Frequently a person's emotions and intentions aremisunderstood by those around them. For instance, awoman at one of my seminars discovered that sheunconsciously used a tone of voice that was incongruentwith her words. "No, I'm not confused, I'm interested,"she would insist when tested. And again, "No, I'mnot sad, I'm relaxed." This went on and on until shecame to the verge of tears and said, "Now I know why mykids are always saying, 'Mom, how come you get mad atus all the time?' And I'm not mad at them. Sometimes I'mjust excited."The same woman also told us that her coworkersaccused her of sarcasm but that, to her, nothing couldbe further from the truth. In fact, sarcasm is simplywords said with conflicting voice tone. It is structuredso the person on the receiving end will believe what'sinferred by the tonality. Suppose you let your teamdown and somebody is heard to quip, "That was brilliant,"with a tonality that communicates annoyance.
                                                                                                                    The footsteps were at the door.

                                                                                                                    鈥楤ut before we went to church, a Begum, a royal lady, granddaughter of Shah-Soojah, came to see the fun. And only fancy, Laura, I was left for perhaps a quarter of an hour to entertain the fine old lady. Would not your Fred and Leila have laughed to have seen me, making gallant efforts to keep up conversation with my dreadfully bad Hindustani. I dashed at it, tried to explain why I wore a black dress when I had lilac and blue ones at Amritsar, told her that I had never been married, answered questions regarding my family, etc. The Begum laughed, and I laughed, for I knew that my Hindustani was very bad; but I did remember always to use the respectful 鈥淎p鈥漑26] to the princess.
                                                                                                                    Between the two, and perhaps twenty feet up the cliff face, yawned the wide black mouth of the exhaust tunnel which slanted up inside the cliff to the steel floor beneath the stern of the rocket. From the under-lip of the cave melted chalk drooled like lava and there were splashes of the stuff all over the pebbles and rocks below. In his mind's eye Bond could see the blazing white shaft of flame come howling out of the face of the cliff and he could hear the sea hiss and bubble as the liquid chalk poured into the water.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when he sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not because he has to tell a story, but because he has a story to tell. The novelist’s first novel will generally have sprung from the right cause. Some series of events, or some development of character, will have presented itself to his imagination — and this he feels so strongly that he thinks he can present his picture in strong and agreeable language to others. He sits down and tells his story because he has a story to tell; as you, my friend, when you have heard something which has at once tickled your fancy or moved your pathos, will hurry to tell it to the first person you meet. But when that first novel has been received graciously by the public and has made for itself a success, then the writer naturally feeling that the writing of novels is within his grasp, looks about for something to tell in another. He cudgels his brains, not always successfully, and sits down to write, not because he has something which he burns to tell, but because be feels it to be incumbent on him to be telling something. As you, my friend, if you are very successful in the telling of that first story, will become ambitious of further storytelling, and will look out for anecdotes — in the narration of which you will not improbably sometimes distress your audience.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • She paused and smiled up at him. "Now it's your turn again," she said. "Buy me another drink and then tell me what sort of a woman you think would add to you."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • James Bond slid his car into the million-pound line of cars in the car park, told the same bagagiste, who was now taking rich, small stuff out of the Lancia, to bring up his bags, and went in to the reception-desk. The manager impressively took over from the clerk and greeted Bond with golden-toothed effusion, while making a mental note to earn a good mark with the Chef de Police by reporting Bond's arrival, so that the Chef could, in his turn, make a good mark with the Deuxieme and the SDT by putting the news on the teleprinter to Paris.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • He rode to the Cutcherry, no man daring to intercept him, and took up his position on the top; and for hours he remained, fearless and calm, awaiting his death. The day was intensely hot, causing him to suffer terribly from thirst; and one of his horsekeepers at length brought him some milk,—a deed of mercy, which shows that one man at least was not devoid of gratitude.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  • But for one who is unfaithful, for one who turns his back upon the Light, after seeming to be indeed a Convert, there are many who stand firm, persevering to the end, despite difficulties, discouragements, and bitter oppositions. These brave brown brothers and sisters of ours, who are still in the fires of persecution, from which England has been so long delivered, deserve our warmest sympathy.

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