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Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                              "My God," said Bond slowly. Then, with awe in his voice. "There's something better than that. Give me a hand," and he bent down and gritted his teeth against the pain and started pushing.
                                                              'Never mind,' said Tracy, 'I'll make do with the zithers while you guzzle your beer and schnapps.' She turned in to the right-hand fork leading to the underpass for Kufstein, and they were at once through Rosenheim and the great white peaks were immediately ahead.

                                                                                                                        "Him have plenty watchmen. An' guns-machine guns. An' a radar. An' a spottin' plane. Frens o' mine have landed dere and him never been seen again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut', cap'n," Quarrel was apologetic, "dat Crab Key scare me plenty."

                                                                                                                        鈥楯une 19, 1888.鈥擨 was so much interested to-day by our young Goorkha J.鈥檚 account of his own conversion and adventures, that I will try to write out the gist of it for you and dear Leila....
                                                                                                                        There were few people abroad and the two men standing quietly under a tree on the opposite side of the boulevard looked out of place.
                                                                                                                        With clasped hands stretched towards Heaven; my eager gaze

                                                                                                                         

                                                                                                                        The courtyards and cul-de-sacs of the Yard had reminded him as usual of a prison without roofs. The overhead strip lighting in the cold corridor took the colour out of the cheeks of the police sergeant who asked his business and watched him sign the apple-green chit. It did the same for the face of the constable who led him up the short steps and along the bleak passage between the rows of anonymous doors to the waiting-room.
                                                                                                                        Bond was suitably impressed by the car gimmick, as he was by the very workmanlike preparations that had been made for him in the living room. Here, behind the head of his high bed, giving a perfect firing position, a wood and metal stand had been erected against the broad windowsill, and along it lay the Winchester, the tip of its barrel just denting the curtains. The wood and all the metal parts of the rifle and sniperscope had been painted a dull black, and, laid out on the bed like sinister evening clothes, was a black velvet hood stitched to a waist-length shirt of the same material. The hood had wide slits for the eyes and mouth. It reminded Bond of old prints of the Spanish Inquisition or of the anonymous operators on the guillotine platform during the French Revolution. There was a similar hood on Captain Sender's bed, and on his section of the windowsill there lay a pair of nightglasses and the microphone for the walkie-talkie.

                                                                                                                        Bond had already decided to accept - blind. Whatever Mr Du Font's problem - blackmail, gangsters, women - it would be some typical form of rich man's worry. Here was a slice of the easy life he had been asking for. Take it. Bond started to say something politely deprecating. Mr Du Pont interrupted. 'Please, please, Mr Bond. And believe me, I'm grateful, very grateful indeed.' He snapped his fingers for the waitress. When she came, he turned away from Bond and settled the bill out of Bond's sight. Like many very rich men he considered that showing his money, letting someone see how much he tipped, amounted to indecent exposure. He thrust his roll back into his trousers pocket (the hip pocket is not the place among the rich) and took Bond by the arm. He sensed Bond's resistance to the contact and removed his hand. They went down the stairs to the main hall.

                                                                                                                                                                                  'My love!' (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.) 'He is the best creature!'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            I tried not to be nervous. I put my ears to the connecting walls to right and left, but across the space of the carports I could hear nothing. Before I had set up my barricade I had softly opened the door and gone out and looked round. There had been a glimmer of light from Numbers 8 and 10 and from James Bond's Number 40 away down to the left. Everything had been peaceful, everything quiet. Now I stood in the middle of the room and had a last look round. I had done everything he had told me to do. I remembered the prayers I was going to say and I knelt down there and then on the carpet and said them. I thanked, but I also asked. Then I took two aspirin, turned down the light and blew across the glass chimney to put it out, and went over to my floor bed in the corner. After unzipping the front of my overalls and unlacing but not removing my shoes, I curled myself up in the blankets.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      'N-no,' I said, 'not exactly.'

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Chapter 4 Communicating

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          It had only been a try-on, to see what form the negative answer would take. But, as Bond followed her into the dining-room, it was quite an effort to restrain his right shoe from giving Irma Bunt a really tremendous kick in her tight, bulging behind.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    ‘I won’t ask you for it; Byelovzorov will trust me.’

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              "Don't be ridiculous," said Bond impatiently. "What the hell is there else to do? The explosion will be so terrific that one won't feel anything. And it's bound to work with all that fuel vapour hanging around. It's me or a million people in London. The warhead won't go off. Atom bombs don't explode like that. It'll be melted probably. There's just a chance you may get away. Most of the explosion will take the line of least resistance through the roof-and down the exhaust pit, if I can work the machinery that opens up the floor." He smiled. "Cheer up," he said, walking over to her and taking one of her hands. "The boy stood on the burning deck. I've wanted to copy him since I was five."