Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                        'Come here!' said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture.

                                                                                                              M looked morosely at Bond. "See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares' nest these old women's societies are always stirring up. People start preserving something-churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds-and there's always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it's private land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I'm supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what's happened to a covey of pink storks." M snorted. "Anyway, you asked about Strangways's last case and that's it." M leant forward belligerently. "Any questions? I've got a busy day ahead."
                                                                                                              Bond put the pencil and the piece of paper away in his pocket. "Thanks for the documentation, Felix. But you seem to forget that I am not going to this place for a holiday."
                                                                                                              To the interrogation cell! That could mean only one thing, under modern methods, total confession! How long would Campbell hold out for? How many hours had Bond got left?
                                                                                                              Upon being complimented for her attire, Miss Arpel gasps, "Thank you!" with schoolgirlish delight. There is something almost surreal in her creamy white complexion. "I think sunbathing is absolutely deadly, and that there is no reason in the world for a woman to sunbathe," she says. Moments later, she admits that "high heel shoes are not very good for you," but that she wears them anyway, "because they're very fashionable. They are something that really can be a problem — if they're pitched wrong. If you have a good shoe and it's pitched well, you shouldn't have a problem"
                                                                                                              He had no choice, anyway. The reason he was pacing at Leadville instead of racing was becausehis legs had begun betraying him after he turned forty. “I used to have trouble with injuries,especially with my ankle tendons,” Micah said. Over the years, he’d tried every remedy—wraps,massage, more expensive and supportive shoes— but nothing really helped. When he arrived inthe Barrancas, he decided to chuck logic and trust that the Tarahumara knew what they weredoing. He wasn’t going to take the time to try figuring out their secrets; he’d just tackle itswimming-hole style, by leaping in and hoping for the best.


                                                                                                              We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the round green fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a chair, and occasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an hour. Then she came out, and took a seat beside me.
                                                                                                              Bond looked puzzled. "What sort?"
                                                                                                              I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss - for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then - and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short - as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, 'Let us have no meandering.'

                                                                                                                                                                    The novels of a man possessed of so singular a mind must themselves be very strange — and they are strange. It has generally been his object to write down some abuse with which he has been particularly struck — the harshness, for instance, with which paupers or lunatics are treated, or the wickedness of certain classes — and he always, I think, leaves upon his readers an idea of great earnestness of purpose. But he has always left at the same time on my mind so strong a conviction that he has not really understood his subject, that I have ever found myself taking the part of those whom he has accused. So good a heart, and so wrong a head, surely no novelist ever before had combined! In storytelling he has occasionally been almost great. Among his novels I would especially recommend The Cloister and the Hearth. I do not know that in this work, or in any, that he has left a character that will remain; but he has written some of his scenes so brightly that to read them would always be a pleasure.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Major Townsend had carefully prepared the loaded remark-a reference to Bond's liking for the Morland Specials with the three gold rings. He noted Bond's apparent lack of comprehension. Bond took a cigarette and accepted a light. They sat down facing one another. Major Townsend crossed his legs comfortably. Bond sat up straight. Major Townsend said, "Well now. How can I help you?"

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            With all Charlotte’s gaiety and merriment, her delight in dancing and acting, and her love of games, there was a stern side, even in those early days, to her girlish nature; and in this respect she and Robert were well suited the one to the other. She was, as one says who knew her well,[28] ‘a born heroine’; indeed, both she and Robert were of the stuff of which in former centuries martyrs have been made.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        It was the horror of those dreadful walks backwards and forwards which made my life so bad. What so pleasant, what so sweet, as a walk along an English lane, when the air is sweet and the weather fine, and when there is a charm in walking? But here were the same lanes four times a day, in wet and dry, in heat and summer, with all the accompanying mud and dust, and with disordered clothes. I might have been known among all the boys at a hundred yards’ distance by my boots and trousers — and was conscious at all times that I was so known. I remembered constantly that address from Dr. Butler when I was a little boy. Dr. Longley might with equal justice have said the same thing any day — only that Dr. Longley never in his life was able to say an ill-natured word. Dr. Butler only became Dean of Peterborough, but his successor lived to be Archbishop of Canterbury.