Inspirasi Kediri Bertutur

                                                Bond examined the happy, beautiful face. She had seemed quite unconcerned by the arrival of the search party. To her it was only the game of hide-and-seek she had played before. Bond hoped she wasn't going to get a shock.
                                                Now! Bond straightened himself and leapt through the still-swinging door. McGonigle's back was just in front of him and, beyond, there was a brightly lit empty bar-room in which an automatic piano was playing to itself.

                                                                                            An hour earlier in its hole among the roots of the great thorn bush the scorpion had been alerted by two sets of vibrations. First there had been the tiny scraping of the beetle's movements, and these belonged to the vibrations which the scorpion immediately recognized and diagnosed. Then there had been a series of incomprehensible thuds round the bush followed by a final heavy quake which had caved in part of the scorpion's hole. These were followed by a soft rhythmic trembling of the ground which was so regular that it soon became a background vibration of no urgency. After a pause the tiny scraping of the beetle had continued, and it was greed for the beetle that, after a day of sheltering from its deadliest enemy, the sun, finally got the upper hand against the scorpion's memory of the other noises and impelled it out of its lair into the filtering moonlight.
                                                                                            Goldfinger's flat, hard stare didn't flicker. He might not have heard Bond's angry-gentleman's outburst. The finely chiselled lips parted. He said, 'Mr Bond, they have a saying in Chicago: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action." Miami, Sandwich and now Geneva. I propose to wring the truth out of you.' Gold-finger's eyes slid slowly past Bond's head. 'Oddjob. The Pressure Room.'

                                                                                            “Forty—,” I started to say, until I saw the smile creasing Bramble’s face. “Five,” I hastily added.
                                                                                            Hi! Whether it's "Hi!" or "Hello!" or even "Yo!" say itwith pleasing tonality and attach your own name to it("Hi! I'm Naomi"). As with the smile and the eye contact,be the first to identify yourself. It is at this point, andwithin only a few seconds, that you are in a position togather tons of free information about the person you'remeeting—information you can put to good use later inyour conversation.


                                                                                            Gala had been standing beside him watching the eyes that measured and speculated. "It's not as easy as you might think," she said, seeing the frown on his face. "Even when it's high tide and very rough they have guards along the top of the cliff at night. And they've got searchlights and Brens and grenades. Their orders are to shoot and ask questions afterwards. Of course it would be better to floodlight the cliff at night. But that would only pinpoint the site. I really believe they've thought of everything."
                                                                                            "Then they'll know you're here. They've got radar."
                                                                                            "Well, I mean you can be happy, you know, if you let yourself, and if you do your work. The most important thing in the world, I think, is to do your work. If you do your work, you'll be happy: I'm almost positive about it."
                                                                                            "I know the place," said Bond. "Full of rich-looking icons and so on. Not far from the Pierre."
                                                                                            Some critics have said that the sets and costumes by Edward Gorey are the centerpieces of the show, more so than any of the performers. But Raul Julia is rapidly becoming a local matinee idol, drawing fan mail by the bagful and constantly meeting crowds of autograph seekers outside the stage door.


                                                                                                                                                                                    Yes, he must plan for that. Bond got up from the desk where he had been automatically scribbling down lists of fifteenth-century de Bleuvilles and opened the window. The snow had stopped and there was broken blue in the sky. It would be perfect powder snow, perhaps a foot of it, on the Gloria Run. Now to make everything ready!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                ‘Like your dear invalid, I am especially fond of St. Luke’s account of the dying thief. There is something so touching in his looking at such a moment to the Saviour, whose Blood, shed for his salvation, was at that moment trickling down in his view; and there is something so sublime in our Lord’s conferring Eternal Life,—such a gift,—at the time when He was Himself undergoing the terrible sentence of death! We may envy your dear suffering child, my Laura, when we think how soon, in human expectation, his eyes will behold the King in His beauty.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            'Do with David's son?' said Mr. Dick.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    “Hear me!” he continued, preventing her, “you are well aware, Julia, that there are subjects which must be sore ones to Edmund. I will thrust these upon him in the most indelicate manner; in short, I will insult him, and before other men too, past all endurance; till I compel him to a quarrel, which shall end by ending one of us! In such a case, should your favourite escape with life, which is not very probable, he will never be able to shew his face again among our family.” Julia looked up, petrified with horror and astonishment. He answered the look, which had seemed to say,[206] “Is it possible?” with, “Yes! I will do it;” and his eyes remained fixed on hers, till she shuddered at their unshrinking expression. Yet she felt as if compelled by some spell to continue her gaze meeting his, and suffer him to read every thought that was passing in her mind.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Since this was written the Commission on the law of copyright has sat and made its report. With the great body of it I agree, and could serve no reader by alluding here at length to matters which are discussed there. But in regard to this question of international copyright with the United States, I think that we were incorrect in the expression of an opinion that fair justice — or justice approaching to fairness — is now done by American publishers to English authors by payments made by them for early sheets. I have just found that £20 was paid to my publisher in England for the use of the early sheets of a novel for which I received £1600 in England. When asked why he accepted so little, he assured me that the firm with whom he dealt would not give more. “Why not go to another firm?” I asked. No other firm would give a dollar, because no other firm would care to run counter to that great firm which had assumed to itself the right of publishing my books. I soon after received a copy of my own novel in the American form, and found that it was published for 7 1/2d. That a great sale was expected can be argued from the fact that without a great sale the paper and printing necessary for the republication of a three-volume novel could not be supplied. Many thousand copies must have been sold. But from these the author received not one shilling. I need hardly point out that the sum of £20 would not do more than compensate the publisher for his trouble in making the bargain. The publisher here no doubt might have refused to supply the early sheets, but he had no means of exacting a higher price than that offered. I mention the circumstance here because it has been boasted, on behalf of the American publishers, that though there is no international copyright, they deal so liberally with English authors as to make it unnecessary that the English author should be so protected. With the fact of the £2