He ordered me like a dog, and I obeyed like a dog.
Bond swept along the badly cambered road. He took no chances but covered the forty-three kilometres to Abbeville in a quarter of an hour. The drone of the Homer was loud. Goldfinger couldn't be more than twenty miles ahead. But which way at the fork? On a guess Bond took the Paris road. He beat the car along. For a time there was little change in the voice of the Homer. Bond could be right or wrong. Then, imperceptibly, the drone began to fade. Blast! Turn back or press on fast and take one of the secondary roads across to Rouen and catch up with him there? Bond hated turning back. Ten kilometres short of Beauvais he turned right. For a time it was bad going but then he was on to the fast N30 and could afford to drift into Rouen, led on by the beckoning voice of his pick-up. He stopped on the outskirts of the town and listened with one ear while consulting his Michelin. By the waxing drone he could tell that he had got ahead of Goldfinger. But now there was another vital fork, not quite so easy to retrieve if Bond guessed wrong again. Either Goldfinger would take the Alengon-Le Mans-Tours route to the south, or he meant to move south-east, missing Paris, by way of Evreux, Chartres and Orleans. Bond couldn't afford to get closer to the centre of Rouen and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Rolls and of the way it would take. He would have to wait until the Homer went on the wane and then make his own guess.
Tiffany Case thought this over. "Maybe there's something in that," she said finally. "But it depends what you want to add up to. Something human or something inhuman. You can't be complete by yourself."
"Well, that's fine," said Bond, hoping that flattery was the key. "You people certainly seem to think things out. I like working for careful people."
“This is from Him!”
'Copperfield,' said Mr. Murdstone.
An excellent cheese souffle came and was followed by coffee. They ate in silence, both apparently comfortable and relaxed by these confidences. Bond certainly was. Goldfinger, obviously by design, was letting his hair down - not far, not farther than his shoulders, but he was showing Bond one of his private faces, presumably the one to which he thought Bond would respond - the ruthlessly efficient, cold-blooded tycoon. Perhaps, after all, Bond's spying in the house, which Goldfinger must at least presume, had revealed something about Bond that Goldfinger was pleased to know - that Bond had a crooked side to him, that he wasn't 'a gentleman' in more than appearance. Now there should be more probing and then, with luck, the proposition would follow.
'I only say,' he resumed, addressing me, 'that I disapprove of your preferring such company as Mistress Peggotty, and that it is to be abandoned. Now, David, you understand me, and you know what will be the consequence if you fail to obey me to the letter.'
This isn't limited to language and geography. Chanceencounters happen on almost a daily basis to all of us—at work, in the supermarket, at the Laundromat or thebus stop.
How often, how very often, when distance, both of time and place intervened, was the impression received during that, to both, for ever memorable day remembered, and attempted to be renewed, severally, by both; how often inwardly appealed to! How often called upon to contradict proofs, to bear down facts! But the misery of this species of evidence is, that though at the moment the most entirely convincing, it fades in absence to a mere dream of the imagination; and while, with strange inconsistency, we find the greatest aggravation of our suffering, in the fear that we never did possess that of which we are thus lamenting the loss, we still do lament, and with the bitter feelings of those entitled to complain, that they have been bereft of all!
An expedition to Niagara was achieved with much success; after which she wrote to one of her aunts in England: ‘My nephews think me amazingly strong, and yet I have become almost a teetotaller. Except your little bottle of sherry, I have only tasted wine twice since I left you. How I did enjoy your lemon-juice!’
'Is possible, sir.' The eyes, surely trained in investigation, held Bond's blandly. 'You wish for breakfast?' The menu was once again nudged forward.
Gazing down on the sun-baked sprawl of Genoa and the gentle blue waters of the Mediterranean, Bond closed his mind to the past and focused it on the immediate future-on this business, as he sourly described it to himself, of `pimping for England'.
'Wasn't he fed, poor thing?' asked Dora.
I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time, and the curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed, giving it a very snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate on my happiness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time, when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at me from above the chimney-piece.
Move your concentration deep into these wonderfulfeelings and enjoy them. Ride with them. Notice anysmells and tastes that want to be included, and savorthem, too. -*436.