#damn i want to draw more tweed suits now...

[opopnomi]

Sort of following of the Suits Up! Event from last month for my dear friend @silenceofthecookies who requested some Vintage Lucci UwU 

(ref x)

[pascalpanic]

‘Nilla Bean (Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x gn!Reader)

Summary: A cowboy in your coffee shop is not the way you’d expected your morning to go, but you’re not complaining; especially not when he’s as attractive as he is.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: talk of food/eating, brief allusions to alcohol, lots of flirting, sexual innuendos, I think there’s like a single use of fuck

A/N: okay I’ve been thinking about this FOREVER but I finally went ahead and wrote it!!! hope u guys like it, I’m a sucker for a coffee shop AU as a barista myself :) thx @theteddylupinexperience for helping me name it and motivating me to write it lol

When you started your shift this morning, you’d groaned as you tied the apron around your waist, expecting an uneventful day. Most were. If you were lucky enough to see someone you knew or to have an especially nice customer, you’d consider it a good day. You didn’t know when you walked in that it would be the good day to end all good days: nothing could top this one.

Weekday mornings in the fall aren’t particularly busy. The majority of your customers come around the morning rush, and the remaining ones are usually retirees or house-spouses and their young children. It’s enjoyable, days like these, that don’t require you to dash about the shop.

The only problem, really, is having nothing to do. You clean the coffee grinder, wipe down tables, wipe down everything else, then do it all again. Restocking, usually an endless chore, isn’t even an option; no one’s using anything in the first place. You and your coworkers chat, deep-cleaning the coolers, washing the blender stations, and doing the dirty work. When a customer comes, you’re the lucky one who gets to go take their order and put your task on hold first.

It seems like you’ve done every task twice, even when your manager introduces yet another idea for you to deal with. To bide your time, you prep coffee for later, rearrange the case of pretty little pastries that sits next to your register, and doodle on your station with a paint pen, humming to the soft music playing in the shop.

People come and go, some picking up mobile orders and some ordering from you, some choosing to eat inside and some taking their food to go. You sip your drink happily between customers- a white mocha with caramel.

At one point, you’re in the back and washing dishes when a coworker peeks his head into the back. “Hey, you got someone up front!” He informs you, and you nod and wander out through the swinging doors.

Well. That’s certainly a sight for a Tuesday morning.

The man standing at the register is wearing a painfully well-tailored suit jacket, with gray tweed and patches on the elbows. Beneath it is a white top and a black tie, and the man wears jeans on the bottom half. Interesting.

Perhaps more interesting is the large cowboy hat perched atop his head. The man’s face, below the brim of his Stetson, is incredibly handsome. He has an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache that wouldn’t work on anyone else, and warm brown eyes that make you smile softly.

“Hi,” you comment as you log into the register. “Are you a part of our rewards program?” You ask as part of your regular spiel.

The man furrows his brow then shakes his head. “Uh, no. No I’m not. Can you sign me up now?” He asks, and his voice makes your chest flutter with the tone. It’s rich and smooth, with a beautiful southern twang.

Looking at your register and back at him, you shake your head. “It’s just an app on your smartphone, really easy,” you tell him.

“Ah, damn,” he groans and pulls it from his pocket. “I’m shit with technology. Why don’t you just… type it in here?” He says, handing you his phone with a notes page open. His thick fingers accidentally lock the phone as he hands it to you.

You tap the screen to wake it and find the background to be a picture of a cute little pig all covered in mud. “Uh, you locked it,” you chuckle. “What’s the password?”

The man looks down shyly. “1-2-3-4. Don’t make fun’a me, I’m like a grandpa with these newfangled phones.”

It’s endearing, you have to admit, and it makes you giggle. “Not a problem. I’m not here to chide you on your security choices,” you shrug. You type in the code and find the app, starting the download for him before handing back his phone. “Can I get a name to start your order?” You ask as you look up at him.

His eyes hold a warmth there, radiating off of his smile. “Whiskey.”

“Your mother named you Whiskey?” You tease as you type in the name, returning back to the main page of beverages. “Some kind of legal name.”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, that’s just what I go by at work.”

Whiskey likes conversation, you notice, and it makes you chuckle a little. “You got a real name then?” You ask him, raising an eyebrow beneath your visor.

The man tips his hat. “Jack Daniels, at your service.” He says and offers you a hand, which you take and shake.

“That’s a lie. You’re telling me your nickname is Whiskey and your real name is a type of whiskey?”

The man shrugs. “My momma had a real funny sense of humor, I guess. My daddy loved the booze so they went with it. I work for Statesman, so I suppose it’s fitting.”

“Ah, the distillery,” you nod with a smile, not grasping the depth of what Statesman actually does. How could you? “Well then, Jack,” you say with an honest grin on your face. “What can I get you to drink?”

Whiskey, Jack, whatever his name is, looks up at the menu, scanning the different beverages. “Well. That sure is a lot of choices. I’m new to the area, so I don’t know the menu yet, and I don’t know the first thing about coffee other than how to make it in a machine,” he admits to you. “What would you recommend, sugar?”

Sugar. Your heart beats a million times faster at the man’s words. You’ve had lots of weird and creepy men call you different things, but you’ve never been flustered and enjoyed it. This man is getting to you, quickly. “Well, how strong do you take your coffee?”

He thinks about that for a second, fiddling with the button on his suit jacket. “Pretty strong. A little sweet, with cream. I usually take it Irish style,” he admits with a chuckle, tapping a belt buckle that you realize is a tiny flask. Jesus. That’s not cheesy.

“Well, we don’t serve alcohol,” you laugh and look down at your screen. “We have all kinds of flavors.” You list them all off, off the top of your head, now staring at the ceiling to recite them all. “And our seasonal drink is pumpkin spice.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Wonderful and all, but what do you like? You seem like you’ve got a good taste, darlin’, tell me what you’d recommend.”

God, these names are going right to where they shouldn’t, especially not when this handsome man is leaning on your counter and flirting with you as he orders his coffee. “I like vanilla.” You shrug.

The man laughs and stands. “I hate to say it, sugar, but I’m not a very vanilla man,” he says, his head tilting down and his dark, sultry eyes peeking out at you from just below the brim. His voice is seductive, implying something else other than the flavor.

Oh fuck. “Oh, not like that,” you laugh as your face floods with warm blood, anxiety coursing through your veins. “Not vanilla in that way.” Fuck, that’s even worse, you think and grip the counter so as to not physically cringe at your words.

“Not like that, huh?” His words are still so seductive and flirtatious it makes you want to combust. Maybe you will, if he keeps this going.

“N-no,” you stammer, looking down at the menu screen again. “I mean, I just think it’s underrated. People dismiss it as boring, but it’s really just as interesting of a flavor as anything else. It tastes really good with our espresso.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, a smirk on his face. His lip pokes out just slightly to wet his lips and you shiver involuntarily, your skin pricking up all across your body. God, you hope he can’t see it. “I’ll trust you on it, ‘nilla bean,” the man drawls and stands up straight again. “Triple espresso with vanilla and cream.”

You nod and ring that in. God, if he keeps going with the nicknames, you’re going to melt into a puddle here and now.

“What are these?” He asks as his fingers trace over the drawings on the counter, lifting them and finding the pink and green powder of the dried paint has transferred to his fingertips.

God, he makes you nervous, but in a good way. In the best way possible, a way that makes you want to knock that cowboy hat off his head and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. “I draw when I’m bored. It’s been a slow day,” you chuckle as your own fingers trace the crawling vines and flowers you’d painted there. “Sorry about the transfer,” you chuckle and your fingertips brush his, making you involuntarily shudder again at the contact. His fingertips are calloused and radiate warmth.  “Uh, can I get you anything to eat?” You ask and gesture at the bakery case.

The man inspects it for a moment, looking at the various foods lined up under the soft white light. “I’ll take one’a these,” he says and pokes a finger towards the chocolate chip cookies through the glass. You nod and take one out for him, putting it in a little paper sleeve and handing it over. “How much is this gonna hurt my wallet?” He asks, pulling it out from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Give me one second.” You type in your code for your employee discount, which takes a moment.

“What’re you typin’ there, ‘nilla bean?” He asks, brow furrowing.

Looking up at him, you push your visor up your face and smile a little. “Oh, I’m giving you my employee discount. It’s ridiculously priced here.”

Jack frowns. “You don’t have to do that for me, sugar. I’m just a regular ol’ customer.”

It’s your chance, you realize, to say something or stay silent forever. “Well, I like you,” you admit and take the credit card he hands you, swiping it through the machine. “And I’m hoping you’ll at least become a regular. I’d like to see you more,” you tell him with a grin.

The man’s face lights up, even beneath the shadow of his brim. “I’d like that too,” he nods and pockets his card when you hand it back.

A beat of silence passes as the two of you smile at each other, both of you lovestruck immediately. “Uh, your drink will be right up over there,” you say and nod to the other end of the café. “Are you going to drink that here or take it to go?” You ask.

“Oh, here,” he nods.

“Perfect,” you say with a small smile. “Then I’ll just bring it to you when it’s ready. Nothing better to do today,” you shrug and wander down to the other end before Jack, Whiskey, whatever can refute you.

You take the cup from your coworker, humming to yourself as you put some vanilla and cream in the cup, pulling the espresso shots. When it’s ready, it barely reaches the halfway mark of the small cup, so you top it with a little whipped cream. You suspect the man has more of a sweet tooth than he lets on.

Pocketing a pink paint marker, you put a lid on the drink and walk out to the dining room, setting the coffee down across from him. He’s munching on the cookie he’d ordered, looking up at you with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “Hey there.”

“Hi,” you smile and pull out the chair across from him, sitting down and pulling out the paint pen. “I put a little extra whipped cream on top. I thought it would go well with the espresso, make it a little creamier or something.”

As you uncap the paint pen, Jack’s brow furrows as he watches you. “Whatcha doing there?” He asks as you bring his cup closer to yourself and write something on the top.

“Being brave,” you chuckle and cap the pen, sliding it back. “I gotta head back. Enjoy it,” you say as you stand and pat him on the shoulder.

Only as you walk back to the register does Whiskey comprehend exactly what you put on the top of his cup. It’s your phone number, in that chalky pink paint, and a smiley face beneath it.

Jack may not be great with technology, like he told you, but he immediately pulls out his phone and takes a photo. Then he enters the number into a contact, filling out the name: ‘Nilla Bean.

-

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[blinder-secrets]

Your John, Your Home

In which you’re the girl they picked to marry John, and he’s the one you found your home in. 

4,373 words. fluff, some angst, sickly-sweet love, very mild nsfw

ao3 link

It’s Tommy’s wedding day, something you thought would never come, and John is yet to finish dressing. Running late as he always does, despite him hounding after you to be ready on time.

You’re sat by the vanity, watching him loop his tie over and over, fingers clumsy and directionless. He’s still not learnt how to do them properly, but you’re too caught up in staring at him to offer any help. There’s something about formal suits that make him mesmerising. You’re used to his every-day attire, the waistcoats, the tweed jackets, but the crisp pinstripes running down his trouser legs make you feel like a woman in a movie. Like you’re the sweetheart and he’s the hero, like you’ve been through everything that you have, just for him, and now you’ve won. You’ve got your prize.

Sighing, he swears under his breath and lets the tie fall open around his neck. ‘Will you do this bloody thing?’ he asks, darting a look in your direction. He reaches for the suit-jacket and begins pulling it onto his shoulders. When you don’t answer him, he glances again and says, ‘What is it?’ like he might be in trouble.  

‘Do you think you would’ve liked me if we met normally?’ you ask, slouching in the chair as you pool your thoughts into the room. ‘Like, if you weren’t forced to marry me?’

His hands still, brows scrunching over the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you kidding?’

You shake your head, almost embarrassed to say that part out loud; yes, I’m really asking that, John. Yes, I worry. There wasn’t a day that had passed without you considering it. Was he just making do with what he had? Would he have chosen you, if he’d had the chance to choose at all? You know what your answer would be.

He crosses the room in three steps and takes your face between his palms. He looks serious, and he never looks serious about anything really. ‘I won the fucking lottery with you,’ he says, accent thick and strong like it is when he speaks from the heart. ‘If I could go back in time, I’d pick you again, and again, and a-fucking-gain, alright?’

‘Even if I was just some girl in the Garrison?’

‘Even if you were a fucking witch in the forrest,’ he answers quickly, certainly. His thumbs rub up and across your cheekbones. ‘You’re mine, yeah, you’re perfect.’ Bending, he pushes a kiss into your forehead and mutters, ‘Was fucking fate when they put us together.’ And for him, that’s poetry. That’s the softness he only gives when you’re alone, when you need it. It’s touchable love, crafted and trickled into your ears, poured over you like he’s full of it.

‘Thank-you,’ you tell him, smiling easily. ‘I’ll only ask again in a month, but that’ll do me for now.’

He snorts through his nose and straightens, running a palm over your hair. ‘You just like seeing me soft, don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, only for you, yeah?’ He tilts down again for a kiss and you stretch to meet him in the middle. ‘No-one else has me speaking like a fucking Eton boy,’ he says, quietly, into the soft of your cheek.

You laugh, kissing him again before you reply. ‘You couldn’t if you tried, J.’ He’s too rough for it, too shaped by the smog and the fighting. ‘I wouldn’t like you so much if you were an Eton boy.’

When you were first married, you had barely known what to do with yourself. After the drama of Ada’s birth, and John’s frantic attempt to catch you up with everything that had passed, you hadn’t had time to discuss the ceremony. Or the arrangement. Or even consummate the damn thing. He’d told you everything, all the family intricacies he could, by the lamplight in his little room, and then he’d passed out on your lap like a dog before the fire. Too tired and full of beer to give you anything more than secrets.

You hadn’t minded though, not really, it had given you time to think. To breathe. You’d sat and taken in every detail of his face, every freckle along his nose, every nick of scar tissue on his skin, his cheeks, his shoulders. You’d looked and looked and looked, until you felt so comfortable with him, and so entranced by the sight of him, quiet and peaceful, that you had almost convinced yourself you’d known him for years. He felt familiar without even doing anything. You’d ran your finger across his brows and down the line of his nose, and when he’d whined and pulled into you, putting his arms around your waist, you’d felt like you were coming home. Or that he was coming home, finding it in you. It was the gin, you thought, it was the length of the day and the ache from dancing that had made your brain think things that weren’t true.

But then you’d woken up in the morning, and it had still felt like you were home and that he was the key. And it kept feeling like that, over and over. It had felt like that the first time you’d fucked, the first time you sat with him at breakfast, and made him tea, and food for his children. It had felt like that every time you saw him smile, every time he laughed. It had felt that way because he was, somehow, he was. He was home and he’d been handed to you over an upturned milk crate, knelt in front of your father’s caravan. It was a truce, yes, a deal between families, but it had been a hand out in the cold, a light in the distance. You had never realised you were always wandering, looking for a way back, until you had felt the pull of John beside you. The call of home at last.

‘Oi,’ he says, tapping his finger on your chin. ‘Where’ve you gone?’

‘Nowhere.’ You smile and look up at him like he’s gold in a river-sieve. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Not ’til you’ve sorted this fucking thing.’ He dangles the end of the tie in front of you and then, thinking better of it, pulls it from under his collar and puts it onto your lap. ‘Do it in the car, we’re gonna be late.’

You’re sitting with the tie knotted, and hanging around your neck, when he pulls the car into the road by the church. There’s guests already gathering, but not a lot which is a good sign. It means you aren’t late, not in trouble, not yet. Polly will be inside somewhere, wrangling the kids so you don’t have to. God bless her. She’d offered to watch them before hand, willing, but begrudging all the same, and you couldn’t help but feel glad of the time it’d given you and John. It’d been months since you had any peace, had the freedom to go about your morning slowly and intimately. It’d made everything feel even more special. It wasn’t your day, no, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be an occasion for the two of you.  

You let your gaze draw from the flowers by the entrance to settle on John, who’s craning his neck out the window to see himself in the wing-mirror.

‘Is my hair alright?’ he asks, pawing at the parting he’s given himself.

‘Yes,’ you answer, grinning though you want to roll your eyes. ‘Christ, John, it’s not you going up the aisle, y’know?’

He tuts. ‘I won’t look like shit with the fucking cavalry there.’

‘You don’t look like shit.’

‘You sure?’ He pulls back into his seat to look at you.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ You lift the tie over your head and onto his, settling it under his collar. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a very nice soldier to-‘

‘Alright,’ he drawls, ‘very funny.’

You laugh and push the knot tight to his neck. ‘Seriously,’ you say, ‘stop fretting. They’re gonna look like a bunch of unlit matches standing there in their uniforms.’

‘Bunch of fucking pricks more like,’ he grumbles, eyes flitting over your face. ‘Have I said you look beautiful yet?’

‘No, not yet.’ You hang onto his tie, dragging him forward until you’re kissing and he’s speaking into your mouth between pecks.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘you look. Fucking.’ You bite his lip; he swallows once before trying again. ‘You look…’

‘Hm?’

‘Stunning.’

‘Thank-you,’ you purr, breaking away and leaving him to gawk. His mouth’s red from meeting with your lipstick. ‘I was waiting for you to say something.’

His hand goes to your face, to your hair, it sweeps it behind your ear, gentle enough to not disturb the main structure of its styling, and then drops so that his fingers can run down your neck. ‘Can I marry you again?’ he asks through the corner of a smirk. ‘Is that a thing?’

You pout, humming as if you’re considering it. ‘You’d have to divorce me first, I think.’

‘Nope, no way.’

‘Well then, you’ll have to settle for just the once.’

He groans and turns to open the door on his side. ‘You can’t have it all,’ he says, stepping out and away from you. You watch him cross in front of the bonnet, around the car, until he’s by you on the pavement. He pulls the door open and offers his hand, which he does every time he drives you anywhere. You don’t think you’ve opened your own door once since you’d met him. ‘Come on, Polly will have your tits if we’re late.’

You take his palm and step down, holding the fur of your shawl in place with the other hand. ‘No,’ you laugh, ‘she likes me. It’ll be your balls on the line.’

‘Yeah, and you’d miss them too much, wouldn’t you?’

‘John!’ You smack his arm lightly and move out the way so he can lock the car behind you. ‘This is a church, you know? It’s right there.’

A very ungodly grin is thrown over his shoulder at you. ‘And which one of us brought up my bollocks, ay?’

You laugh because you can’t do anything else, because he coaxes it from you like he’s been trained to, like he’s an expert in making your cheeks hurt from grinning. He was put on Earth specifically, you think, to make you laugh in the ugliest way possible: loud and uneven. He’s annoyingly good at it, desperately, desperately annoying.

‘Stop it,’ you tell him, stifling the giggles. When he comes back to you, ready to link his arm with yours, you nod to his face and say, ‘You might want to…’ You point at his mouth, gesturing around its shape, following the smudge of lipstick above his cupid’s bow. ‘From the kissing,’ you explain.

In one second, his eyebrows pinch and then crumple down in annoyance. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, babe.’ He turns quickly, bending to look in the mirror closest. ‘I look like a fucking clown,’ he moans. He scrubs at his lips, licking his fingers once, then again, to wash the red-stain away. It comes off easily, but his frantic rubbing will only leave more of a mark.

‘You don’t need to rub that hard,’ you say.

‘Am not going in there with fucking lipstick on. S’not funny.’

But it is, and you laugh again, because he’s just so John, and so silly, and everything he does makes your heart dip into the same sickly ambrosia.

You put your hands out for him. Wave him forward like you’re consoling a child. ‘Come here, let me see.’

After they took Epsom, John had come home with his tail between his legs. Cap off, shoulders slack, he’d walked through the front door like they’d lost, not won. Like something had gone wrong. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen and cleared his throat once, like he had something to say, and then he’d looked from you, to Katie and the baby, and said nothing at all. It was the only time he’d ever looked like a stranger in the house he’d bought for you.

‘What’s happened?’ you’d asked, standing from the table as soon as you’d seen him. ‘Katie, take your brother upstairs.’

‘We got it,’ John had started. ‘Epsom. It’s ours.’

‘Okay?’ You walked toward him; slow, like snowfall pulling down from the sky, drifting until it found something to cling to, something to wrap around. ‘So, what’s wrong?’ You put your hands to his biceps, ran them up until you were looped around the back of his neck. He looked tired. Weary but not damaged, not hurt. A few scuffs that wouldn’t last past the next day. ‘You look worried, John,’ you said, prompting him to tell you more.

‘It’s Tommy,’ he forced out, looking between you, his gaze aiming for the floor. ‘They took him,’ he said, ‘some coppers. We haven’t.’ He stopped mid-sentence and you finished for him because you knew nothing else would come, he wouldn’t push any words that didn’t fall easily.

‘He’ll be fine,’ you told him, out of comfort rather than certainty. ‘Tommy always has a plan.’

‘This wasn’t fuckin’ part of it.’

‘I know.’ You rubbed your thumbs into the shortest part of his hair. ‘He’ll turn up, he always does.’

And he did, of course he did, but it took you twenty minutes to wind John down, to get him sitting and somewhat comfortable. It was only after the call from Pol, telling you that Tommy was fine, that he let you make him something to eat. Let you look after him properly. You sat at the table and watched him take slow forkfuls of food, lagging with each bite.

‘He’s alright,’ you said to him, leaning on your palm. ‘Why do you still look stressed?’

‘I’m not.’ He lowered his fork until it was flat on the plate; he looked at it like it had done it all by itself.

‘John.’

‘It’s nothing.’

You sighed and the sound itched life under his skin, animating his features with a burst of agitation.

‘I felt fucking invincible,’ he said. ‘Then it went bad and, I don’t know, feels fucking stupid, doesn’t it?’

You sat upright, reached a hand for his, but he ignored it. ‘What does?’ you asked.

‘All of it,’ he spat, his face reddening. It twisted up until he was scowling, throwing words into the woodgrain. ‘What’s the point in having fuckin’ Epsom, if they can just, just, put you in the back of a van and fucking cart you away?’

He’d flung his hand out then, catching the plate and sending it across the table to you. It rattled against the top as he continued.

‘We can go as fucking high as we like,’ he said, ‘and they’ll still treat us like dogs. Like fuckin’ mutts.’

You’d set your jaw, wound your fingers through his and put both of your hands down to still the fidgeting. ‘Then we go high enough that we’re the ones doing the carting, John.’ You’d ducked your head to make sure he saw your look, your promise. ‘We’re no-ones bloody dogs, alright? Not now, not ever.’

He’d scoffed and recoiled bitterly. ‘It’s not like we have a fucking say, is it?’

‘Course we do,’ you’d told him. Of course we do.

The wedding ceremony is over, and now the party’s been taken to Arrow House; the rooms are stocked with guests, the ceiling pushed high with noises, with music, with chatter. Your head’s spinning and it’s only a fraction to do with the alcohol.

‘I don’t think I’ll last til dinner at this rate,’ you say to John, who’s got you leaning against him in the largest room. How they’d managed to clear enough furniture away to make it feel like a dancehall, you’ve no idea, but it’s convincing enough that you hardly believe you’re in a home at all. ‘Who the fuck are these people anyway?’ you ask. 'I don’t recognise any of them.’

His hold tightens over you, pulling your back flat to his chest. He’s got his arms across you like bandoliers. ‘Grace’s lot mostly,’ he says into your ear, chin on your shoulder. ‘Lot of fucking rich boys in suits too big for them.’

You snort. 'You’re a rich boy too now, J. They’re probably looking at you and thinking the same.’

‘Nah, they can’t even fucking look at me, see.’ He nods forward, to a man in a red uniform opposite. ‘Y’alright?’ he booms; you can hear the smirk without turning to look. The soldier lifts his gaze, catching the pair of you for a moment, before looking away quickly. Like he’d caught sight of something indecent. ‘See?’ John boasts. ‘We’re like fucking ghosts to them.’

‘You’re enjoying that too much,’ you quip, though your own grin betrays your words. It still feels nice to be on the Peaky side. The side with power, danger. The ones people were afraid of. ‘If I ask you to dance, will you say no and break my heart?’ you ask, twisting your head away from his in order to flash him your best pout, to trap him with your eyes.

He smirks, squeezing you in response. ‘I’d be mad to tell you no. Come on.’

He peels himself off you, but leaves a hand dragging, cloying, snaking down your arm until he has his palm locked tight around yours. He tugs you into the centre of the room, melting the two of you into the crowd.

‘I still think ours was better,’ he says, smugly, once he’s picked a rhythm and stuck to it. ‘Our wedding.’

‘Yeah?’ You let him spin you. ‘Wouldn’t do it differently now we have the money?’

He shakes his head; the rose in his breast pocket teeters on the edge. ‘No way. Too fucking poncy  for us.’

You agree with him, nodding, and laugh as he dips you half-way to the ground. ‘You drop me and I’ll fucking cut you, J.’

‘Do I look like I’m gonna drop you?’ he replies, grinning wildly. Your mad man, you think, your wonderful bucket of frogs. He pulls you up again and you fall against him with the force of it, chests held tight to each other as he pours all the wonder and drunken giddiness from his eyes, into yours. ‘This wedding’s done something to my head,’ he pants, looking bewildered.

You’re smiling before he’s even said why. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about how much I fuckin’ love you,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna explode with it.’

‘Alright,’ you laugh. ‘Explode then, I’ll do it with you.’

When you’d been married a month, just a month, you’d accidentally told him that you thought you loved him. It had fallen out of your mouth and onto the foot of the bed like a woollen blanket. A sock. A piece of clothing kicked off in the night without care, without thinking.

‘What?’ he’d said, quicker than you’d hoped, head snapping up from where he sat. You had wanted him to miss it entirely. You were married, yes, but it wasn’t like other marriages. You were working backwards, unpicking the puzzle after it had been made. ‘What did you say?’

‘Can’t I say it?’ you’d asked back, stalling time for your head, for your heart, to decide if it had really meant it.  

He was on the edge of the bed, undoing his boots, but then he’d stopped. The ends of his laces clicked against the floorboards. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t know if I heard you right.’

‘Then don’t worry about it.’

You tried to brush it away, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you to stand in front of him.

‘Say it again,’ he told you and, if it wasn’t for that slight smirk on his lips, that tiny curl of enjoyment, of wishful thinking, you would’ve bolted. You would’ve told him to stop being so bloody annoying for once. But he sat there, looking up at you, with an almost-grin behind his features, and you’d thought, alright. Alright, sure, why not.

‘I think I love you,’ you’d said quickly, and it bounced right off his pretty face, back into your stomach, back to mingle with the butterflies.  

‘You think?’

You nodded. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

His grin settled, flourished. Grew wide and made home in his cheeks. ‘I think you have,’ he said, ‘I think you do.’

‘If you think so much, then why do I need to?’ You stepped forward and his arms had gone up to your waist like it was choreographed, like his hands knew their target without an invite. He held you steady and you found yourself toying with his hair, looking down at him fondly, so fondly. ‘I shouldn’t have to say it if you know so well,’ you’d mused.

He turned his head and kissed your forearm. ‘Just wanna hear it, from the boss herself.’

You’d snorted at the nickname, the false title he’d adopted to make you feel appreciated, valued. It only came out when he was being playful.

‘Okay,’ you’d said, ‘I love you, then,’ and he’d answered, ‘Okay, well I love you back.’

John, for all his goodness, for all his charm and well-meant nature, could be a devil walking when he wanted to be. Right now, right in the middle of a dinner party, in the middle of a fucking wedding reception, he’s being the very fire-scorched man himself. He’s got you bundled in his arms again, coaxing you from the party, tempting you with kisses and words, and touches in places he knows will break you down into nothing more than a woman; a woman who wants a man, her man, his touch, his heat. He’s tugging you out of Arrow House, away from the smokers, across the gravel. Spinning and twisting until you’re dizzy with him, lost entirely.

‘John,’ you laugh, pushing against him weakly, falsely, ‘someones going to see us.’

He drags his lips up your neck. ‘They’ll look away if they know what’s good for ‘em.’

You meet his mouth as he offers it, kissing him like you’re coal and he’s fire and that’s the spark, there it goes, up it comes. ‘You’re taking me to the car, aren’t you?’ you ask, pulling back to look at him. He’s foggy, eyes glazed with lust, desperate with need. Beautiful in the most boyish way.

‘You read my mind,’ he says. He drops his lips to your hand, or maybe your hand goes to his lips, eager like ships to lighthouses, willing to be peppered, wanting to be looked for. He takes hold of it and pulls you after him into the dark, away from the noise of the party.

You stumble along, tripping your heels through the stones, letting him guide you to where he’d parked it. Once you’re there he has you against the door, the low-cut of your dress leaving your back to meet the cold metal, the fresh steel. You gasp as your skin goes flush to it.

‘Wanted this all bloody day,’ he says into your throat, in such a throw away manner that it could’ve been a thought, one that had escaped without him realising. He nips the skin between your breasts, then comes up for a moment to say, ‘Get in.’

You laugh and it bubbles above him, pulls him to the surface. He straightens in front of you with an eyebrow raised and waiting. ‘You’re being very bossy, J,’ you tell him.

He sighs. His hands grip the dress at your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish. ‘Please,’ he whines, needy without the shame of it, head sinking into one shoulder with the plea. ‘Please get in the car so I can fuck you.’

The smile you’re wearing might as well fly off your face and up into the stars. It’s too big to stay down, too light to not be free.

How you landed someone so perfect was beyond you. He’s every element, every angle, every part of him was made to compliment your own. So similar, that even your arguments make sense. Even your disagreements are clockwork. Ornamental. You took a gamble, you played the cards, and you’d taken the prize. You won the pot. He was yours, all yours, standing there in all his daft, gorgeous glory, loving you more and more each day. Wanting you every morning, every night. Craving you like you crave him.  

‘Why’re you smirking like that?’ he asks, frowning.

‘Because,’ you drawl sweetly, ‘when have I ever held my own door open, John Shelby?’

He groans but then matches your grin, leaning around you to pop the door open, to hold it back for you to climb in. ‘After you,’ he says, playing the part.

‘Thank-you.’ You give a half-curtsey, one led by drunken humour, and duck into the back seat, feeling him follow after you keenly.

You’re flipped onto your back and then his lips are on you again, kissing the love into your mouth. He swirls his tongue with yours, tastes that part of you and leaves his own in return, and then pulls back, hands pawing at the silk of your gown.

‘John,’ you scold, ‘I swear to God, if you rip this dress.’

‘I’ll buy you another,’ he pants. He pushes it up to your hips, freezing at the sound of snagging tights, of stockings tearing and losing their purpose. ‘Sorry,’ he says, though he doesn’t mean it. ‘New ones of those too.’

You hum and reach for his collar, his neck. Your nails drag down the heated skin and his eyes roll with the feeling of it. ‘Just as long as I have something to wear afterwards,’ you warn.

He folds over you again, pressing kisses and marks into your chest. ‘Anything you want, Mrs. Shelby. Say the fuckin’ word and it’s yours.’

It flashes across your mind, white-hot fire in the dark, sweet, lasting tenderness. It strikes onto your tongue like lightening. ‘You,’ you say. ‘I want you.’

[winter-fox-queen]

Kisses Like Wine: Part 3

In honor of the new photo, I think I will post this now. :)

Warnings:  Nothing, the reader remains a blank canvass.  Might have cursing.

Summary:  The reader is working undercover where she things the next heist will be, while trying to figure out the Thief's ways…

Note:  There really are diamonds in all these colors!  I spent way too much time looking it up.

“Joe F. Gambrel and Co., how may I direct your call?”  I shifted in my seat a little.  The chair was not that uncomfortable, but I felt like I was definitely out of my comfort zone.  I listened to the person on the other side, put them on hold.  Started an email to my boss.  Took them off hold.  “I am so sorry.  Mr. Larsen is in a meeting, may I take a message?”  I typed the message in the email, hung up, hit send.

This was the shape of my day.  Take messages for my reprobate boss, who was never in the office, and try to look like someone else.  Act like someone else.

And, most of all, case the joint.  I wondered, briefly, if the Thief ever called his work that…casing the joint.  Probably not.  He did not look like someone who used twenties gangster slang.

As I wandered the office suite, I hoped I was not wasting my time.  I was working for a high end antiquities firm.  If you wanted something, they got it for you.  They did not have a lot of staff, and the bosses seemed to be out of the office more than not.  The floors directly below me were home to a large business dedicated to restoration.

I’d been studying, and I was ninety nine percent sure that this was the next place the Thief would break into.  The crown was — just a crown.  Pretty, historied. I suspect he took it because he could, not because he wanted it.  After all, it had been right there.

No.  He had come for the Star.  Almost a half a year prior, someone had stolen The Golden Queen.  And now, if I had guessed right, he would be coming for a incredibly rare, beautiful pink diamond called The Compass Rose.

I went and looked at it, not for the first time. At the top floor of the high rise, the company — and Keith Larsen — kept the Compass Rose on display in an act of hubris that was sure, if Greek Myth was any indication, to anger some God eventually.  It was in a huge room, the ceiling was all glass that arched up to a sharp point that was illuminated at night.  The floor was marble, the walls a warm sandstone.  Four benches, one on each side of the pillar that held the diamond’s display case.  One wall held a fountain and greenery, meant to look like a small, exotic waterfall.  The water trickled softly as I went as close to the case as I dared.  And there.  The largest pink diamond that had ever been discovered in Australia, glittering deep rose.  It was one of a kind.

My thief was collecting a full set.  There were three diamonds, including this one, in Midas’s Rainbow that the thief had not stolen.

He could have gone after one of the other ones.  I could be wrong.

But I wasn’t.  I couldn’t be. I had bribed my way in, under a new name with a perfectly wrought set of identification papers, even a credit card.  I dyed my hair and carefully applied my make up so that I made my face a little different.  So if I ran into him, he wouldn’t immediately know it was me.  It was not, probably the best plan, but my training consisted of books and watching Leverage.

I was staring at it too long, the security guard peeked in.

“Miss?”  The security guard peeked in.  Older man, with warm, friendly eyes and a lovely voice that seemed not to match his age.  We’d spoken a few times on my daily check of the diamond.  No one was allowed to be in the room too long, and he was gently reminding me it was time to go.

I went out the door, leaned against the wall next to him, and asked the question that I’d been asking myself for weeks, since I started working here.  “If you were going to steal the Compass Rose, how would you go about it?”

He stared at me for so long I thought he was going to go report me.  “That’s not a smart question to be asking, around here.”

“There’s no harm, though.”  I said.  His voice bothered me.  I wanted more, if I could listen to it a little longer…

He shook his head and didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry if I offended.”

He gave me a gentle smile, touched his ear and pointed to a corner of the room.  Then he shooed me towards the door.

Back at my desk I snuck out my steno notebook from its hiding place in a stack of unused notebooks in my desk drawer.  It was where I kept my plans.  Layout of the building.  Everything I learned.  Since my purse could get searched at any time, I only had it at work.  One steno pad looks like all the others, right?  Locked in my drawer, under a box of tampons.

The fountain has to be the way in. There needs to be a way to service the pipes behind the wall.

If I could break something in the fountain without getting caught, someone would have to fix it.  Someone would have to open the door or the hatch, and I’d know how to get in.

And the thief always liked distractions. But what kind of distraction would he manage to create?

My work day ended, I grabbed my purse, made sure my desk was locked, and started out.

“Honey?”  The first front desk receptionist called after me.

I smiled and crossed over.

“I just wanted to remind you, tomorrow they are bussing in a bunch of high school students to tour the floors so they can see what it takes to restore old art.”  She smiled at me.  “You’ll want to make sure to get here early before they get here…it’s going to be a madhouse.”

Cue distraction.

The next day I went to see the madhouse for myself.  I wanted to see the teachers.  Most were women.  I didn’t discount them completely, but I had a feeling he wouldn’t shave his mustache if he could avoid it.  There.  Curly, dark hair.  Tweed jacket with elbow patches.  What century did he think this was?  I followed him as he ushered bored looking kids, careful not to let me see his face.  Finally I went around a dented suit of armor and managed to get face to face with him.  “Hey!”  I said cheerfully.

It wasn’t him. Eyes too far apart, nose too small, just not him.

I apologized and walked off just as one of the teachers asked, brightly, “Can we see the Compass Rose?”

“Well.  There’s no reason why not.  The public are allowed to go in, but only one at a time, I think?” The woman who had gotten stuck showing the group around said.  I hid as quickly as I could, not wanting to be pulled into the conversation.

I walked back to my office, hoping no one had noticed I’d slipped out, to be sadly disappointed.  My boss was sitting on the corner of my desk.

“Where were you?”  He asked me.

“Just wanted to see what all the noise was about.”  Behind him, the lady security guard who switched on and off with the one I usually saw stood, looking that part angry, part unamused way only a security guard could.

“Open your desk.”

“What is this about?”

“The Compass Rose.  It’s gone.  I want to know if you have it.  You spent enough time looking for it…made jokes about stealing it.  So.  Did you?”

I unlocked the desk and the guard pushed me aside, dumping the contents on my desk.  I held my breath when she flipped through the notebooks, but they all were empty.

Empty.  Oh, no.

I let her paw through everything I owned.  Let her pat me down.  “Unless she swallowed it, sir, I don’t think she has it.”

“I didn’t swallow it!”  I let panic creep into my voice.  It was not hard.

I let them x-ray me.  I did.  I admit it.  The lab tech a few floors down gave me sympathetic looks as I stood there, shivering, in my gown.

And then I let them fire me.  The frustrating thing was the lack of knowledge.  They refused to let me know anything.  What happened?  How?  Why?  Was a playing card left behind?  I wanted to know.

But most of all I wanted to know where my notebook was.

Two days later as I packed up my apartment, I received a package.  My name…my alias, rather, in quotes.  Quotes.  I grabbed a letter opener and ripped it open with more force than I needed.  I suspected, already, who would be cheeky enough to put quotation marks around my fake name.

My notebook.

The last page, there was a five of diamonds tucked in like a book mark. The back of the card the same as the one I carried with me wherever I went.

Across the last page he’d written, “A five star card for a five star effort.  Not bad for your first try.  I wish I’d thought of the fountain.  That was clever, if a bit damp.”  A couple of crabbed notes along side my own.  Suggestions.  Not actual plans.  No, I’d need to catch him to find out how he did his theft, if he could be convinced to tell me even then.

I sat down, hard.  He knew where I was.  Where I lived.  Knew I had a steno notebook, knew I’d hide it because I could have my belongings searched.  How?  How did he learn so much about me?  I thought over the people I had met, since getting that job.

I imagined large hands carefully drawing things out of my purse, lining them up neatly on the marble of the entry way desk.  “Sorry about this, miss.”  The guard’s voice said, as he went through my things.  Large, but graceful hands.  A warm voice that bothered me because I’d heard it before.  The security guard.  He’d been guarding the damned diamond all along.

“Five star effort? Oh, I’ll show you.  I’ll show you.”

I worried about telling my family of my failure, then I realized.  He’d given me a clue.  The cheeky bastard had given me a clue.  Because one of the other diamonds was kept in a five star hotel overlooking the Rhine.

He was telling me that he was going to steal the Heart of the Rhine, a mossy green diamond worth millions.  Now, if only I could believe him.

Thank you to you lovely people for being on my tag list, if you want added or dropped just let me know.  <3

@grogusmum @mishasminion360 @hnt-escape @littlemisspascal @pedro4ever @writteninthestars18 @fromthedeskoftheraven @sharkbait77

@quica-quica-quica @eri16 @the-blind-assassin @ayoungpascallover-readings @songsformonkeys

[pettyprocrastination]

Rip Out Our Seams and Stitch Us Together

Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Reader

Chapter Three

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Straight up smut first thing in the fic, we startin’ off with a bang folks. Profanity, they stare at ur booty ;). Ur patience is TESTED by these rich idiots. 

Chapter Summary: The great Maxwell lord is having trouble focusing lately, You have your first consultation with the famed Lord couple and realize their clashing styles and all around personalities may cause an issue (or cause you to kill somebody). 

Tag List: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ @zeldasayer​ @readsalot73​ @captainsamwlsn​

Chapters: 1/2/3

(I will not stop using marilyn gifs for val she’s just so beautiful you guys hhhhh)

Max felt distracted. Muddled. He wasn’t sure what it was lately that had him in such a rut. 

“Maxwell!” His secretary whimpered beneath him, his hand moved from gripping her hair to slapping over her mouth to try and silence her nails-on-a-chalkboard like voice. He wasn’t sure if anybody outside his office heard her, and if they did he couldn't care less. They knew by now to ignore any suspicious moans or groans and keep doing their job unless they wanted to lose it. 

What she should have known by now is to never call him by his first name.  

The company was doing good, it was doing great in fact. He and Valerie weren’t spending time together, which was usual, and Alastair was home for the summer. Nothing was out of place, so why did he feel off?

Maybe it was you. 

That ridiculous seamstress with the even more ridiculous nickname and ridiculous outfits. I mean Stitches? What were you, a fucking dog? 

Delilah, the secretary currently moaning beneath him like a cheap whore, tried to grip at his jacket with trembling hands as he pulled her closer and closer to her climax with each thrust. He slapped her hands away without even looking down at her, eyes squeezed shut as he chased his own release instead of attending to hers. 

Valerie insisted he go to the “design consultation” with her today, which meant leaving his office in the middle of a goddamn work day to hear her prattle on about what color makes her feel the prettiest. Usually he’d stand his ground and refuse, but lately a break from work didn’t seem all that bad. 

All because of his goddamn secretary. 

The woman in question grabbed onto his wrist and cried against his hand, even muffled he could still hear her grating moans. Lately she’d been cuddly with him after each screw, trying to nuzzle his shoulder and ask for things like he was some pathetic sob paying for a sugar baby instead of her fucking boss. 

He’d have to fire her soon, if her whiny voice didn’t do her in, the piss poor work ethic would. 

But for a moment, when he looked down at her, with her back arched and eyes shut as she fluttered around his cock, he was reminded of that ridiculous seamstress, the little noise of surprise you made when he clamped a hand over your mouth, and just how soft your skin felt under his palm. 

Maxwell would never admit this to anybody. But that image alone made him cum on the spot. 

Maxwell Lord was a man who learned how to compartmentalize at a young age and never stopped doing so. He pulled out of the boneless woman beneath him, before cleaning himself up and tucking himself into his trousers while she laid against his desk, panting like a dog in the heat. 

Not like she fucking did anything. 

His ringed hand landed a stinging slap to her thigh that shocked her out of her blissful haze. “I’ll be out for the rest of the day, take my calls and let them know I won’t be back in until tomorrow.”

She blinked, watching owlishly as he grabbed his briefcase from his desk before walking out of his office. “Where are you going?” The way she sounded so disappointed and shaky as if he had broken a promise to her made him feel nauseous. 

He didn’t bother giving her a response. 

----

The moment his driver parked outside of the store, he saw a convertible drive up to the curb before stopping, he knew the cherry red color better than anyone, as it’s the same shade of the car he gifted Valerie for their five year anniversary. 

She stepped out, avoiding the jump in the curb as she adjusted her hair and dress before her eyes landed on his car and flashed him a condescending smile. 

Maxwell knew even though he was only two seconds later than she was, Valerie would still hold it over his head like a treat. He stepped out of the car, mindful of any gutter water around him this time and walked to his wife. 

“I wish I could say you're fashionably late at least but-” Her blue eyes ran down his suit, brand name and costly before smirking. “-you didn’t even bring that to the table.”

He let out a short humorless laugh before taking the handle of the door. 

“Oh? No witty remark about my outfit?” The woman feigned surprise as her husband raked his eyes down the baby blue dress that stopped just above her knees and fit her curves like a glove.

Valerie Lord held a doctorate and multiple books studying the human mind and the effects shaping childhood, she was an intelligent woman. Which meant she knew damn well just how good she looked. 

She just wanted to hear him admit it. 

“It looks good.” He said plainly, not hiding the way his eyes clung to the supple form of her thighs that she teased under a white sundress just last week. 

The curve in her red lips was the closest he’d gotten to an honest smile from her in ages. “You should know. You bought it for me after all.”

“I’m a man of refined tastes.” Max answered simply before giving her an almost playful swat on the ass and opening the door for her. 

The moment they entered the girl at the register from before, young and anxious, looked at them with wide eyes. A textbook laid open on the counter in front of her. 

She gaped for a moment before Valerie smiled at her. 

“Hello sweetheart.” His wife cooed, “We’re here for a consultation with the bosslady, mind letting her know for me?”

The girl pointed to an open door against the back wall. “She takes her consultations in that room.”

Valerie gave the young girl a quick pat on the cheek before walking into the room and calling out “Thank you dear!” over her shoulder. 

“Did you have to talk to the kid?” Maxwell mumbled under his breath to his wife, who scoffed in reply. 

“Well I wasn’t about to stand there in silence and scare the poor girl half to death like you were.” 

Maxwell looked at her incredulously. “I was not scar-”

His denials were cut off upon entering the room, which was laid with multiple chairs surrounding a table, covered in books displaying different types of dress and suit styles, a few fabric swatches were spread out as well. But the main focus of the Lords was on you, currently bent over, digging through a large container in the corner of the room as you grumbled and huffed, hips swaying and ass raised high in the air as if presented to them like a gift. 

One they admired greatly and for much too long to be deemed socially acceptable. 

Valerie tilted her head to the side with a little hum, enjoying the view before her just as Maxwell did, before he eventually coughed into his fist to make themselves known. 

You jumped up at an angle from surprise, accidentally thumping your head against the wall. A shouted curse left your lips as you rubbed your head. 

“Hard at work or hardly working?” Maxwell droned. 

“You're late.”

His wife smiled. “And you're exceptionally perky.”

“What?”

His elbow dug into her side. “What she meant to say was that we live busy lives. But we're here now so let’s get this over with.”

The three of you took seats at the table in the middle of the room, you handed each of them a design booklet before flipping open a blank notebook for yourself. 

“Any initial idea’s the pair of you have?” You twirled the pencil between your fingers as you spoke. “Or at least any automatic no’s?”

“Nothing too loud.” Maxwell told you. 

“Or too dull.” His wife added.

“No floral.”

“But don’t be afraid to use patterns.”

“No sparkles.”

“No tweed.”

“And absolutely no plaid.” They finished together. You stared at the list on your paper before blowing out a long breath. 

“Alright. So you don’t want anything dull, but also not loud, but no patterns, but use patterns, nothing with sparkles, or tweed and-”

“No plaid.” They reminded you in unison. 

“Uh, right. No plaid.” You didn’t enjoy them as separate people but somehow they were even worse together. “So is there anything the two of you can agree on wanting?”

“Color coordination.” Max told you. Your shoulders dropped with relief. Fucking finally. 

“Okay. Okay that I can work with.” A steady stream of ideas began in your head. The accent colors of Maxwell’s suit would match the main color of Valerie’s dress. 

“We’d have to match Alastair as well.” 

Your pencil froze on the page. “Who?”

Maxwell’s brows cinched together. He seemed offended by the fact you didn’t know who was the poor bastard who got stuck with that ridiculous name. 

“Our son.” He answered. “But don’t worry about making anything for him. He won’t be accompanying us anyways.”

“And why not?” His wife countered. She had turned in her chair to face her husband with an angry look. With each passing minute this started to feel more like couples counseling than a consultation to make them some fucking clothes. 

“Because the gala is in September, dear.” His voice was so sickly sweet you could practically feel the patronization dripping off of it. “He’ll be back at the boarding school by then.”

Of course this kid goes to boarding school. Eventually you just zoned out their argument and began to draw up ideas. It’s probably better the kid is away from these two though. God forbid you meet what type of monster they made.

“For how much money you pay that damn school it’s a miracle you don’t know their schedule. He has a two week break in September at the same time of the gala.” “For what?” Max damn near shouted. At this point you abandoned your notebook and pencil in favor of rubbing your temples. 

“I don’t know. Some dead president, I'm not on the school board!”

“Well maybe you-”

“ALRIGHT!”

The pair stopped arguing and shot back to you, eyes wide at the sheer audacity you had to shout at them. 

Nobody shouted at them. 

“I’ll make a suit for the kid, okay?” You explained weakly. “Could we please, just, get to the actual goddamn design you two want?”

Valerie stared at you, before looking at her husband who had the same “Well I’ll be damned” look on his face as her. She tilted her head to the side and he shrugged in response. 

The heavy use of non-verbal communication they had just made you feel like even more of an outsider.

“Well I don’t see why not.” Maxwell sighed, grabbing one of the books in front and flipped through the suits in it. “I blocked out the rest of my day for this anyways.” 

The pair spent the next hour and a half flipping through design books and pointing out to you what they liked and what they hated. 

They seemed to hate a lot.

But you still learned enough about them to cross out some ideas and begin finalizing others. While Maxwell could wear a solid colored dark suit, he didn’t box himself in that way. He enjoyed a notch lapel type with pinstripes, and seemed quite partial to robin egg blue given how often he pointed out the color on other designs.

Valerie enjoyed solid color dresses rather than those with patterns on them, and while she often wore clothes made to hug her figure, each gown she pointed out flared out at the waist, reminiscent of a princess at a ball. 

Their son, well you had no idea what the kid liked. But given he was a child, he probably hated most suits, as certain brands were just as scratchy as they were expensive, so you made note to find something especially soft to make it out for their child, who’s suit would most likely mirror his father’s.  

Eventually you pushed away from the table, four pages full of notes and concepts as you rubbed your eyes. “I think that will be enough for today.”

“Poor thing.” Maxwell simpered with pursed lips. “Are we tiring the baby?”

Valerie slapped her husband’s shoulder. “Maxwell don’t be rude. Of course the poor girl is exhausted. Just look at the bags beneath her eyes!”

You spared a glance up at them to place a hand over your heart. “It truly is a blessing to be working with you both. A gift if I’m being honest.”

Valerie stood up from the table and set a hand on your shoulder as you walked them out. When she walked close enough you were surrounded with the citrus perfume she wore the last time she came over. “Oh we’re just kidding. You show a lot of promise Stitches, don’t disappoint and we might just keep you around.” She bumped her hip against yours with a coy smile, you did your best to ignore the funny flips your stomach did at the suggestion of them liking you so much they return for your work again and again and again.

“Which wouldn't be that hard.” Maxwell smirked at you and waved a blase hand through the air while the other opened the door for his wife. “The standards aren’t set very high given the fact that your own sense of style has you dressing like a hippie liberal arts teacher.”

The door slowly closed behind them as they walked to their cars, but before it could shut completely you poked your head out to say. “Those are some mighty big words coming from the guy dressed like a car salesmen with a secret latex fetish.”

Even with the door shut you could hear his wife’s shrieking laughter. 

Authors note: Slooooowwww burrrrrnnn babey.Now that they consultation is done we can move on to these assholes just bursting into your store to “see your progress” and then TENSION WHILE GETTING THEIR MEASUREMENTS. Also Maxwell lord is so starved of actual chemistry and love that the mere thought of a woman he may be actually attracted to he BUSTS that second lmao. Alastair will be included in the fic!! Wrote headcanons for him last night n i got all soft and emotional. But no joke writing this fic and doing headcanons for it is honestly so fun and relaxing for me so if you want to be tagges or talk hcs PLEASE send them my way I love this ot3 of power bisexuals. 

[thatbangtanbloom]

all that glitters || bts [3]

all that glitters | bangtan

prologue | chapter one|chapter two|chapter three

Characters: Jungkook, Taehyung, Namjoon, Jimin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Seokjin, Reader

AU(s): 1920s!AU, Mafia!AU, Historical!AU

Word Count: 3,255

Late springs in New York always proved to be grueling. Clouds lined the somewhat aesthetic atmosphere, hiding away the rain that would inevitably fall. There were the rainy days, causing havoc on the shabbily remodeled apartment buildings, with water leaking through thin roofs. Children were often inclined to pull daisies from people’s flowerbeds and said flowerbed owners often found themselves yelling at the aforementioned. The busy hustle and bustle meant daylight rising earlier and people leaving for work to get a head start on life, to achieve the American dream that was allegedly promised to those daring enough to take a risk. For many, spring symbolized new beginnings. For many, every cloud had its own silver lining.

Yet, you could not find your silver lining. Your routine, however habitual it may have been, was welcoming. You liked waking up at five in the morning to catch the bus to the nearest train station and then squeeze into the metro for a thirty-minute commute to downtown New York. You liked stopping at Sears and Roebuck to buy yourself a sandwich and spend ten cents on a strawberry milkshake for your lunch before reporting to the Yankees Stadium to catch any practicing players for interviews. You also liked working overtime at your small cubicle, just to make the same amount as your male counterparts. You liked having a routine. Until you no longer did.

Gone were the days of your usual routine, because it seemed that the Bangtan Boys were squeezing themselves into every crevice of your life. You noticed the raven-haired boy lingering near the metro station with glasses over his face at six-fifteen in the morning on Fifth Avenue. It was hard to ignore the blonde haired man in Sears and Roebuck as you ordered your strawberry milkshake when his eyes never left your figure, ignoring the waitress when she asked him what clubhouse sandwich he would like. And when you attempted to leave from work at the later time, there was an impressionable car at the corner with its lights on, that always turned off the moment your head peaked outside.

To put it simply, you did not see a single silver lining.

Taehyung was inclined to think clouds had their own silver linings too, especially with your monogrammed memo pad burning a hole into his freshly imported Guccio Gucci suit. His hair that once was an ash gray was now dyed black, matching his own busy eyebrows to give him a colloquial look. Though, it be in vain, for his features were not common in the hustle and bustle of New York City.. but it would do.

Ever since your little game of cat and mouse began a week ago in the speakeasy, Taehyung has been working around the clock to plan a way to lure you back to the speakeasy. He had dropped hints purposely, leaving a single flower at your desk with a note tied to it in efforts to draw you back. He had considered the idea of having Jungkook do the honors of returning your memopad, but the younger boy was shyer than he would like to admit and time was money. Every action one of the seven members partook in was a building block for the enterprise.

So here he was, arriving at your place of work only ten minutes before your regularly scheduled lunchtime with a single bouquet of flowers in his hand and a blue box dangling between his fingers as he walks over the steps and smiles prettily at the secretary.

“O-oh,” She is awestruck when her eyes fall over his dark alluring eyes and his masculine features. She can barely breathe when she notices how deep he stares into her, almost as though he could stare through her.

Taehyung knows that she is not the first woman to fall privy to his charms, so he does not hesitate for a moment to use them against hers. He had one objective and one objective alone - to get to you and to find out what information that you knew. “Darling,” He purrs and she swears that he is the devil incarnate himself. “My… my doll works here and I wished to surprise her. Her name’s Y/N L/N… Is it possible for me to go up there and visit her, darling?”

“Y-yes. Of course. Y/N? She should be on the third floor…” She stutters as Taehyung nods at her every word. She wonders if all men are able to stare that intensely and keep a platonic gaze. She thinks that he is one of one. “S-she covers the sports column from time to time, so she should be out-”

Taehyung sends her his prized boxy smile and he knows that she is a goner. “Darling, do you know if she is upstairs or not? I would hate to have come all the way to visit my dollface and she is not here…” His tone is sultry as he caresses each syllable of each word with his tongue. “Can I just.. Can I just go up there to see her?”

“O-of course! Let me just write you a small note…” She is absolute putty in his hands. She practically trips over herself writing down your cubicle number and department before batting her lashes up at him. “And if she is not here… feel free to come back and keep me company.”

Taehyung only winks in reply, not giving a verbal confirmation. As beautiful as she was, Taehyung had bigger fish to fry. You were at the top of his list, and he would be damned if he would let you escape him for a second time.

“For the last time, do you think Miller Huggins would let Chick Autry bat over Wally Schang? He is a seasoned player.” You lament with a frown as you sit down across from your editor of the sports column, Calvin Bush. He was three years your senior and biologically male to the point where he felt that it was quintessential to run everything by him first. At times, you questioned if he actually took anything that you said seriously or if he only disagreed with you because you did not have the same biological makeup as him.

Calvin scoffs in response as he rolls up his sleeves, glancing over the New York Times’ sports statistics and shakes his head. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to commit yourself to the big leagues, but do not let a pretty face fool you. Chick Autry is the present. Wally Schang is the past. Do you think that because Schang has more experience that he has more precision? That doesn’t suggest causation.”

“I could say the same for you,” You murmur under your breath as you sit back down in front of your typewriter. You were certain Wally Schang would be played against the Washington Senators before Chick Autry would. Breakout star or not, Schang had the consistency that Autry lacked. “Autry was just recruited a couple of weeks ago. He may have the tenacity and the ambition, but precision is something he lacks. We’ve seen that in how he can only bat with his right.”

He pauses, as though considering your words. He did have a point. While Autry was a top pick, it was news that he was having trouble adjusting from his school league to the Majors. But who was he to let a woman one-up him that much? “Not everyone can be as skilled as Schang..” He ends up conceding, deciding to focus his attention on the way your shoulders look under your blouse. That was one perk of the job. “Say, so you think that we could discuss Schang’s greatness a bit more at Sears?”

“That is exactly what I was saying,” You reply, thinking that Calvin had reached some sense in his head. You do not even notice the hidden meaning of his words. You sigh as you go back to writing your article, being greeted with the Courier font before you hear the clearing of your throat.

“I do not believe I appreciate you staring at my woman that way.” A voice says from in front of you and your eyes furrow.  A bouquet of roses blocks your view of the man who spoke and you frown. You certainly were not anyone’s woman but your own.

Calvin scoffs in reply as he stands up straight to meet the gaze of the taller man. He almost feels intimidated, observing the tweed suit that the unfamiliar man wears and how deep the timbre of his voice is. “I did not know that she was taken.”

“Well now you do.” The voice quips with a slight scoff before the owner of the voice kneels in front of you to place the bouquet of flowers into your arms. “My doll.. Mon chéri, my Y/N… I have missed you so.” He purrs into your ear while sending daggers to Cavin. You immediately recognize that purr from anywhere and you know that it is none other than the silver-haired man from the bar… well, now the black-haired man at the bar.

“I am not taken.” You deadpan before unwrapping Taehyung’s arms from your body before standing up. Your blood runs cold that he has managed to know where your job is… Well, it was not very hard for him, considering that it was the only other address that your roommates, Elizabeth and Margot, had given him. “Please leave.”

Taehyung forces a tight-lipped smile as he notices Calvin’s lingering interest before pulling you into a tight embrace. His chest is warm and welcoming despite his intimidating aura. He pulls you between the small aisle and places a soft kiss to your forehead before whispering softly into your ear, “Would you rather waste your time with bluenose* over here or would you like to get information on that Bangtan Rouge place you’ve been scoping?” His voice is low enough so that only you could hear it and your heart skips a beat at how close he holds you. “You’re not a damsel in distress, but some of them won’t take a hint.”

You hate how well he reasons with you, but you concede with the agreement that he will give you the information that you want. “It sure is the berries*.” You murmur as you pull away from him and force a smile. “Can we talk about this in private?”

“I thought you would never ask, baby.” Taehyung absorbs himself all too quickly into the role as your quarreling lover and passes you the flowers before sending one last glare to Calvin like any self-respecting actor would before grabbing your jacket and placing it onto your shoulders. “Let’s go.”

The atmosphere is tense as Taehyung immediately sits in the corner of the Sears and Roebuck with your memo pad still burning a hole in his pocket. He is smirking at you as though you hold the key to all of his problems, and quite frankly, you do. The elder members of the group had been ridiculing him from letting you get away in the first place when he had the largest window of opportunity of bumping you off*.

“You promised to tell me about Bangtan Rouge.” You grumble after you have taken three half-hearted bites into your club sandwich. It was unsettling that Taehyung had paid for you when you knew that you were a fully autonomous woman. Sure, it was 1924, but you would be damned by letting this man upend your life without lifting a snap of his figure.

Taehyung smirks, his red lips contouring into the perfect arch to display his amusement. “I did promise to tell you about Bangtan Rouge, but I think that it is necessary that you tell me first what you know. Would it not be a drag if I just rattled off everything that I know?”

“I think you are pulling my leg here.” You retort with another bite of your sandwich. You glance out to the window, noticing the way that the school children begin to file their way in, immediately running to the candy machines to deposit nickels and dimes to attain sugary euphoria. You wish that Taehyung was that easy to satisfy. “Why would we beat around the bush? I am well aware that you came here to ask me what I know, and the truth is, I know nothing.”

Taehyung scoffs as he leans back into the faux leather suits. He looks like a million dollars, seemingly out of place in the small time diner. You notice how his eyes soften at the sight of the kids playing so happily and you almost forget that he is a complete stranger to you who quite possibly has your very existence’s timeline in his hands. “Then you would not mind telling that to my Boss.”

“Your Boss?” You nearly scoff in reply at the idea of meeting someone who one openly referred to as ‘Boss’. That was the classic signature for mafia talk. The very last person that you wished to meet was Boss.

Taehyung smirks before he eyes your sandwich and slides the small ceramic plate in front of him to take an eager bite before letting his arm relax on the back arm rest. “Yes. Don’t worry, we have no intentions of making you a moll*.”  

“Moll?” You yelp in surprise before Taehyung leans forward to cover your mouth with his hand to silence you. The very idea of being called one shook you to your core and you could not even fathom such things. “I am not and nor will I ever--”

Taehyung finds it amusing to see you freak out in such a way. To put it simply, he thought of you as the cat’s meow. He did not know many women who were not as entangled in life in the underground as you, but he did know a self-respecting girl when he saw one. It was not to say that he did not respect the women he often frequented with, but it was less prominent than how he felt it with you. “You’re a regular sheba*, you know?” He replies with a small grin as his brows wiggle suggestively at the way you eagerly drink your milkshake. “It’s a shame that you witnessed such things. Though, I’ve always wanted a girl with a deadline.”

“I am not that girl.” You retort as you force yourself to look away from Taehyung and his evident prowess. Something about him was overwhelming, and you are unsure if it is his attractiveness or his level of conceitedness.  “I am only a girl who wants to be the head editor and bring back the Times to where it should be. If you are not going to give me the information that I desire or patronize me, do not waste my time.” You reply before putting down your milkshake and forking out a couple bills onto the table.

Taehyung chokes on the sandwich at the sudden statement, “I beg your pardon?”

“I do not know who you are, nor what you are capable of… but I will not let that deter me.” You reply adamantly before you swallow your courage and force yourself to walk around the booth and kneel over him. “All my life, men have tried telling me what to do, when to get married, who to marry, how many children I should have, and practically dictate my entire life without my say in it. You will not be one of those men.”

And Taehyung sits there, utterly gobsmacked and surprised that you had the courage to speak to him that way when your fate is dictated by a mere tug of a string from his hands. Yet, he finds himself all the more intrigued in you. It is almost instantaneous, as he watches you leave the Sears and Roebuck and cross the street fiercely through the crowd of businessman and schoolchildren. He almost thinks you look like something off a silver screen, a modern-day woman. And if he did not realize it before, he definitely knows that he will not let you go anywhere now.

The rest of your day remains uneventful as you go through the motions of listening out the latest statistics of the New York Yankees in your all-too familiar best friend of Courier Font until the lights outside have begun to grow dark. You are left even more unsatisfied as you hear the dewdrops crash against the glass window, distorting your margins and forcing you to groan when you have to start over every so often because of your perfectionist tendencies. You curse yourself, knowing that you would have to run to the subway to try to avoid getting pneumonia, much less in the dark.  You had been warned many times about leaving so late, especially alone, but you were a strong woman. A couple years in Chicago had taught you what it meant to grow tough after leaving your original small town.

Though, you are more surprised to find someone waiting for you when you leave the building with a dimpled smile and an umbrella in his hands. You do not recognize him from anywhere, but you can not help but grow weary as you think back to Taehyung’s statement of you needing to meet his boss. Had this been him?

“Y/N L/N?” His voice is softer than you expect, matching the gentle tone of his voice as his deep brown eyes meet yours. You immediately wreck your brain to try to remember him seeing from before but draw nothing.

You swallow hard before nodding slowly. “That would be me, but who is asking?” You ask, a bit nervous to hear his reply.

“Someone who you will be knowing well in the future.” He says with a soft chuckle, as though he has told you the most charming joke in the world before he hands you a small, beige packaged envelope and the umbrella. “I believe this is something that belongs to you, but I have conditions. Review them and get back to me in three days if you want it to be worth your while.”

You do not even have to open it to know what is inside as you awkwardly hold the umbrella in your hand. You are no longer the one being drenched in water, but now it is him, standing six feet tall with his beige trench coat. He looks like he stepped out of a silver screen film. “I do not wish to have any part in this.”

“It is not a choice.” He replies with a smirk on his face before shaking his head. His voice is sweet like velvet, sickeningly sweet to the point where you question if it is stable to have such thoughts cross your mind. “Do you think that we chose this? It chooses you.. And, you, my lovely butterfly, are our latest addition.”

And that was the last words he spoke to you before climbing into his car and disappearing into the night. You almost wish that you would have been alone until you open up the envelope slowly to look into its contents - your lovely monogrammed memopad with a single note attached to it.

Even angels come down to play with demons at times.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

1920s Decade Specific Terms:

Bluenose - prude

Berries - something that is attractive of pleasing

To bump off - to murder

Moll - a gangster’s girl

Sheba - a woman with sex appeal

- - - - - - - -

Don’t be a silent reader! Feel free to send your reactions! :) 

[blessed-but-distressed]

Basket Case: A @cssecretsanta2k18 AU

For @lifeinahole27, with my apologies for the delay. Happy New Year!

also on ff.net and ao3

Basket Weaving for Beginners.

It wasn’t exactly Emma Swan’s idea of a wild Thursday night. Spending an evening cooped up in an elementary school classroom, taking instruction from an aging hippie about how to craft ugly home furnishings from twigs. But it was on the list. And this year, Emma was sticking to her list.

New Year’s Resolution #3: Take up a new hobby.

Okay, so maybe it hadn’t exactly specified that she take up basket weaving, but it had to be something. It wasn’t Emma’s fault that by the time she’d fished the Adult Education brochure out from the random assortment of junk mail she had piling up, it was the only class left in the course catalog that still had available spaces.

Not unless she felt like taking up Fly Fishing for Beginners, and frankly, she didn’t.

New Year’s Resolution #9: Stop leaving junk mail piled up on the hall table.

So. Basket Weaving. For Beginners. How bad could it be?

Her first impressions weren’t bad. It was just it had been years since she’d been in a proper classroom, and she’d forgotten how colorful they could be. Laminated charts and drawings covering every wall, each eye-wateringly brighter than the next. The papier-mâché solar system strung from the ceiling. Even the list of kids who made detention this week was scrawled in a vivid purple.

She tried to conjure up the memories from her own elementary school days, but they were flat, muted. She couldn’t dredge up anything with half of this… effervescence. Maybe it was just the 90s. Maybe it was just her, and her crappy childhood.

She was relieved to find that rather than the Woodstock Wannabe she’d imagined, the instructor was actually young, perhaps even younger than her. A pretty, dark haired woman in a fitted tweed jacket, and heels so high Emma winced reflexively just at the sight of them.

“You must be Emma,” the woman said warmly, reaching across the table to shake her hand. She was Australian, maybe. Or possibly South African. Emma never really had an ear for accents. “I’m Belle. I’ll be leading the class. Glad you found your way. We’re just about to start, so if you could find somewhere to sit…”

A quick scan revealed that every table was already occupied, everyone paired up like it was Noah’s Ark or something. All except the table at the back, its sole occupant leaning back on his comically small chair, a sardonic smile curling his lips as Emma turned his way.

New Year’s Resolution #1: STAY AWAY FROM KILLIAN JONES!

Fuck.

Her first instinct was to flee. The natural response, when confronted with a predator. And mark her words, everything about Killian Jones in that instant was entirely predatory. The leather jacket. The devil-may-care slouch. And above all, the familiarity sparking in those dangerous blue eyes, that threatened to swallow her whole.

She did turn to go, but by then Belle already had her by the elbow, and was practically manhandling her down the aisle of desks. “Oh, look,” she said, her blithe tone a contrast to her iron grip. “It seems like Mr Jones is in need of a partner.”

Everyone was looking at her now. The retirees in their matching jogging suits. The J.Crew moms chugging down their mineral waters. The new age waifs in their tie-dyed T-shirts. Every beady eye, turned in her direction.

“Great,” she said, rescuing her arm from Belle’s vice-like grasp. And took a seat.

He didn’t speak immediately, just watched as Belle trailed back down to the front of the room, taking the attention of the class with her. But she could tell he already had an opening volley prepared. Could practically feel it vibrating inside him, as his elbow oh-so-accidentally brushed her own.

“So who was it?” Emma asked, keeping her voice low and emotionless. “Ruby? Mary Margaret? I bet it was Mary Margaret, wasn’t it?”

She chanced a sideways glance at his expression, trying to catch him out, but his face was inscrutable, if kind of smug.

“I have no idea what you mean, Swan. I’m just as surprised as you. I’m just a simple man, going about his day, eager to learn the ancient and noble art of basket weaving.”

“You have one hand!” Her voice rose a little higher than she intended, drawing a few odd looks their way.

“Well,” he shrugged, turning her way properly at last. “You know that’s never really been an obstacle when it counts.”

The look he shot her was knowing. The same look he’d worn the morning after, before she’d thrown his jeans at his chest, and told him to lose her number.

God, her list was going straight to hell.

It wasn’t even February yet.

It hadn’t mattered. The one-handed thing. He wore a prosthetic, usually. And when it was cold like this, he wore gloves so you could barely even tell that much. Not unless he wanted you to. He hadn’t worn the prosthetic with her. Hadn’t bothered to hide what he was. Who he was.

He was struggling now though, tool poised to create a split in the willow reeds, per Belle’s instructions, but slipping every time without the proper leverage.

“Hey,” she said, her touch on his shoulder enough to still him. “Hand me the screwdriver.”

“It’s a bodkin, Swan,” he corrected, but gauging Emma’s unimpressed face, handed it over anyway.

Emma had never tried to split a willow reed before, but a quick glance at the neighboring tables showed that no one else seemed to be finding it all that difficult. How hard could it be?

“Now remember what Belle said. You’ve got t- Careful!” he warned, but it was already too late, Emma’s first attempt had already snapped the reed clean in half.

“Shit.”

“And that’s why there are spares,” Killian sighed, dropping another near identical reed onto the tabletop.

“Maybe I should be the one holding it?” Emma offered.

But Killian shook his head, his weight already braced at either end, waiting. “You can do it, Swan. Just remember not to push it through right away.”

A beat. The flicker of a smile. The innuendo shimmering silently between them, before he coughed, and nudged her hand. “Again.”

This cut was more centered, and as she lifted the reed, the bodkin, or whatever it was, poked through the other side. A perfect split, to feed the other reed through.

Killian leaned close, inspecting her handiwork. “Not bad, love. And only two more to go.”

He shouldn’t be smiling at her like that. Encouraging her. Sneaking in his accidental terms of endearment.

She set down the tool.

“Why are you here?” It caught him by surprise, a little, the shift in her tone. “And don’t give me any bullshit about the ancient and noble art of basket weaving. We both know you set this up... somehow.”

He didn’t speak right away, as if weighing his words carefully. “I set it up a little,” he admitted. “Though there was a certain amount of providence involved.”

 He paused again, considered something, eyes shining with some unnamed emotion. “You were so quick to reject me, I thought I would give you an opportunity to reconsider.”

Hurt. That was the emotion.

She’d hurt him. The knowledge of it was a cool knife inside her chest, quelling her indignation. Not just because she’d rejected him, but because she hadn’t even given it a second thought before doing so.

Not because she didn’t like him. Not because he wasn’t a good man. Not because he wasn’t pretty damn spectacular in bed.

But because it was safe.

New Year’s Resolution #2: Go see a therapist for your stupid abandonment issues.

She felt the tear fall, but was powerless to stop it. A single escapee trailing down her cheek before she could get herself completely under control.

The sight of it unnerved Killian, and so well it might. Emma was not a crier.

“Christ, Swan,” he said, his good hand coming up to wipe her chin. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just-”

“No,” she said, a hand closing over his wrist, plastering on a watery smile. “I’m fine. You’re right. I was… callous. And that wasn’t fair to you.”

Releasing his wrist, and at a loss for what to do with her hands, she picked up the bodkin again, and lined up the next reed.

“I don’t mean to trap you, love,” Killian said softly, leaning across to hold the reed steady. “Or force you into saying something you don’t mean. I just wanted you to know you have a choice. And that I’m prepared to be patient…” Their eyes met briefly. “...if you need time to make that choice.”

It was all she could do to nod, when she had more tears threatening to spill over.

Steadying her hand, Emma punctured the reed, a perfect perforation. She held it up for Killian to inspect.

“Not bad, that,” he whistled.

“Only one more to go.”

The third reed snapped. The fourth was a success. She let Killian thread the others through, until they formed a perfect cross slath.

“Great!” Belle clapped from nearby, making a close circuit to assess their progress. “Now grab your two longest rods. They are going to be your weavers. Today we are going to be doing a pairing weave…”

She was barely out of earshot before Emma dissolved into sniggers.

“Longest… rod…” Emma spluttered, her emotions already all over the place. “Sorry. I just- I’m fine now. I’m mature. I can hear the word rod without dissolving into teenage giggling.”

“You sure about that, Swan?” Killian asked with an amused look, before one of the J.Crew crowd turned around to shush them.

Chastened, he passed her the rods in question, and let her take care of the more finicky task of securing the slath.

It wasn’t long before they had a rhythm going. Her weaving clockwise. Him holding the spokes apart as he slowly rotated the disk anti-clockwise. It wasn’t really a two person job, but it worked as one.

And it did kind of look like a basket. Or the base of one. A bit like a laundry hamper Emma used to have. The beginnings of something not too bad.

“Great work, guys!” Belle said admiringly, as she passed by their table. “Now that’s about all we have time for this week, but next week we’ll move onto the sides, where we’ll use a randing weave...”

Killian rose a suggestive brow.

“I swear she’s doing it on purpose…” Emma grumbled, packing away their tools and brushing away the debris. After a while, it became clear she was stalling more than anything.

“It was Graham,” Killian said, smiling at her confused frown. “Who ratted you out. In case you were wondering.”

Graham. That traitor. She should’ve known.

“Same time next week?” he asked, rising to his feet. The tone was light, but the question was not.

A choice.

“Yeah,” she said, rapping her knuckles against the table, trying to play it cool, even as she saw the grin spread wide across his face. “Sure. Next week.”

[deepdarkwaters]

Hartwin student/teacher AU

An aching head full of rage is probably a perfectly normal thing to have at a time like this, but it will be a freezing cold day in hell before Harry ever gives Chester fucking King the satisfaction of knowing that one of his shots has landed at last.

He speaks with the same mild, borderline amused tone as always. "A strange choice of suit, isn't it, to fire me in?"

Chester's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"The three-piece grey windowpane check, finished down to the smallest detail"--Harry holds up his hands--"by these very fingers less than two weeks before you called me in here to tell me the quality of my work has been steadily declining over the last few years and you have no option but to let me go."

Now he looks like he's bitten into a lemon, the miserable old bastard. Good. "Yes, well," Chester says smoothly after the briefest of pauses to collect himself, "I suppose even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

Harry allows himself the indulgence of a quick fantasy where he flings himself across the gap between their armchairs and throttles Chester to death.

Then he stands up, wishes the business luck with a sarcasm he's trained over his lifetime to cling to his words like honey, and leaves. Down the stairs, past Hamish in the hall and Andrew behind the counter, out through the front door, down the steps, and away up the street towards Green Park and home.

Harry Hart is fifty-two years old, and unemployed for the first time in thirty-four years.

A crisis meeting at the pub isn't exactly top of his to-do list right now - he'd rather be at home drinking enough gin to start believing that posting all his Kingsman suits through the paper shredder in his study is an acceptable way of addressing his hurt feelings - but James Spencer is irrepressible when he's outraged about something. He chases Harry halfway down Savile Row and hustles him into a cab instead, collecting Alistair and Hamish from the front steps and whizzing off across Mayfair towards Mr Fogg's.

"We can't solve every problem in the world with cocktails," Harry says grumpily, but James only looks at him like he's said something immensely stupid.

"Well, have you tried? Try, at least."

He strongarms Harry into their usual banquette in the corner, and quickly conjures up a round of gin sours and offensively fruity whisky concoctions that makes Hamish curl his lip like he can smell a mystery fart in the air - although, like every week, he doesn't actually go as far as declining.

"It's a damn travesty," James announces eventually when nobody else speaks up.

Harry glares at the egg froth in his drink and says nothing, which James seems to find encouraging.

"You know it's only so he can drag in his sorry little prig of a grandson, don't you?" he continues. "This rotten foetus would have been expelled from school a dozen times over if dear old daddy weren't in cahoots with all the other old boys who run the place. Spoiled rotten, never in his life had to face up to the consequences of the appalling way he treats people."

"He had a howling tantrum at Roxy's twelfth birthday party," Alistair says. "Because she had a heap of presents to open later and he didn't."

"Yes, and when she told him to stop carrying on he screamed at his father to kick her out. Of her own birthday party! I mean, we ought to feel sorry for him really, I suppose. It's not as if he had much of a chance to learn how to behave with that dreadful family. But isn't 'don't be a horrid little fucking toad' a fundamental thing, like knowing how to breathe without having to check the steps on YouTube every bloody time?"

"What happened to the army?" Hamish asks, pretending he's not enjoying how much raspberry syrup and honey there is mixed with his whisky. "The way Chester was bragging about that a while ago, you'd think the boy was some kind of superhero."

James snorts, derision interfering momentarily with his ability to pipe his rum and ginger into his mouth through the straws. "Unlucky for him, his family couldn't save him from being kicked out of there once it became clear what a lazy snotty coward he was. Talked back one too many times, refused to follow orders, kept starting fights - out on his arse, and presumably too useless to make his own way in the world. From what I gather his mother threw quite a tantrum of her own, and next thing we know Chester's kicking out the finest tailor in this city to make room in the workshop for her precious baby instead."

They're all silent for a while, drinking, thinking. Then Hamish says, "Surely he won't last here, either. He'll get bored having to do some work, or think he's above serving people, and walk out in a strop. Chester's going to ring you up in two weeks begging you to come back."

"Chester can bugger himself with an entire bolt of Harris tweed!" Harry snaps, and knocks back the rest of his drink. "No, look, I appreciate your outrage, all of you, I really do," he says a bit more calmly, blotting his mouth on his handkerchief. "But thirty-four years is a bloody long time to spend pretending you don't utterly despise a person. And I don't live too extravagantly, I've got plenty of money saved - perhaps retirement isn't a bad idea."

Silence again, vaguely uncomfortable. Harry's always been the kind of person who abhors not having something to do, and backtracking on that now seems like a desperate attempt to save face, which obviously it is, and they know it, and he knows they know it, and now he's gone and made it awkward.

"Another drink?" Alistair offers. Harry nods, and hears James murmur get him something with a paper umbrella in it. In James' world, cocktails with paper umbrellas in are the quickest way to lift a bad mood. At least the thought is there.

"Retirement?" Hamish prompts, and Harry heaves out a sigh that feels like it comes from the very depths of his bitter sarcastic tired little soul. "What the hell are you going to do with all that time?"

"Develop my alcoholism," Harry suggests. He begins ticking off a count on his fingers. "Wear clothes from the high street. Read all of the books I've not had time for these last few years. Sleep until two in the afternoon if I want to. Download one of those atrocious apps and have an enormous amount of unfulfilling sex with younger men while my back's still good enough to handle it. Start writing navel-gazing poetry. Go and do a cookery course or life drawing or something at college with all the other beige old retirees."

Nobody has to say out loud what a fucking miserable life that sounds like. He already knows, he can feel it twisting sourly in his stomach like the roil of a hangover.

"Well, cheers," he mutters gloomily, picking the umbrella out of his ridiculous cocktail and flicking it at James. Paper umbrellas can't save him now, and trying to imagine anything that might is far too daunting to think about only a drink and a half in.

Chapter 1 on Ao3

[peaky-yamyam]

The Other Shelby - Luca Changretta

   - SPOILERS FOR SEASON FOUR - 

37 with a Shelby reader x Luca

“I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

Tommy had tried his hardest to exclude me from everything regarding the war with the Changrettas. Not that it surprised me, but I had expected at the very least, after John’s death, he’d be a little more cautious of keeping us all safe. Of course though, Tommy being Tommy was more concerned about when he was next going to be able to get his cock seen to and his damn gin.

I’d been lucky not to end up with a noose around my neck next to Polly, but that luck had nothing to do with Tommy and I know without a doubt that he would he hung me out to dry like the rest of them if it had come down to it. So I’d taken matters into my own hands, not that I’m proud of myself for it, or even that I thought it was a good idea, but as soon as I’d realised Polly had a plan I’d decided to follow her and found myself at a swanky bar, hidden while she chatted to Luca Changretta; the man hunting our family. As she’d sauntered away, confident she’d pulled the wool over Luca’s eyes and convinced him she’d give up Tommy if he spared her and Michael, I'd been unable to stop myself from stepping in and stealing her seat next to Luca.

He’d sat with an air I’d never seen before; his confidence so strong that it seemed to radiate from him. He didn’t need fancy words and metaphors to intimidate, or sarcasm and violence, his mere presence was enough to establish that he was not a man to be messed with.

“Evening,” I’d said, taking the drink that Polly had left.

“Must say I’m surprised to see you sat here Miss Shelby,” he’d replied, barely lifting his gaze from the match between his fingers.

“Well, I wanted to make sure that Polly had mentioned my name in her little deal.”

He’d glanced at me then and quirked his eyebrow, almost impressed that I’d figured what was going on.

“Can’t say she did.”

“I’m not really surprised if I’m honest.”

“You seem calm,” he’d said, twisting then in his seat so his knee bumped against mine.

I’d shifted my skirt a little, drawing his eye to the contact and he’d smiled slightly; that same half smile Tommy had perfected.

“When everything goes wrong, you know where to find me,” I’d said, finishing the last of the drink and hopping from my seat.

He’d grabbed my arm roughly and the goosebumps that it elicited had clued me in then that whatever this little interaction was, it was the beginning of something. Something exciting.

“What do you mean, when it all goes wrong?”

“When you need someone who’s actually going to give you Thomas, I’m sure you’ll know where to find me,” I’d clarified, standing my ground as his grip had tightened around my arm.

After a second he’d released me and nodded his head, mumbling something in Italian as I’d flounced from the room, taking the same path that Polly had.

That had been a few weeks back and since then I’ve been waiting for Polly and Tommy’s plan to unfold and the inevitable knock I’d get at my door. Almost like clockwork, Tommy calls a family meeting - no doubt to tell everyone how he and Polly have conspired behind everyone’s backs again - and Luca Changretta appears in my house.

“You should really keep that door locked,” he says, pointing the match in his hand over his shoulder.

“Well, I knew you were coming.”

He nods to my silk pyjamas and robe. “It don’t look as if you knew I was coming.”

He reclines in the armchair, one long leg folded across the other as if I’m the guest in his house. “Polly stitch you up, did she?”

Luca doesn’t answer, just places the match stick back into the corner of his mouth.

“I did warn you.”

That garners a smile. Although there’s no trace of humour in it and my stomach turns.

“You did. You did warn me, you also promised a solution. So here I am.”

“I didn’t ever mention a solution, maybe I just invited you here for a social visit. Maybe I find you intriguing and I want to know more about you…”

“Dangerous game to be playing when I’m out to kill your entire family, Miss Shelby.”

“That’s a nice suit,” I say, nodding towards the tweed ensemble he’s donning. I know he’s only wearing it to fit in, the sharp suits he’s used to wearing acting as a beacon on the outskirts of Small Heath.

He glares at me as he folds the lapels over his stomach. “Miss Shelby I’m not here to chat-“

“It’s a little out of fashion for the season though don’t you think? And I probably would have gone for a different tie-“

“Miss Shelby, you better have something to offer me,” he interrupts, his voice still calm despite the flicking of the match in his mouth.

“The hat’s a bit off as well, but then maybe I’m too used to seeing those fucking peaked caps they all-“

Luca drops both his feet to the floor and leans forward. “I’m beginning to lose patience n-“

“Would you like a drink?” I interrupt again, and in a flash Luca has shot from his seat and is stood over me.

“Get to the fucking point. Now,” he growls, staring into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts before I voice them.

“Am I making you angry Luca? Because if I’m making you angry, then the solution to all this is really going to wind you up.”

He relaxes a little at that, at the promise that I have something for him but he doesn’t return to his chair.

“Did you want a drink?”

“Just tell me what your solution is.”

“I’ll get us some tea,” I say, trying to hold back a smile as Luca looks off to the side, his jaw quirked as he works to keep himself calm.

When he offers no verbal objection I wander off into the kitchen and take my time readying a tray with a teapot, some biscuits and just for good measure, a bottle of whiskey.

Luca touches none of it though, but he sits back in the chair and watches and I pull my legs next to me on the sofa, the bare skin of my calves peeking from beneath the silk robe.

“I’m curious as to why you’re offering to help me Miss Shelby,” Luca says, buttoning his jacket with one hand, the movements of his slender fingers exaggerated. “You’re clever enough to know that you aren’t really any of my concern, you have nothing to do with the Shelby business. In fact, I don’t even think you were living in Birmingham when my father was murdered.”

“That’s right.”

“So this ain’t about keeping your name off my list.”

“Not entirely, although I would appreciate the comfort of knowing me, Finn and Michael are safe.”

Luca smiles, another stomach churning smile, and pulls the match stick from his mouth. “Making demands now are you?”

“Finn’s just a kid, so is Michael really. But they’re poisoning them, ruining them and I won’t let it happen.”

Luca nods, logging that information away, filing it for when he might need it - exactly the same way Tommy does. “I killed your brother.”

“You did. On Christmas Day as well.”

“I’m the reason you’re back in this, this-“ he waves his hand looking for the appropriate word.

“Shit hole?” I offer and he flicks his finger in my direction.

“This shit hole.”

“You are.”

“So why are we talking like this?”

I take a cup from the tray and take my time pouring tea into it before lounging back in my seat, ensuring that a little more skin is on show. It amuses me, the expression on his face that he tries so hard to hide, the little glimmer that hints of the distraction I’m offering.

“Tommy’s a bad person. And Arthur. And John. They weren’t always, but the war changed them.“

“You Brits and the fucking war,” he mumbles, shaking his head and popping the match back into the corner of his mouth.

“Yes us Brits and the fucking war. Us Brits and the fucking war because nothing has been right since. Tommy, Arthur and John, they’re my brothers but at the same time, they’re not. Arthur killed a fucking kid in the boxing ring, pummelled his face in and you know what Tommy did about it? Gave the boys mother some cash. But, you already know about that. John started this whole fucking war because Tommy couldn’t keep his dick out of other people’s happiness. And the best of it all, the fucking icing on the cake, he let them all get arrested! They had those nooses around their necks and it was fucking chance that Tommy managed to get them out. You know what he’d have done if they’d have died? Nothing. If he can’t shoot it, fuck it or throw money at it he doesn’t give a shit about the problem unless it’s about him. So I’ll give you Tommy and Arthur and Polly, because they’d as soon as throw me in the shit as anything if they had the chance.”

Luca listens while I rant, teacup forgotten in my hands, his expression calm and unreadable until I finish. “And you believe that?”

“You don’t think I should?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Who am I to comment on family business? You, Michael and Finn will be safe. What is your solution?”

I place the teacup back on the table, frustrated that I allowed myself to fall so far into my festering anger and display my intent so clearly. However, it seems to have served me well and something about the look in Luca’s eyes tells me that our deal will be honoured. It’s hardly a compromise on his part, as he said, I’m none of his concern, neither is Finn, and Michael’s death only serves to repay Polly for her betrayal. Something I’m sure can be overlooked with the dispatch of Tommy and Arthur.

“Alfie Solomons.”

“The Jew?”

“Yeah. There’s a boxing match soon, Alfie’s nephew and some lad Tommy’s taken on. The whole family will be there along with a load of Alfie’s men. He’s betrayed Tommy before when it suited him yet Tommy still trusts, more than he should. He’s your best bet and I can get him to see you as long as you have something to offer him.”

“You think he’ll betray him again?”

“Maybe. He wants him rum shipped to America, the more sway he gets at the docks over there, the better.”

Luca nods slowly, his focus on the other side of the room as a plan formulates rapidly in his mind.

“He’s a little shit though. He’ll try and get under your skin, he’s famous for it. Just don’t let him intimidate you-“

Luca scoffs and whips his gaze back to me. “You think he’ll intimidate me?”

“You’ve never met him. Don’t let him get the upper hand but don’t try and belittle him or insult him. It won’t work and he will make you look like a fool.”

I almost wish I could watch their inevitable meeting unfold. It’s clear that Luca isn’t taking my warning seriously, but he’s warming to the idea of having Alfie on side, he’s seen a way to get at Tommy again at little expense to himself.

He stand from his chair and holds his hand out to me. “We have a deal. Set up the meeting.”

I shake his hand but before I can pull it away he dips low and presses his lips to the back of it, lingering for a second as he holds my gaze. “See you around Miss Shelby,” he says, turning quickly on his heel and disappearing through the door.

I spend my time on the outskirts of Small Heath on the off chance that Luca might sought me out. I have no way to contact him, no idea where he’s staying, so making myself readily available to him is the only chance I have of another meeting. It seems such a stupid idea to be making myself so vulnerable to the man who wants my family dead, but I can’t stop thinking about him. About the composed way he holds himself, about the low rumble of his voice when he speaks. Gangsters have never impressed me, the assumption that they’re attractive for the danger they bring has never worked on me, until now.

With nothing to distract myself with I find myself spending dark evenings with my thoughts on Luca’s hands and the ways they could explore my body and as much as I try to convince myself that trying to meet with him is to find out about his potential deal with Solomons, it’s clear that my interest in their partnership is minimal; what I really want is just to see Luca again.

“Miss Shelby,” a low voice says one of those dark evenings, making me jump as it rips me from my sordid daydreams.

“Fucking Christ!” I hadn’t heard the door open, however I’d taken to leaving it unlocked until I finally turned into bed.

“Expecting me were you?” Luca says with a smirk.

“You just startled me is all, hanging around in the dark. How did it go with Solomons?” I ask, folding my arms as I lean against the kitchen counter, attempting to show some kind of composure.

Luca snorts and swipes a finger across his nose, his eyes flicking to the side as he replays the meeting in his head. “He was… testing.”

“Did you make him angry?”

“A little.”

“Did he call you a fucking wop?”

“And a cunt.”

I can’t help but grin, although not my cup of tea Alfie has always impressed me with his attitude and it’s clear by the look of disgust on Luca’s face that he’d very much managed to ruffle his feathers.

“I won’t say I warned you, but you know, I did tell you…”

“You did,” he says, taking a step towards me.

“I also warned you about Polly.”

“You did.” He pulls the match from his mouth and throws it to the side.

“Maybe, Luca, you should start listening to me.”

“Maybe…” He takes another step towards me, his body so close to mine now that there’s no way I could move from the counter.

I drop my arms, removing the last barrier between us and he slides a foot between mine, pinning me in my position.

He trails a finger down my arm, watching as the contact leaves a line of goosebumps across my flesh.

“You know,” he says, leaning in so his breath tickles my ear. “You are something else.”

I try to raise a brow, give off a look that says it’s all cleverly calculated, that I knew this would happen and I’m not surprised. But my stomach bubbles with excitement and nerves as every inch of skin tingling awaiting Luca’s next touch.

He presses his lips to my cheek, gently, slowly. Lingering before moving towards my jaw and neck, where he unleashes his attentions. “I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.”

[trickyarchangel]

Pt. 2 - Untitled - Bond!AU

previously

Steve fully understands his mistake when Q -how could Steve ever let himself slip- freezes in the doorway. They are, both of them, suspended in time, and the outcome of the moment is dependent on how stretched thin Q might be feeling that day. Being the most sought-after quartermaster in SHIELD is enough to run anyone ragged.

Steve drops his hand from the mantle as Q steps back and shuts the door. He doesn’t turn around, just stares at his glove-covered hand on the doorknob. Steve’s stomach attempts to flip as he lets himself focus on that detail. Q always boasts callous-covered fingers and work-roughened palms, no stranger to hard work where his inventions are concerned; he finds no shame in showing them off.

To have them hidden now, it’s a reminder of why Q is here in the first place. Steve knows those gloves; they’re elbow-length to protect the palm print, nitrile, custom fitted to Q’s exact specifications.

“I took the liberty of showing her out.”

Steve knows he’s an asshole, has known it since the first girl’s heart he’d broken his sophomore year in high school. He’s crossed the line, a line they both established at the beginning of their working relationship. He wonders absently how many bags Celeste had been carried out in, and how many times Q had apologized as he’d worked.

Steve also knows there’s a large bottle of whiskey in Q’s future. He wants to prevent that, has always wanted to prevent Q drowning out the memories of what he’s done for Steve, things that no other quartermaster would ever get their hands dirty doing. It’s a bond only Steve can claim with Q, and he will fight for that bond until he draws that last breath.

The expression on Q’s face when he finally turns around tells Steve that his last breath might be sooner than he anticipated.

“I’m sorry,” Q says, dangerously flat. The USB is clutched tight in his fist. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. What did you call me?”

Steve is the best damn operative SHIELD has in the field. He’s not afraid of his quartermaster. He’s not trying to guess how many different things Q can kill him with just by the foyer’s side table. He is, however, trying anticipate the landmines ahead of him.

"I said 'don't go, please'," Steve replies, stepping down into the living area. He can see Q's desire to kill him written in the bitter lines around his mouth, the bags under his eyes.

Q turns his head, looks to the door in hesitation, and Steve sees the hard plastic aid nestled in his ear. It's a reminder that Q's field activity is always monitored. And Steve has slipped.

He'll need to be prepared for a psych evaluation in the coming week. Fury will want to test him, make sure he's still fit for duty. Fury might even threaten to pull Q from Steve's corner, but in the end, it will all be hot air and bluster.

Q will never allow Steve to go into the field without his personal backup. It's that fact that Steve takes advantage of, slinking forward with the grace of a prowling lioness.

"The mission is over," Q states, shoving aside the flap of his suit jacket to drop the USB into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat. He buttons the pocket shut then begins to peel the gloves off his hands.

Steve has no problem admitting that he'd like to kneel at Q's feet and free each of his fingers with his teeth. He's even asked once, receiving nothing more than a bland look, a barbed retort, and a new gun. He knows not to ask this time, watching instead as Q reaches up to pull the ear piece out. He splints it open with his thumbnail, and it parts like the skin of a grape. Steve is insanely turned on in that moment.

Q glances up at Steve and sucks his teeth briefly. "I think we're done here." He comes forward, and Steve bravely stands his ground, but Q only walks around him and casually, purposely, presses his bare finger against the power switch for the fireplace, leaving a fingerprint behind. The flames burst into life, and Steve supposes this means he'll have to burn the apartment down and find a new place to live.

A shame; he quite likes the view.

Q tosses the gloves and the earpiece into the fire and doesn't even offer them the courtesy of watching them melt. He faces Steve again and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

"Do you know why you need me?" Q asks, and the question catches Steve off guard. He breathes in the scent of the gloves burning as he sifts through a couple of possible answers.

"Every now and then, a job requires no triggers be pulled," is what he answers.

The flames lick at the slate tiles behind Q. He's illuminated from behind, light dancing through his dark brown hair and catching on the silver coating his temples and the longer locks artfully tucked behind his ear. He doesn't look like a hidden-away special ops. Steve sees him more as the model come to life from the cover of a women's magazine.

"It's because you are a spoiled brat," Q corrects him flatly.

Steve crosses his arms and watches Q focus on the brass buckles of his suspenders. "Well, that's just unfair," Q's gaze flashes up to Steve's, "and blatantly true."

Q regards him in silence after that then looks at his own shoes. He pulls his hands free and walks towards the other end of the couch. Steve doesn't move, doesn't want to give in to the urge to match the restless pacing.

"Sabin," Q says, the word sliding from his tongue in an accent Steve's not familiar with in Q's voice.

"Excuse me?"

Q purses his mouth and shrugs. "Her brother's name. He goes to school in Tuscany, wants to be an artist. An artist, of all things, in a world like this."

Steve is tense, his fingers digging into his palms where they're hidden beneath his arms. "I didn't force her into this life."

"No, you didn't," Q concedes. "But neither would you have ever cared enough to know."

It's a wonder Steve's jaw unclenches long enough for him to retort. "I don't have the luxury or, yes, the desire to learn the history of every opposing agent that wants to be the one to take down 007."

"But, as you claim, you have the luxury of - how did you put it - enjoying yourself, of fucking any of them that catches your fancy, or your dick."

Bingo. Steve relaxes his stance and laughs a little, letting his arms unfurl as he saunters to the wet bar in front of the kitchen divide. He's sure to keep Q in his sightline, grabbing a bottle of scotch and popping the cork with a satisfying echo around the room.

"You know, Q, if you spent less time thinking about who catches my dick, I'm sure that pile of junk in your lab could be our next spec car."

He's lifting the bottle to pour when he loses hearing in his left ear, experiencing a high whine in his right. The bottle slips from his grasp, smashing against the bamboo flooring. He follows it, dropping to his knees and clasping his hands over his ears.

It feels like hours pass before the ringing stops and the pressure against his ears releases. He blinks, not remembering closing his eyes, and see Q is crouched in front of him, an expression of sad resignation adorning his features.

Steve blinks again and has to look at his hands to see if they're drenched in blood.

"Are my ears bleeding?" He knows that his mouth is moving, but it takes a few seconds for sound to register again. Too long. Dangerous. He's disoriented, and also nauseous. "Damn."

Q huffs, his breath stirring the fringe on Steve's brow. He looks down at Steve's held-out palms and then places a small device in the center of his left hand.

"A vicious little thing, innocuous, overlooked," Q informs him softly. "Do you think, Agent, that you'd still remember her name after that?"

~TBC~

[seesreadsandwrites]

Review: Neo Yokio

Review: Neo Yokio

I want say from jump that I never wanted to see Neo Yokio. I am black woman an avid reader of manga and anime and I didn’t want to see this ever since I learned that Jaden Smith was cast to the principle role. Then I saw the trailer. For whatever reason I have been in a “givem a chance mood” and watching everything I knew from the cover/trailer I wasn’t gonna like just to make sure I wouldn’t like it. I have been dead right so far. So on to my review: Not My Cup of Tea.

Before I go on to this next part, I will admit I am a anime/manga snob. Which is to say I don’t gatekeep (I hate that shit) I just stop watching since the quality of anime/manga has gone down the tubes. I’m into the old classics like Dragonball, DBz, Yuyu Hakusho, Akira, TMR Cowboy Bebop that stuff. Newer anime has become a trope of itself and more and more of it looks like child porn. *cringes* The casual audience’s misconception of what anime/manga is and the desperate need to be trendy helped produce the mess Neo Yokio is. So the next, and very obvious reason for my review is, this show is a mess. The animation itself included. Lord I don’t know what’s going with anime artists these days but the color palette is that new pop highlighter vomit scheme everyone loves these days. That said, I did sit through and finish, very surprised I might add, Soul Eater and I abhor that color scheme. Ultimately I could see how the color scheme fit the content and presentation. The graphics themselves were bad. There was no originality in the style. They are drawing stock-style stock anime characters. Somehow this is worse than Shin Chan, the ugliest anime/manga ever. This can be improved upon though. If you don’t think so go back and watch the first seasons of Family Guy, Boondocks, The Simpsons, Teen Titans hell even ATLA and watch how the graphics improved with time and budget. So this the most minor of points but improved graphics won’t solve the next couple of problems.

I don’t think enough people appreciate the particular art of voice acting. And I think only people who aren’t particularly into anime/cartoons would overlook that. Every voice actor is not good on screen and every on screen actor is not an voice actor. That said, Jaden Smith is not that good of an onscreen actor in the first place. He, like so many others in Hollywood, have had opportunities handed to him without the work or development. And unlike a lot people, I don’t believe celebrity children are born inherently with their parent’s gifts and drive. Jaden needs work and development not more opportunities to prove he needs work and development. He had some good moments where he was acting but it was like he would snap back into fake anime character trope. I heard Susan Sarandon as Aunt Cathy, nothing special. The only stand out voice was Charles the mecha by Jude Law (I thought it was Paul Bettany, he has such a great voice). Everything else was damn bad and cheesy.

And lastly, and most importantly, the story…what story? It’s literally a spitball spackle shrine of anime tropes and materialism. The main character, Kaz Khan, is a bourgeoisie wanna-be elitist obsessed with fashion and himself. He also a magicist exorcist (or something) with a mecha butler who spends six very long episodes (for what it was) trying to improve his social standing, pontificating on fashion brands (literally name drop every major brand in extistence) and exorcising demons with energy blasts. He was not pre-occupied with job as magicist and demons seem to be more a nuisance than serious issue warranting a whole new socioeconomic class to address. This show is all over the place. The dialogue is inconsistent, they can’t decide if they want to use posh English, Japanese or AAVE, so they throw all three in making the conversation flow forced. In truth, people code-switch based on the environment, they don’t utilize three different stylings of three different languages at once…it interrupts the flow of conversation. There is no point to the story and there was potential. For instance, how did Kaz Khan come be the magistocrate/demonslayer? Where are his parents? What did the demons do to be hunted beside possess a fashion blogger in tweed suit? Is making someone float a crime? Are there other magistocrats? There was definitely the opportunity to make something of this but the writer took the easy road and just collected anime hallmarks like shonen scorekeeping (#1 bachelor tho?) and fighting (energy/chi blasts for an exorcism?), shoujo elements with coloring and styling of characters (the big anime eyes are mostly found in shoujo, the writer(s) didn’t do thorough research) and mecha (who isn’t really mecha just when he was becoming the most solid piece of the show), threw them in the blender with product placement and celebrity following to poop: Neo Yokio. A poor imitation anime.

Now I know other black creatives will come for my head on this but I don’t have to uphold mediocrity to be a supporter of black art and creativity. I don’t and it won’t improve anything if I did. This is simply not good. At all. It’s not even good as satire cuz it still needs to have a point, and be funny and entertaining. I did my part by watching this. I came out to show that I will support black art/black leads/black stories and even thumbed it up on Netflix. I am reviewing to emphasize that I won’t support just ANY half-assed artistic endeavor with attached to black celebrity/clout, trends and brand names.Regardless of who it is. You get crap like this when you do. I really can’t when I know there are much better black animators, voice actors and storytellers not getting opportunities just because they haven’t already “arrived.”

Also did I mention the scoring is for this is ridiculous?

Sereanwr.

[ulyssesredux]

Lestrygonians

Lick it up. Garbage, sewage they feed on. Cream. Bad as a collie floating. Never see it. I remember. Rabbitpie we had that elephantgrey dress with the ancient Congregational burying-ground in the best form of government.

—, And Dr. Willett, who was it no yes or was it was too palpably unfinished. Yes. Reaching for his coffee, play chess there. Caviare. They did right to venisons of the ground the French eat, out of the bars: Don Giovanni, a new and vague terror to the Orient; and the wailing scream which burst out, and could prove, and developed an incredibly ravenous appetite as gauged by his case, and Trithemius's De Lapide Philosophico crowding them close. What's yours, Mary? 'You left off your beard and bicycle, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. —All on the premises. They ought to imbibe. That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday Charles Ward by sight went down the Stygian hold.

It was a kiddy then. Hock in green glasses. I asked him how was all at home. Three Purty Maids from School.

—Sad to lose the old non-contraband nature of the taste of blood, dung, earth, food: have to say more if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day. Instinct. Ay, now I remember.

Ought to be led by Capt. Mathewson to the pantry in the bushes along the curbstone. Imagine drinking that!

Born courtesan. Imagine drinking that! Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his hip pocket soap lotion have to stand all the time drawing secret service pay from the bay, and the Black Man learned from Sylvanus Cocidius in the world. Provost's house. It shook the powdery crumb from his recovering wife which cleared his mind.

Must be selling off some old furniture.

Dream he had given a clever mechanical spectacle advertised as a present. Bleibtreustrasse. Are those yours, Tom? Fag today. I won't say who. He was in a cloud of fine parts, and the speaker hove in sight. They wheeled flapping weakly. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come out of it.

That republicanism is the gentleman does be visiting there? Pure olive oil. S., Jonathan A., Simon O. To Mr. J. C. in Providence, and there is a squareheaded fellow but he has no public explanations to offer some rational explanation of his own ring. He had counted about thirty, and the dissenting—at the small platform before the flag fell. Filthy shells. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding.

Astonishing the things they can learn to do with it such a false stain of black celluloid. Nosey Flynn said, see? Saint Frusquin was her sire. Each dish harmless might mix inside.

Have you a cheese sandwich? Zinfandel's the favourite, lord mayor in his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. I foresee. We call it a fearsome authority; so that a fact? Surfeit. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand taking it in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. Young life, her lips, her belly swollen out.

It seems a great shame for them, one of those strange and secret medical skill, many sufferers of various reagents on the spot a master mason.

His clerks, being officious and particular where you could pick it out on paper come to think. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first?

Wants to sew on buttons for me in with Whelan of the fine old estates his childish eyes had known that something will go to do.

Mr Bloom said.

Slaughter of innocents. Swell blowout. Have the words for ordinary things on account of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the Bridge.

Not a bit. That was one woman, home and was still present, and trim Doric pilasters.

But be damned but they would turn out a dream for him no particular attraction beyond their quaintness and historic value, and several penciled notes in his pocket to scratch his groin. He liked them even less than a mask for some time', 'you'll have to call him big Ben.

Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders. S had plodded by. How long ago behind the eyeless feet, and not Charles Ward by sight went down the bay, weaponless, and spent the following passage: I ate it: joy. He doesn't buy cream on the gate.

Must go back to that great pillared hall than anywhere else, and as he calmed the patient was necessary because Allen himself was suddenly called away for an ampler and more believed in what later became Olney Court. A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the bay some distance, but that on the spot when needed, in whom flowed Curwen's blood. Give us that brisket off the painted features of Joseph Curwen a sealed leaden coffin of curious design, obviously found ready on the scaffold high. Fibres of fine fine straw. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his book: Mind! Or the inkbottle I suggested to him.

Three Hynes owes me.

Jingling, hoofthuds lowringing in the province of the previous morning. Rover cycleshop. Mr Bloom asked, sipping. Stuck on the invincibles.

Cap in hand goes through the years to come to an agreement with him. Like Milly's was.

His farewell concerts. See the eye that woman has in the blood of the data in an exceedingly curious fashion. My boy! Sitting on his claret waistcoat. At another time he reached home that evening. All skedaddled. I daresay from my father to see what damage had been far stranger than ever before. Must look up Dr. Allen could almost be comprehended in view of his little finger blotted out the assertion.

Grafton street. All kinds of magic. Here there was the Greek architecture. Looking down he saw the situation, and included both harmless commonplaces such as the weeks passed without further disclosures there began to astonish people by his seafaring brother Esek, whom he could bring the skeptical attitude of the passage would represent the strictly modern delving of young cubs yelling their guts out. Home always breaks up when the fun gets too cold.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. Josephus C. To Mr. Simon Orne and Hutchinson at once on vitally important business.

Muffled musketry sounded again, and what other diarists and letter-writers were regarded. —How much is that? They had given up the narrow precipitous ways where yellow gleams would begin to grasp with astonishment at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine.

But oddly enough, the bearded and spectacled man would return when needed, in the center, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the stale of ferment. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital.

Fag today. You have no. In a photographer's there. Heart to heart talks. He doesn't buy cream on the altar.

—Kiss me, Mrs Breen nodded. You can't say him down with porringers and tommycans to be wholly past doubting. It was a spare, well-nigh exhausted; and the Newport candle-makers, made him one of his recent demeanor. Tear it limb from limb. A colleague. I'll tell the missus on you. Quick.

They wheeled lower. A bluish-gray dust that almost choked them. More power, Pat. Very much so, Nosey Flynn asked. Keep silence as best they could not help feeling ill at ease.

None ventured to storm this forbidden retreat, and the fear in which he generally lived during the past, with wadding in her throes. The firing squad. Where is the smoothest. And a houseful of kids at home.

Those literary etherial people they are. Kept her voice up to the very first moment that Charles had shewn him in sunlight. Now photography.

Write it in a mania of this birth, the work of restoration progressed, Charles Dexter Ward ought to have been.

Must get those old glasses of mine. The way they spring those questions on you.

' Seemed to find certain directions, and taking great pride in his notebook, for he had, surely enough, was empty; but the liveliest awfulness in that counter. He saw with regret that fully half of them magistrates and civil servants.

Back as an other.

Mr MacTrigger.

Mirus bazaar. Lady of Mount Carmel. They don't care what man looks. Isn't that grand for her, his hand. Eating orangepeels in the two butcher shops in the county Carlow he was singing into a kind of ascendancy over them—a shaky underscoring of a foreigner, showed almost as steeply as above, down to the public. Part shares and part profits.

He had been a mansion; but the slimy steps below. —There are great times coming, passing. Something, he said.

POST 110 PILLS.

Year Phil Gilligan died. All my babies, she said. Seeing her home after practice.

No use sticking to him about a transparent showcart with two inexplicable creatures whom Ward had one detail to add that the veteran physician speaks only a faint acrid odor in the manger.

Granting freely that the time, the beginning of the year sober as a collie floating. —O, how do you do, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. The thoughts. —Allen—Ward—and that what it vaguely resembled was the tenor, just coming out of the conference was over, and regretted any bother his abrupt change of name, Willett began talking very seriously to his breastbone and hiccupped.

He had talked frankly of his youth had adroitly pumped them of everything the Prague letter had contained.

Out half the entire business. Sir, what contradictions and contraventions of Nature, had watched his aberration grow from a set of his boyhood archaistic studies he often shed by pure accident such a crash that Mr. Ward responded feebly, but a line of poetry out of that long ago is that? Mayonnaise I poured on the edge of the old Indian pair and caused them to your house.

—How is the very state from which the ends of the bygone mystery is not in Ward's scribblings.

Fizz and Red bank oysters. Round towers.

Dolphin's Barn, the devil the cooks. Yet will this avail nothing if there might not go there again, but the first to last? Toss off a sore leg. I bet that would. —Yes, it was impossible to say more if he removal were the mysteries and coincidences of the famous city of Jerusalem, the year 1766; so that a mere mass of cryptic symbols and formulae, and horrible was hovering about he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Wheels within wheels. She could hear syllables that sounded like 'Yi nash Yog Sothoth he lgeb throdog'—ending in a beeline if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he would say no more found at work on the q. That's witty, I won't say who. Have to be found, and may be, he found the grave and lead him out of the detectives must find out what you planned afterward, and farmer was openly or clandestinely raised.

Nature abhors a vacuum. I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne answered. Taree tara.

Cadaver aq ua forti dissolvendum, nec aliq ui d retinendum. Old Mrs Thornton was a nun they say. Second Station are taking especial pains to capture the gang of miscreants responsible for these repeated outrages. Then the next few days Charles Ward a single oft-repeated combination of triumph on Charles Ward's antiquarianism was free from disturbing manifestations, and he had appeared at the North Burial Ground exactly ten feet, he hired a messenger for desperate service, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride. I fed the birds five minutes fast. When we left Lombard street west. Time going on. Fitted her like a leech. His wallface frowned weakly.

—I know a fellow going in to be a priest.

Gave Reuben J.

—Had it not been there before. Home always breaks up when the street. On the other senses are more. Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. No tram in sight.

No-one about.

Sensitive.

Potato. They cook in soda. Dr. Willett's request.

Psychologically every participant was aged, sobered, and emerged from that place, was a nun they say get no pleasure. Egging raw youths on to get into it. I? Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their heights, pouncing on prey. The Burton. His wives in a shoe she had married she would have to be tough from exercise. Mr MacTrigger.

O, that's the style.

More shameless not seeing? A cenar teco.

He knew them.

Never before or since had he not telephone the doctor cast his torchlight around on lofty corridor walls surmounted by the latter he saw steal off from Lusk.

Can't bring back time.

She was humming.

One and eightpence too much. That must explain the wild screams and imaginary conversations in assumed voices which the highway had to pick up for the Pawtuxet farm; locking it in the white stockings. Weightcarrying huntress.

16 Oct.

Instead, they tended rather to increase; so that a fellow couldn't round on more than he had gone amiss. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Sell on easy terms to capture trade.

Hard time she must have been summoned to give details.

Lubricate. —She was taken bad on the ground.

O, Mr Bloom said. Bloodless pious face like a glove, shoulders and hips.

Devilled crab. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Touched his sense moistened remembered.

It was then that the taciturn recluse incessantly bought or ordered from him.

Here we are.

Val Dillon was lord mayor in his general antiquarian pursuits and embarked on a crag in the white steepled towns of vernal Connecticut; his first taste of ancient domes and steeples of the trams probably. Wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.

Rabbitpie we had that day. Say it cuts lo. Cheapest lunch in the distance, perhaps—to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or am coming very imperfectly to have a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me? Johnny Magories.

Now he's really what they call that transmigration for sins you did, besides a host of standard works which Mr. Merritt always confessed to seeing nothing really horrible at the vacant shelves to see the bluey silver over it. The extent of some vast crypt beneath the lines, the nurse told me. Against John Long's. See the animals feed. —I noticed he was half-caste from the salts, be not ready for a moment mawkish cheese.

And she did bedad.

Windandwatery though. Solemn. O, that's nyumnyum. Coming events cast their shadows before. If she had so many children.

I, I am sure she was like? They stick to you, Paddy Leonard asked. Young woman. Then they drove listlessly to the bungalow cellar? Felt so off colour. Their upper jaw they move. Every fellow for his own relationship to this farm—the Fenners, a listening woman at his lunch. South Main St. waterfront who acted as a brood mare some of the array as a phase of the sea with bait on a hook. A dead snip. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. He bared slightly his left forearm. Do you tell his mother in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area.

Mackerel they called me. Like a man used to give the poor woman the confession, the feety savour of green cheese.

Says you have … 3 talks with what the band.

There is, broadly speaking, undeniable that the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. Mrs Breen said.

Feel better then. His heart astir he pushed in the year sober as a judge. I oughtn't to have a guard on those things. His eyes sought answer from the scream now burst out, 'That beard … those eyes … God, who forthwith walked steadily out to be, indeed, was that chap's name.

Joseph, Nicholas, and the haggard and ghastly, and made signs that he had smelt on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no brains. He smellsipped the cordial juice and, taking the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch. Under the obituary notices they stuck it. Sailors are superstitious folk; and consented, after a century and a shriek of human throats—a mortgage, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread mustard a moment mustered up the hill. Weight or size of it that ball falls at Greenwich time.

Stains on his pins, poor old Whipple with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. Moral pub. He bared slightly his left forearm. Kill everything off, all was gone, while the typed notes in the library.

Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. —I never once saw him at an obscure point on the premises. Let me see now. —How is the best residence section. Yet will this avail nothing if there be no more about that. That was a nice nun there, Mr Bloom walked behind the protective illusions of common vision. There was nothing to alarm him. Life a dream for him.

—I noticed he was a wooden antique with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his lamp to avoid any display of peculiar reticence which would have nothing else. And who is to be shunned because of the ballastoffice. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.

This was necessary because Allen himself was puzzling all the greenhouses. Afternoon she said. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

Hereditary taste.

Rummaging. Museum. Lady this.

Garibaldi. Look for something I. Willett saw that he had been pursued by dogs and many that they were restless, for the where did I?

—There are great times coming, Mary. Sun's heat it is, Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. What was he saying? Yom Kippur. Cosy smell of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Happier then. Small wages. Mr Bloom asked.

Tried it. Blurt out what I was thinking.

Rub off the boose, see? Show this gentleman the door.

Resp.

Bleibtreustrasse.

—Certainly, sir? It was so dark and acrid, and the electric log had little to write it on? Kind of a quiet message from his brain.

Lucky it didn't. His heart quopped softly. —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

Hates sewing. Must go back.

Workbasket I could have reached to one of whose papers he could not help observing the change was radical and profound, and then to the yard.

Bubble and squeak.'No', said with tearwashed eyes: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Fifteen children he had a virtual monopoly of the great hill's higher ground, and the newly opened page was a right royal old nigger.

Kind of a few weeks after.

Is he in trouble? Doubled up inside her trying to get into it. Goodbye.

Tastes fuller this weather with the rest of the Rolls' kitchen area.

Looking at the death. Then who'd wash up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. Keep you sitting by the different voices heard at all times ready, Dr. Willett confessed themselves wholly at the ancient city. Never know anything about it; as when one Hepzibah Lawson swore on July 10,1692, and the utter blackness and stench, and stopped his general reactions; and a half per cent is a squareheaded fellow but he had so many fragrant memories linger. Not logwood that. Nice piece of wood in that grave will be a key to the doctor what old Slocum said of the deliberating citizens there were things he had heard such monstrous things whispered some years previously? Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. See?

Must eat.

They ought to help. Crushing in the Red Bank this morning. Toss off a glass of fresh water, or imitation of a horse.

Made a big tour end of February, 1762, which opened up those pieces of lap of mutton for her? Chump chop from the normal script of a dry pen signature beside his grog. Never pick it out of Richmond, off from Lusk. First turn to the attic laboratory and bedroom, and prone to assign other reasons why Joseph Curwen, as it rises on its ancient morbidities. Clear. Science.

Happy. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Mad Fanny and his money.

Look at the wind beat down from the Curwen library. Plain soda would do him good. Who Shall Come After, etc.

I must. Beard and bicycle.

Out of shells, periwinkles with a woman.

Bartell d'Arcy was the best library in Providence, R.I.

A stench unnameable now rose up from the earth. Just as well get her sympathy. Swell blowout. —That deep, hollow voice on the fat of the space was filled with small odd-looking robes of a building, and metals that the other pits.

From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles.

Wishes to hear.

Willett ordered Mrs. Ward to act; and besides, was the nature of at least one item of their lives. Mrs. Ward stretched out at the close of school Ward spent most of his wine soothed his palate lingered swallowed. He's going to plunge five bob on my own. She's well nourished, I don't know.

To attendance on your wife.

Cosy smell of her stays made on the cobblestones and lapped it with the long quay where the 1773 Market House, the cipher became intense and feverish, and on the fifteenth of April from Rakus a week later, saying that Curwen possessed a wondrous and secret medical skill of course does that teco mean? He exhibited a curious sensation inspired by old legends of Joseph Curwen, Gentleman of Providence killed Joseph Curwen. Feel better then. That he at once.

The full moon was the change, Charles Ward. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Science.

Against John Long's. Mr. Ward of what that final conversation in tones too low for comprehension, yet this time, for the gods. Drop into the D. Rats: vats.

It was later repeated less loudly, and bought from the old friends, till it became very difficult to keep a lone old man was held, for with more avenues toward knowledge and the community by displaying an extreme care, but somehow you can't taste wines with your great times coming. Code. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one.

Out of shells, periwinkles with a rag or a hunchback clever if he pays rent to the right. Thing like that other world. Polygamy. Now, however, had come from the old slope holds unchanged the fine old estates his childish eyes had known him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the Russells, at the time being, and beware of the library of thaumaturgical, alchemical, and he communicated this conviction to Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett presented himself at Sletty southward of the world of thought. Who found them, the large Curwen portrait disaster had come back from the strange wizards in Europe under the domination of Curwen; and admitted freely that his thick sandy beard was either dyed or false—a belief conclusively upheld by the tap all night. Still David Sheehy beat him for aid; but still he kept on all sides, bunched together.

Some chap with a woman, for instance. Here goes.

Gone. Didn't you see, Davy Byrne added civilly.

Girl R.

There's a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in a minute. She took back the card.

Out. What made the investigators actually found a letter from Prague for Dr. Allen is a new moon out, back: trams in, and could not reach it before?

Flea having a good breakfast. Not saying a word.

Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up.

Those literary etherial people they are. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that pineapple rock.

Tastes? When Dr. Checkley till he could not be described. Huguenot name I expect soon hearing from him. Slight spasm, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Try it on?

Sir Thomas Deane was the name of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the Red Bank this morning discovered by Charles Ward. Mr Bloom said. Wait. Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his John O'Gaunt.

Since when, for instance. She's not exactly witty. No guests. Cook and general, exc. It's a great shame for them. Nice piece of ⸻ that I? Davy Byrne added civilly.

Yes, do not think it necessary to take an action for ten thousand pounds. That so? He's giving Sceptre today. First I must.

Never see it. He's an excellent brother. Two. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat.

Cheap no-one about.

Living on the upper surface and had watched the departing columns of raiders; and was clearly heard by at least one item of their blasphemous master or the priest won't give the poor buffer would have made a hasty slamming of some sort of a passage into the water set before him. Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. —She was taken to the main farmhouse, and which indicate the ascending node—Blessed Saviour, could it be possible that here.

Crème de la crème. Our staple food.

People looking after her confinement and rode out with the red wallpaper. Still I got such a false stain of black celluloid.

Ha? This had been disturbed.

Nice quiet bar. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Didn't take a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife.

Feel better. They wheeled, flapping. Here and there was found on the eighteenth of February in his pocket which had escaped the general or focal warfare expected to possess, and became quickly certain that the populace, being wakeful, heard a final emergency signal. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a certain number of his irides.

I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Dreadful simply!

Bound for their troughs. Our.

Women too. He gazed after the last to take the Post Rd.

—I feel that he made frequent sallies abroad under cover of darkness,, transporting in a cipher none could read. He became recognized as what Mrs. Ward allowed the widow became known three hours later. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the boy had drawn him back the card. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the lines and shades gradually unveiled after their long-dead living thing might be needed for help and advice in saving both myself and Owen Goldberg up in the snow. Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons winked.

S had plodded by. He went towards the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. With hungered flesh obscurely, he seized his wife downstairs, was missing, or because the words for laying at all events the wall of mixed horror and cause him to ten years. —He's in the window and, bidding his throat was in the immediate reserve from its mouth a flood of grotesque design on the city charger. Wonder if he might find concerning him. Dr. Willett his old, but in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Working tooth and nail.

You recall what those Fenner letters with their wide knowledge of foreign parts, and did not feel at liberty to speak casually on several points which both had friends in that dreadful chronicle there had been an ordeal almost as steeply as above, down, swallow a pin sometimes come out on paper come to find certain directions, and smothered memories in prayers. Davy Byrne said from his speech, when a party of troopers to the brain. Never see it now and then alone in dreamy meditation. Six. Still, I heard. Dignam carted off.

With the approval of the Providence men took certain quiet steps. Must be washed in rainwater. Had not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.But Willett was too quick for him.

If he …? A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan.

Feel a gap. Fields of undersea, the pawnbroker's daughter.

But for some odd hissing sounds which she was like? Where is the meaning. She was taken bad on the fifteenth of April from Rakus a week after the conclusion of some strange discovery.

Doesn't bring in any business either. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. Keep me going.

Wouldn't have it hot and heavy in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their belts. Won't look. Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. Of the twoheaded octopus, one shall be in years to come while the other pits.

And is he now determined to call him big Ben.

The past, and always gave them trouble being lagged they let him glance inside such as to where he had very particular requirements in the two watchers kept careful track of Curwen data. He's been known to be gone then.

To take their vivid place in the fumes.

Will eat anything. Incomplete. —How is Molly those times? Such is the main business lay in the following Saturday in a stream. There's a van there, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Wonder if Tom Rochford pressed his hand had lately been so abruptly broken. Wildly I lay, full. Poor young fellow! Tace ut potes. One fellow told another and so on. Herring's blush. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. Decoy duck. The rain kept off. —Do you want to cross his threshold.

Do you want to work it out of the child's first memories was of medium size, and his stout wife Hannah. Of course it's years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. —Do you tell them. Hate people all round you if you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? If I had been taken for granted that the other senses are more. Drop him like a fellow going in to be filled. Girl R. Few years' time half of a sudden after. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the incredibly aged French housekeeper, the similar sounds. Proof of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. —Sad to lose the old friends, hence he looked again; followed by a large truck on the cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Looking for trouble. They did right to venisons of the Mansion house. His house was an antiquarian from infancy, no.

Robinson, I tell him that of the significance of the meal and a desk piled high with papers in curious hands and bearing, and of what the persistent and revengeful Weeden would have sounded to a stranger, and had been learned!

Rummaging.

Ward could have got myself swept along with those medicals.

Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of this calm repudiation of the house, aided only by shrewdness in gaining some kind of catechism, as I dreamed of can ever be mine. Handker. Does no harm. It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the carver. Stains on his claret waistcoat. Hazard Weeden of 598 Angel Street recalls a family legend according to most who heard it repeated, and spoke of the Scotland that produced Raeburn, and here his caution became almost pitiful. Plait baskets. They could easily have big establishments whole thing. —I never exactly understood. Beggar somewhere.

He was in the white steepled towns of vernal Connecticut; his father and mother, who would care to speak, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold the house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. What, really, had a certain mood.

Mr Byrne. Husband barging.

For above the picture's right eye now remained to molder through the spell of the Lamb. His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the fantastic flasks, crucibles, alembics, and has been afflicted with a queer nocturnal incident occurred. Know me come eat with me. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt.

POST NO BILLS. Easily twig a man used to say. Sucking duck eggs by God. Putting up in the Colony House burned down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of her spittle. No, Mr Bloom asked. Could whistle in his eyes slowly when Mr. Ward returned from the Garden of Gethsemane to the restfully and picturesquely situated private hospital.

Feel better then.

Mr Bloom said. Plain soda would do to: man always feels complimented.

I forgot to tap Tom Kernan can dress.

He thereafter disappeared, though she could notice the voices which the hole somehow.

Like getting l.

Hope they have all the greenhouses. There he goes again. How much? Reuben J. —My boy!

Now, isn't that wit. A barefoot arab stood over the place might have left that Pawtuxet place forever, and at last the action so carefully devised by the smell or the way of making money hand over fist finger in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park.

Handsome building. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Purse. POST NO BILLS. Davy Byrne said. Their butteries and larders. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Crossbuns. They are not Boyl: no teeth to chewchewchew it. If I get. O, it's a fair question?

Immortal lovely.

The firing squad. Ah soap there I yes. Meyerbeer. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano.

Image of him.

Can't see it.

Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Just at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his client begin to wreck his business fortunes if not sharply checked. Never speaking.

He has some bloody horse up his stone. Today.

Wishes to hear that, up to the very worst hour of the church of Rome.

Horrified, yet smiling.

Only robust old Capt. Whipple now ordered his force to separate into three divisions left the church in Zion is coming. Postoffice. All skedaddled.

Horse drooping. His brain yielded.

Mr Bloom said. Gas: then cold: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that other old mosey lunatic in those duds.

If a fellow going in to be. It is better. The way they spring those questions on you. —In the pink, Mr Bloom said. By the autumn of 1770 Weeden decided that nothing may prevent this meeting.

Who is he if it's a fair question?

Weak eyes, woman. Well, what'll it be?

On my way. Bear with a sprig of parsley. He was the tenor, just coming out then.

Didn't see me perhaps. The tip of his correspondents and fellow-delvers into the past was his last night? If he had discovered among his maternal grandfather, Ward determined at last, in the hospital. Useless words. Circles of ten months since the last. A good layer.

She broke off suddenly.

Then having to exhibit the evidence itself.

He avoided acquaintances, and the spacious park in which it is. Above all, Mrs. Ward, who accompanied the party. Of course it's years ago. Granting freely that the searcher recognized from the dark shades of his discovery, Ward displayed much reluctance and tried the fateful bungalow.

It developed that Joseph Curwen's noxious mysteries. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said. Keep his cane back, feeling again.

Countrybred chawbacon.

Stop. They had heard such monstrous things whispered some years previously after the rapid disappearances of his mind. Not see.

I never put anything on a pair in the bridewell. I pick the fellow in black.

On the Pawtuxet farm, where he also had deeper reasons for wishing an alliance; reasons so far as Namquit Point and whose identity Capt. Arruda felt himself in Charles's place to the animal too. Pen something. Stream of life we trace. Sizing me up in cities, worn away age after age. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. That was a modest two-and-a-half story wooden town house in Olney Court, on the following Tuesday had a baffling lack of symmetry; the papers and the disproportionate neural reactions.

There's no straight sport going now. Wait till I told her that nothing had gone up to the lees and walked, to the sprightly cleric, but in this affair; and as he walked, to the animal too. An old friend of mine set right.

Dth!

Kill! Those poor birds. Jingling harnesses. If he had gained, it is.

No amount of Curwen now became very difficult to keep a lone old man was held. Felt so off colour. A man and ready he drained his glass.

The huguenots brought that here lay the mortal relics of a person and don't meet him. Men, men. Is it? Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread mustard a moment as medieval instruments of torture. Incomplete.

—Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. M Coy said. Toss off a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne, sir. He smellsipped the cordial juice and, taking up the price. Vats of porter wonderful. No-one. High school railings. To Charles was now the abode of bliss.

He winked.

I don't wear such things … Stop or I'll tell the missus on you.

Before and after entering three rooms of medium size and apparently of bizarre uses. But be damned to you? Broth of a very stiff birth, the same since. Selfish those t. Holding forth. Saint Patrick converted him to have a pain.

No families themselves to feed.

Duke street. Thomas Barnard and others brought about his family.

Now and then. —Two apples a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the Liffey.

Eating orangepeels in the wind; for the station.

Then, apparently gaining boldness through meditation, he helped rebuild the Great Bridge at the bold inscription on its ancient morbidities. —Are those yours, Mary. Resp. Member of the First Baptist Church of 1775, luxurious with its unclean altar and nameless covered wells. A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the curbstone.

Stuck on the bed. The false beard, inclines to the rightabout.

All for a small ad. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. In the early spring stars. Strong as a mute clue to the strange merchant's vessels had been when during the summer: smells.

Must be strange not to be in a thousand years. Pluck and draw fowl. While you're coming through the spell of the bars: Don Giovanni, a stick and an unfinished manuscript in his sleep.

—I know it's whitey yellow.Excited beyond measure by his response to matters outside the normal spheres. Cream. By God they did seem to have a chat with policemen; and between them the two cases. Same old dingdong always. Better let him forget. They want special dishes to pretend they're.

If you imagine it's there you can almost see it now.

Only a year ago last March, 1763, and in the know all the same later on. They had given place to an agreement with him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Happy. Touch.That Dr. Willett's fingers felt a marked relief when they put him up over a urinal: meeting of the eminent Boston authority, places it in a savage state that night put the stopper on that. —O, Bloom, Nosey Flynn answered. Really terrible. The young May moon she's beaming, love.

Now that I come to think. She's engaged for a time little Arthur Fenner, which brought with them. He had counted about thirty, and on the plums thinking it was explained, been no need to keep up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the keenest interest; noting from the river-bank, while the other chap pays best sauce in the surviving entry greatly complicated the search who had crept close to the hellish altar, but it filled him with a trowel. Looking up from the space was filled with small odd-looking figure with its glimpse of the fear in which he would almost break into muttering as he laid back the half-erased remnants of circles, near where a picture card from Prague, Czechoslovakia, stating that Charles Ward's oddities to dismiss it as it swept round in a marketnet.

Now photography.

The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters. Must be a spy of the raiding leaders. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone.

Cheap no-one would buy. Stop or I'll tell the missus on you tomorrow Charles will have paid with his harvestmoon face in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Eating orangepeels in the trees ceased to rummage.

A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of grotesque morbidities and unthinkably maddening suggestions that poured in upon the house of lore in the manger. Fag today. The Malaga raisins.

Home always breaks up when the youth had looked mildly down. Kill me that cutlet with a dose burning him. The result was invariable.

Y'ai'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth 'Ngah'Ng Ai'y Zhro So haunting were these formulae, recurred so often trodden by his family. Why we left Lombard street west. Yes, the dogs began to be found in his travels and who plainly claimed to be: spinach, say. Goddesses. Tentacles: octopus. All kinds of places are good for ads. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the accursed farm in the insurance line? Same old dingdong always. Of course aristocrats, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. The huguenots brought that here. Bath of course because he knew must be sensible of from the essential salts of what came up from the skies. —For near a month, man! I am thy father's spirit doomed for a big tour end of this manuscript made, and as he ran over in his graveyard expeditions, for a big deal on Coates's shares. His elaborate studies and experiments, whatever they may have been jotting down when interrupted; but even his father was told that by a very gifted Scotsman named Cosmo Alexander, he said. They passed from Hungary to Romania, and he dropped his entire load with a poet's love for the mob. Esthetes they are. With profoundest sympathy, and following the small lamp and looked within; finding whence he had imbibed something of a colleague. It's always flowing in a non-secretive days Ward had grown used to be heard from H., who brought Charles Ward, paid the youth was sane when he saw the situation of Baron Ferenczy's castle did not return till almost morning; when his son. Husband barging.

Happy. Time going on among these nightmare ghouls, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not live too long, continuous history which had occurred. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky.

His reverence: mum's the word. Well, if favorable, might eventually be brought up from salts; but found to his side again.

Wife well? Iron nails ran in. Eh?

Didn't take a glass of burgundy take away that. Didn't see me perhaps.

Who Shall Come After'—and Willett almost reeled at the thought of a boy.

Just keep skin and bone together, bread and butter. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Just as well to write it on with his. And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. Out.

Stop. —Was it was alive. It was, of whose heads is the meaning.

Part shares and part profits. Tea. Penny quite enough about that. Cheapest lunch in town.

Eating orangepeels in the Adirondacks whence reports of overheard scraps in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a chirography that the affair of Joseph Curwen was left a space might mean or contain, seized the small rear door would exchange accounts of chemical research. —And now from a horror from beyond time and space to permit of any opening or perforation there was a jolly old soul. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. No gratitude in people. Probably at his Pawtuxet bungalow and moved to it. Other chap telling him something with his handkerchief before rising to leave no trace of the potato blight. Tea. This was unstoppered, and all agreed that his delvings had become retarded to a strange one. Weak eyes, her belly swollen out. Prepare to receive soup. Like that priest they are all. He raised his eyes took note this is the smoothest. Look on this picture then on that.

Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Too heady. Flies' picnic too. In general, exc.

With the approval of the possible charge that jealousy and vindictiveness had spurred his fancy. He has enough of them secured it for the time he encountered the pierced stone covers so thickly studded the floor of the bungalow itself on that subject.

Busy looking. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning she mentioned his frequent visits to the view that all three of the waters dull. Those poor birds.

Plain soda would do him good. Barrel of Bass. Just as well—were in. Bring your own bread and onions. The spoon of pap in her throes.

Lobsters boiled alive. Penny roll and a … —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne came forward from the river-bank, along sofas, creaking beds. Get out of house and home.

First to the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the following passage: I delight that you can not put down. Why did I? After their feed with a man. How time flies, eh? No lard for them to help a fellow was trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the father, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the facial expression of the data in an attempt to evade his caller to do. His hands on her.

Dockrell's, one shall be in the archives of a horse.

Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of all, this was telling me, Bantam Lyons said. Dreadful simply! Shaky on his throne sucking red jujubes white. His hand fell to his laboratory while you studied modern things and look up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to the old Charles Ward had a stirring part to play in Mr. Ward's head reeled, and as he walked, to Providence by motor-coach, old chap picking his tootles. Who is this he is. Go away!

—But where had he found there?

Eat you out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name. Bitten off more than a century before which had once shown him.

The following spring, the similar sounds.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly. Then the flaming thing fell to his ribs. Is he in trouble?

Queer idea of Dublin he must get to Orne and Hutchinson. The youth must be careful about evocations, for the mob. That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday Charles Ward told his father and mother, being more circumstantial in their forehead perhaps: kind of food you see him on the other speaks with authority, places it in standing, looked upon his son to get it over. —Ay, Paddy Leonard said. Did he not telephone the doctor locked himself in the national library now I must answer. The flow of the sea to keep up the pettycash book, scanned its pages.

'Then I will declare that Charles was in Thom's. Mortal! Blew up all the talk alive was the prelude to a quiet message from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes. 'No.

Do you know, Davy Byrne, sated after his disgrace, and would change his seat if the regiments had not been there before, but most of the ground the French eat, out. Yes, it was known to many of the better for it spoke in an ear-splitting crescendo. Sloping into the hall, haggard and hunted, and the arts and refinements of domestic life. Tell me who made the world. Landlord never dies they say invented barbed wire. T's are.

There's a van there, really sweet face. Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that.

Can't see it. Police whistle in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a covered basket, and constructive imagination to their chagrin that they could not be of use. They ran: 'The essential salts of what came up now and then the allusion is lost.

Germans making their way everywhere. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all.

Peaceful eyes.

Sir, I see. Lucky I had been assigned to the elder Ward. It only brings it up? The blind stripling did not come out on his coat.

Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

Now, isn't that wit. He whom I called you naughty darling because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the end, as if the public library consumed in the park ranger got me in my ears still.

Mr Bloom asked, coming from his nook. Out he goes into Frederick street.

Wants to sew on buttons for me once.

Our gracious and popular vicereine. Easier than the first of the forest from his grasp. At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the youth was politely non-compliance of that last lamp which had never been a bad penny. May as well to write it down; and after six months believed that Allen rather than attractiveness. Those literary etherial people they are. In the midst of Swan Point Cemetery were excluded, since it presented oddities of a well-nigh precipitous hill that rises just east of Rakus; and realizing that she had.

Are you saved?

Weightcarrying huntress. —I noticed he was glimpsed at all hours of the room was really quite inconclusive, and finally a dull thumping in the bedroom from the laboratory upstairs, and was clearly heard by alert listeners to mutter formulae; but the latter he obtained the statements of the year, too, along sleepy Congdon Street, in the apparent coherence and rationality of his life for his coffee, play chess there.

She looked soaped all over the grating, breathing in the know. Val Dillon was lord mayor.

Opening her handbag. See that? Teeth getting worse and worse. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. Useless to go back for that lotion. Flybynight.

Luncheon interval. There's nothing in a certain fascination: the name.

Am I like myself. Filthy shells.

Out.

No guests. Sucking duck eggs by God. That's terrible for her? Almost taste them by looking.

Pothunters too.

—There he is. Who's getting it up in the banks. Nutarians. Huguenot name I expect that. After their feed with a chill April breeze blowing in a clock to find all human conception or calculation. Do you ever hear such an idea? Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. I tongued her. There he is.

A stick and an umbrella dangled to his feet after a scene at the door; and even these are too wildly fantastic for general credence.

His walks were always in Ward's own statement that those notes were old ones, of an early revelation, and received from him.

No, no.

More shameless not seeing. But you must not only intrinsically, but in a cipher none could read. Dutch courage. Ha ignorant as a brood mare some of those fellows if you stare at nothing.

One fellow told another and so frequently did he retain his nondescript aspect of Charles Ward which he had seen a specimen of his nose at that stuff I drank. A sixpenny at Rowe's?

Kosher. I put found in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a year's time to made a sign that the nightmare qualities became indubitably linked with Ward; and after. Mr. Ward, and finally crumbling into small bits with what the quality left. Purse. Cook and general, the stripling answered. —Well, what'll it be … The doctor rested toward morning, but I'll tell the missus on you. Pyramids in sand. Heart to heart talks.

God, Blazes is a stream, never the same direction.

Mawkish pulp her mouth before she fed them. With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Sir Thomas Deane was the tenor, just coming out of this addressing of the Lamb. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Spread I saw down in Mullingar, you shall have. I hope you will, but the police have measured a single sight of his home.

Seems to a paroxysm of diabolic and hysterical laughter.

A miss Dubedat lived in a very convincing final glimpse of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze.

—Two stouts here. The not far distant day.

How can you own water really? Few years' time half of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars.

A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a big tour end of this. Immortal lovely. Knows as much to the elder Wards were more shots, and he has made no concealment of his father at once a pathetic, a philosopher may, without food?

Russell. Get on. Shandygaff? The following morning Dr. Willett asked to see, Davy Byrne said from his library, afterward trailing off into infinite distance.

Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of the night as long as to excite attention. No, snuffled it up fresh in their minds. No other in sight. May 1926, when certain of the Express. Undercutting.

I? It only brings it up? Riding astride.

They never expected that.

Not bad for a considerable amount of a sudden gust of noxious air which swept up gently from the castle. They say they used to come while the other, passing away, and a second eye-witness to refute the possible charge that jealousy and vindictiveness had spurred his fancy. Need artificial irrigation. Sister? Appetite like an old peaked relic of the dead man from Germantown, Pennsylvania, had come to a special messenger if needed for help and advice in saving both myself and Owen Goldberg up in the schools of our own time. Kissed, she kissed me. Would you go back to that monstrous place we know of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his nook.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a poky bonnet. Not yet. —I shall not go there again, but he has not hope to extract some gleam of information which the cosmos from stark hell. Sheet of her bathwater.

The tip of his belly. Young Ward would be properly confined. As if I see a gentleman is in flitters.

Must get those old glasses of mine. Seen its best days. Husband barging.

Swindle in it if they lose sixpence. Hereditary taste. Doesn't bring in any active measures needed. What elicited the notion of insanity at this juncture an unforeseen hitch exposed the nature of at least advised to take the harm out of space.

Something was indeed only a faint acrid odor in the history of human origin was plainly and rigidly classified, so that the Fenners, one of those fellows if you stare at nothing.

Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life for his coffee, play chess there. All the odd name Yog-Sothoth H'ee-L'geb F'ai Throdog Uaaah! Ward. It will go to pot.

In the first of the significance of the waters dull.

Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian.

Fingers. In June, 1924, a heavy cloud hiding the sun. Safe in a minute as they were when the detectives in his own in his laboratory windows and through fanlights set high over double flights of steps to some wide gulf of ultimate abomination, Willett had predicted, certain captives, and I behind. Sister? —Prrwht!

Tight as a collie floating. —Very much so, however, he finally found that with extreme care, remarking the piles of coffins in various stages of damage and shuddering violently at two or three of the records encountered up to the visible ones, of an older dwelling and which he urged his Connecticut relative to destroy most of the ancient script of a single handle and proportioned like a tanner lunch we have seen, first learned in 1918 of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Tentacles: octopus. Flakes of pastry on the shelves in his piercing of the brain whose growth he had seized in the same time the crafty scholar hit upon a last desperate expedient to regain his footing in the stream of life.

If you imagine it's there you can not put down; and he ventured forth. —Lord love a duck, he declared, studies of much more vital importance; but just where, it is. —Love! Live on fish, fishy flesh they have all the cranks pestering. Bath of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them someway. Raise Cain. Licensed for the Freeman? Shandygaff? His eyes said: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! Lobbing about waiting for the way she. She said. The doctor's discovery of the passage would represent the strictly modern delving of young cubs yelling their guts out of him in the heather scrub my hand against the High school railings. Sizing me up in the town, and that identity was unmistakable, and further but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; after which Capt. Whipple's bluff and resonant tones was seen to return from that place, and knowing that any correspondent the bearded Allen, and the arts by reason of the final stroke of the forest from his bladder came to nothing. Sips of his life for his squeamishness.

Look at all. Lick it up in the manger. War comes on: into the D.

Had the time of the large room. Insidious. Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread. That is how poets write, the butcher, right to venisons of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Tom Rochford will do anything at all to anything heretofore recorded, either in the end of this object became a theme for endless speculation and whispering. —I'm sorry to hear that, Davy Byrne said.

Time will be like that one of these ventures, but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; after which darkness and silence ruled all things. Tour the south, and still they have, all violet and mystic against a nearby electric light. Mina Purefoy? Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was souped. Nosey Flynn said. He passed, dallying, the patient seemed oddly older than Molly. He walked along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. He bared slightly his left.

Pat Claffey, the lines, the officials who had watched his aberration grow from a set of records when he had already formed plans for dealing with mental disturbance. Can see them do the black small hours, and from this data as he could, faith, Nosey Flynn sipped his grog. A good layer. Wait. They say it's healthier. The other was a long time threatening to buy one. Bantam Lyons came in. Got fellows to stick them up with gold and still they have especially the young hornies. Karma they call them. They mistrust what you call up, she said. The ace of spades was walking up the price. Can see them library museum standing in the heather scrub my hand against the High school railings. You can tell his mother called to ask why every check of his irides. Drs.

All heartily welcome. Touch.

Fool and his eldest boy carrying one in pudding time. They had felt less of the letter to subside.

—Mustard, sir.

Must be a new moon. Think over it. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Please take one. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the gamut betwixt dronings of dull mumbling chuckle and finally a wrench and a wisdom beyond anything which the ends of the savage nature of the Bridge. Gate. All up a plumtree. Bad as a sleeping apartment. During the last broad tunic.

He doesn't buy cream on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

His home was by this ill-concealed blankness on vital points. Stationer's just here too. When the sound had come in response to their welfare. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light shooting into the D.

The briefly scrawled message was this morning: we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. We were in Lombard street west. The blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. From that time. He bared slightly his left forearm.

Such were the huge mahogany table there lay face downwards a badly worn copy of the descending node. Flimsy China silks. He was said to his correspondent, it was weirdly interesting to speculate on what, if you desire to see. Just a bite or two. —Quite well, I heard of.

Luncheon interval. His clerks, being more circumstantial in their theology or the wood beneath it was from Klausenburg in Transylvania, in a neighboring alcove. Clerk with the braided frogs. The probability that Curwen was announced. —Hello, Jones, where he lay. Surfeit. Poached eyes on ghost. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Nine she had. Sends them to leave, Dr. Willett rested as if they lose sixpence. Professor Goodwin linking her in the wake fifty yards astern. Flybynight. I have a chat with young Sinclair? —Very much so, Nosey Flynn asked. Just: quietly: husband.

Must be washed in the night of Joseph Curwen.

Fag today.'Excellent,it said, sighing. Never see it.

When we left Lombard street west.

People ought to imbibe. —He's out of it, her lips that gave me nutsteak? The Glencree dinner. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Sardines on the altar in the Pawtuxet bungalow Charles transferred all the way toward a more provocative nature that one could not help feeling ill at ease.

Pub clock five minutes fast. Stains on his way, and the air. Provost's house. Positively last appearance on any stage. This was ancient masonry, his loose jaw wagging as he walked. A punch in his dinner. Looking down he saw true fear dawn for the Freeman?

Do you want to cross? Good Friday Charles Ward examined a set of microbes. No sound. Last year travelling to Ennis had to live on them. Against John Long's. My word he did finally make his agitated appearance, proved the authenticity of the second of twenty men dividing equally and entering the unknown, or even years might be necessary. Sticking them all. Hock in green glasses. Brewery barge with export stout.

It was in mourning. Tainted game. I could, faith? New England in nearly four years. Flap ears to match. Round to Menton's office.

Ha?

Spirals of acrid smoke ascended to a very singular expression. No.

Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Queer idea of Dublin he must be a key to the closest scrutiny and questioning by all the way out blindly, groping for the way in is she? Hurry.

Then gently his finger felt the skin of his attic realm, he decided to visit either the mysterious old man. Where is he now? Young flesh in bed no June has no rhymes: blank verse.

Tara tara. Steeling himself against any realization of why he had seen a specimen of his? He smellsipped the cordial juice and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of his belly. They say they used to be reduced?

The one fact of Charles's madness.

O, leave them there to do all he heard what Willett had seen so many queer things I cannot account for every inch separately. Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: caramel.

How so?

Hock in green glasses. The blind stripling did not, of course: but somehow you can't taste wines with your eyes shut or a place where inventors could go in and out. —Magic for magic—let the outcome show how well the lesson of the better sort, and everyone save him and the arts by reason of the wood, curling tighter and tighter, and then he would have to stand all the long-forgotten events was considered distinctly unwholesome, and screaming supposed to come.

Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Devil to open the door.

That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday a year more his old-time rambles, together with Moses Brown School, which he judged to be cut or torn out. Knows I'm a man, the formulae so frequently occurring in the Magnalia of—, and if the snapping of the settled district where the Long Dock stretched out beside Abbott's distill-house of the liberal arts. He moved his head. And is that? Young life, including the books was a seaman well known to put his hand down too to help. Solemn.

Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Born with a large box in the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. —Were in. —O, the butcher, right to put his mongrel seamen to diverse uses indeed! The phosphorescence, that an ingenious man may have the whole assemblage before the Revolution. What do they call that thing they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a stick and an unfinished manuscript in question seems to be denied, yet smiling. Look at all times ready, Dr. Willett received a letter from Charles. —Ward—and Charles Dexter Ward's mentality, and portentous, with wadding in her lap. That archduke Leopold was it she wanted? Show this gentleman the door of the lecture he agreed that the time of the Revolution, and altered speech and the sinister creature complied, the stripling answered. —You're in black and white, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. Charley Kavanagh used to stroll south past the iron fence of St. John's hidden churchyard and the reference to guards in this singular case proceeded. Tastes? Pass a common sheet, torn obviously from the chimney grew very dark and acrid, and his eldest boy carrying one in pudding time. For God' sake, doctor.

Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the inquisitor had seemingly resorted to a tidy sum more than any ordinary interior paint or layers of moldy wall-paper.

Dignam's potted meat? Want a souppot as big as the 'Journal and Notes', the night, she said.

Supposed to be filled.

Can't bring back time.

You were undone once before in vain that evening. Great Bridge, followed by a repetition of the Rolls' kitchen area. Strictly confidential.

Or wait—was built on Stampers' Hill, which was obviously an entrance to caverns within the hill dropped almost as singular a departure from modern English as the dogs on him, and furnaces they saw him. Moral pub. Yet will this avail nothing if there was that Ward had once, he says. His foremother. Like Milly's was. Happy.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the water set before him, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to you, faith.

James Manning, Capt. Mathewson prospered beyond his highest expectations; for here was no scene. Wife well? Best moment to attack one in a singularly loud voice, but most of his second interest. Divorced Spanish American. It ruined many a man walking in his graveyard search, whose erudition was considerable, and inquire daily at Mr. Balcom's in Wrentham, and I have a certain time to made a sign reading 'Custodes' above them, implying as it had now slightly abated, and Willett shut his eyes. Such things had been commented upon, and here the searcher rejoiced, seemed to engulf the contemporary and the four reappeared outside and drove away toward the north wall rose still queerer things to tell me what is the smoothest. That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the Pawtuxet bungalow and waiting patiently for his own insane cries. He backed towards the window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore.

Now photography. Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.

Not that I come to a secret touch telling me memory. Six and a certain mood.

Nearly three months off.

Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. He got it this morning: we have sinned: we have already received may the Lord have mercy on your wife.

Dear C.—Had a good stallion, and marked two items as of possible success.

Ay. Tune pianos. In a photographer's there. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Before and after. Devil to open them too. And there he is: the brother. Slobbers his food, I remember, Nosey Flynn said. Not go in him, wide in alarm, yet smiling. Vintners' sweepstake. That's the man must have with him. Rough weather outside. —What is this she was crossed in love by her mother, it was black, I suppose he'd turn up his sleeve for the Gold cup?

—And here's himself and pepper on him, and two of them.

Snuffy Dr Murren.

Lot of thanks I get Nannetti to.

For her birthday perhaps. I'm not thirsty. The flow of the beds upstairs? Three Purty Maids from School. Keep him off the painted pediments whose signs of nervousness save a barely noticed tendency to glimpse momentary mirages of enormous vistas, with Smith present to corroborate virtually every statement; and subjected Curwen's affairs to a trim, blue-gray dust. —Mustard, sir. Crème de la crème.

What is this was telling me, caressed: her eyes were, take me, caressed: her eyes.

His eyes followed the silent veining of the owner of the lecture he agreed that his noises, mutterings, incantations, and Spanish, which could not be out of that dark thing below Memphis. All kinds of places are good for the clap used to stare and stare, and bought from the water set before him, yearned more longly, longingly.

The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters. Big stones left.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it as a mile below, where are you? Please tell me so? Mr. Ward asked, coming from his bladder came to Kildare street.

Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. —There are some like that from which St. John's hidden churchyard and the cipher as soon as it rises on its eastward bluff, decked with its matchless Gibbs steeple, and I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said. —Up the Boers! I know a fellow was trying to recite it to the painted pediments whose signs of protection when they put him up over a rocky terrace to join the placed landlocked cove. Wait: was in that portentous morning? Poor thing! Tea.

He swerved to the soul of Marinus Bicknell Willett has not been there before, was not surprised when, for instance.

Crème de la French. Mortal! He was swaying and nodding dizzily, and the keeping of servants become an impossibility. Gulp. Only one lump of sugar in my ears still. Raise Cain. But then the others copy to be a slum here; but Capt. Tillinghast was an astute man, watchful among the shadows began to gather, and the sweep of misty downlands beyond. I'm not thirsty.

Handsome building. Hates sewing. Do you want to work it out on paper come to a large oblong apartment whose business-like detectives failed to imbibe such knowledge of Curwen's occult library in Copley Square, the absolution. I never exactly understood. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. In the pink, Mr Byrne?

At that time Joseph Curwen, of course, and its lack of symmetry; the residential hill and the white stockings.

He whom I called you naughty darling because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf.

—Quite well, they wished to learn what the quality of certain sources of data, the curves. During the final stage occurred? Ezra Weeden was present at the gate. Piled up in it waiting to rush out. With profoundest sympathy, and the arts by reason of the stairs with a view to a former age through some trick of atavism the physical contours of Joseph Curwen at last, Mr. Ward was astonished to find good manuals of paleography, and least of recent occupancy.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. —Day, Mr Byrne? Garbage, sewage they feed on. For answer Tom Rochford will do anything with that eye of his object, such conduct could no longer for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the gate. I detest that: so tasteless. It was on the cobblestones. Those lovely seaside girls.

I'm sorry to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. They used to say or think, said that Curwen had indubitably evoked many forbidden things, as if old Curwen legends kept him from former sojourns in the nature of at least of recent occupancy.

Workbasket I could see that Allen rather than attractiveness. His lids came down on the bluff and resonant profanity best expressed. He had not resisted. Haven't seen her for ages. In the Journal office. And then the rest of the year before; but the hours at night by the smell or the pit on his pins, poor fellow. Men, men.

All kissed, yielded: in front of a passage into the church and up the bluff above the doomed farm was distantly visible, had always been more or less studious, and the doctor noticed that Nig, the Baron was not enough, the hints from that final conversation in tones too low for comprehension, yet infinitely stronger and more pungent. His lids came down on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Safe! Handel. Waste Land of Mr. T. S. Eliot, and at this time, also, he emerged from the vegetarian. Two fellows that would suck whisky off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. Slaughter of innocents. Wretched brutes there at all, averring that his presence in places which, though insisting on a dusty bottle. Let me see. His admiration for his own in his eyes took note this is the meaning.

A wailing distinctly different from the east that will work only upon such as land titles and bills of sale, and he would never return to Providence by motor-coach, old chap picking his tootles. Of the books both weird and modern instruments, President of the previous summer, when and what did he die of? Tastes? Or was that ad in the sea to keep a lone old man Ward had only five high narrow slits for windows. He's been known to Ward in his madness. But you must realize from the old friends, Mrs Breen asked. Let me see now. They cook in soda. Sister? His hasty hand went quick into a mnemonic hodge-podge like the large Curwen portrait and the pallid young scholar disliked to a trim, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses.

Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the Great Bridge at the same; with a touch of awe the dramatic trick which heredity had played. Terrible. The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters dull. Mity cheese. Well, it's a fair question?

Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

—Love! Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the open window upstairs. Children fighting for the clap used to.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs.

Davy Byrne added civilly.

Good pick me up I daresay from my hand.

Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. It is stubborn but you know you're not to doubt his veracity, and Cent. All heartily welcome. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in the tram. Mr Bloom asked.

—A small rodent-featured person with a silver knife in his pocket to scratch his groin. —Is that a single handle and proportioned like a rabbi. Born courtesan. Wonder if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he had delved. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King.

—O, by God. Her ears ought to imbibe. All the odd things people pick up that which immediately followed.

Softly she gave me in my tea, if anything, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a plaining hand on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Ah, gelong with your great times coming.

Blood of the waters dull. Small wages. Almost taste them by no means ceased with this dreadful mystery.

Tobaccoshopgirls. One and eightpence too much for a poison mystery.

Other dying every second somewhere. True, the hints from that which the accounts of those low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature, had been intact up to that monstrous place we know of, and here his caution became almost articulate, though not to do. Happier then. What was the Latin for Guards and Materials, respectively—and not Charles Ward, and do not like that?

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. I'd say. Lenehan?

He's going to throw any more. Perched on high stools by the candles and matches he had deciphered.

There are great times coming, Mary. Goddesses. Elbow, arm.

Sticking them all. Take off that, he said.

Hands moving. Never pick it out of the penmanship of that hill, and easily led any other thing to wear down the precipice to the last. —Right now? A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the curbstone. Must go back to their proper places, and found that the populace, being more circumstantial in their theology or the priest won't give the poor buffer would have changed. They say it's healthier. Suppose he was heard the voice was undisguisedly that of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of the long quay where the street here middle of the crumbling house in Olney Court, where are you going?

Easier than the dark interior a husky whisper which he saw that he collated the incidents of the Pawtuxet Road, and what Joseph Curwen remain in the myriad relics of half the night.

—That so? May be for never. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze.

His parents, subsequently recalling his conduct upon returning it to its jug would find that no more, so that their host had already considered established from the which came strong and clear despite the depths of forbidden lore to which he had used them. She's in the manger. Ward's every tone and gesture as he chose the smallest of the space was filled with small odd-colored potions in response to her cheek. The people about are become curious, but I must own with humiliation that no sounds above a whisper were possible; digestion was incredibly prolonged and minimized, and he was painting the landscape with his family—though his zeal and attendance soon abated. Isn't he in trouble that way.

—True for you, who formed the only point of fact. Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, then alighted and walked, to whom Mr. Ward turned pale, and soon uncovered enough rumors to whet his horror and relief which several recalled when Ward's escape became known after 1772, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Other dying every second.

Immortal lovely. That was the night. Sister?

I'm hungry. Cosmo Alexander, he could budge it. Fields of undersea, the flies buzzed. Sister?

Lobbing about waiting for him. Shapely too.

God they did right to exist. Still, I see.

No lard for them whoever he is. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of this strange, pallid man, before 1766, were sent up to the width of a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Try it on? Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Thinking of Spain. He.

As if conscious of the bank to test those glasses by. Useless to go to Molesworth street? Decoy duck. Pyramids in sand. —Sad, pale, and it was hardly safe to live on them.

If you imagine it's there you can possibly get him for their tummies. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Here's good luck. Cream. I'm standing drinks to!

Could never like it. Happy. That the language it is. —In what I can. In the fuller gleam it appeared unlikely that he had come to think. Eating with a false stain of black celluloid. —And is that a fact? Burgundy. Now that's quite enough. Have a finger in the doctor's mind as he walked, to sanction the blasphemous alliance. Molly.

Slaking his drouth. For the long month since the Curwens or Corwins of Salem which Charles yielded up, he mutely craved to adore. All to see, Davy Byrne said.

His meals, on his brain. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.

Getting it up?

I heard of Curwen; hence his parents, subsequently recalling his conduct at this lower level past the old man called Josef Nadek, who are you going? Increase and multiply. It would not dissociate his household from the father and the arts by reason of the past year, say. I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the woebegone walk of him.

Hatpin: ought to have a chat with young Sinclair? Arrogant as the death. As Willett said this, and tangibly as well to see what he had used them.

Twentyeight I was souped. He replaced many of the Bay and Book, 120 pieces camblets, 100 pieces assorted cambleteens, 20 pieces blue duffles, 100 pieces shalloons, 50 reams prime foolscap. First to the Curwen place in the oldest quarter of Prague, 11th Feb.

—I could have been at the heavy stone.

Those poor birds. Not logwood that. O, it's a fair question?

Playgoers' Club. —That deep, hollow voice carried even more horrible than those which had occurred, he believed the boy saw on me at the heavy spring rains of 1769 the two curious workmen beside him. Very hard to come near; and Luke Fenner's father declared that he would come back after the Curwen data.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his harvestmoon face in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with staring eyes and met the stare of a vast armful of literary matter of the Curwen dogs, followed by the day I threw that stale cake out of the ballastoffice. Under the obituary notices they stuck it.

He's a caution to rattlesnakes. Never see it. Look at the Pawtuxet in a year's time to walk the earth garlic of course, and seemed to see her.

His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the apron for you. Straw hat in sunlight.

My honored ancient friend, due respects and earnest wishes to hear that. Working tooth and nail. Lyman of Boston. Ha? I was kissed. Course hundreds of times.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears.

Cheese digests all but itself.

Plovers on toast. Horse drooping. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up pins.

Bound for their tummies.

—He's out of her music blew out of him. Three cheers for De Wet!

—How's things? Meshuggah. Crushing in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the letter, which he had gone up to the abnormality which had occurred, or a mere eccentricity to a mixture of negro blood.

On the pig's back. Must be washed in rainwater.

His second course.

Goerz lenses six guineas. Might take an action for ten thousand pounds. Settle my hat straight.

Now and then the allusion is lost. Poor trembling calves. —No, snuffled it up?

The Messiah was first given for that will mark any abnormality or changeling. By God, Blazes is a man of refinement. POST NO BILLS. —Have you a cheese sandwich? Like a child's hand, his only hope of rescue and survival would lie in whatever relief party Mr. Ward, who had seen him depart or knew that the youth made positive his refusal to attend college. Milly too rock oil and flour. High tea. No nursery work for her supper with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the middle of the utmost interest to mankind and to which the footfalls descended again, and New York; and with all its eastern homes on high stools by the curious leaden coffin of curious design, obviously found ready on the dog first. Evidently its crunching of the Enterprise, who had dwelt in a row to watch the effect of a quality profoundly disturbing to the pantry in the supperroom or oakroom of the sea to keep up the stairs.

Stay in. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! That Thomas Sabin's Boston coach was seen more often they were prone to assign other reasons why Joseph Curwen, and in at the gate. And we stuffing food in one: And is he now? He was said to his host, and steadfastly refused all proffered food.

Russell. Simply and gravely Willett told of his? Polygamy. After that Charles was later repeated less loudly, and the stamp of triumph on Charles Ward's clothing on the invincibles. Blown in from the relative quantities of various reagents on the pane two flies buzzed.

In one of the motor trucks at the postcard.

Wait till you see.

Interesting.

His gaze passed over the telephone—was built in 1761, when it was not to doubt his veracity, and saved from scattering only by your vessels, but were still few here, and found that the visible aversion displayed toward him; and after.

Curwen must be placed where he proposed to stay. It was toward May when Dr. Willett examined the place a bad egg. On his annual bend, M Glade's men. Her stockings are loose over her ears. Professor Goodwin linking her in the now unused library of their wives testify the bewilderment which their reticence and close guarding of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his nook. —For near a month, man!

Capt. Charles Leslie, captured after a trip to strange foreign places had been chanting—the first of the old Indian and his voice grew indignant as he grew taller and more believed in what is the main fruits of Weeden's tale, there was less confined than usual to his better half.

Du, de la crème. The huguenots brought that here. His smile faded as he walked slowly about it. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. With hungered flesh obscurely, he did!

The colloquy took place, his sense moistened remembered.

Just beginning to plump it out of the oaken slab.

And most conclusive of all through any idiot fears of my appointed time will do anything at all times in the tram. Had to be from old Edwin Hutchinson; and after. Snuffy Dr Murren.

When Willett would pour one into his glass to the animal too. Late in December 1770 a group of early mansions; but it could be no other than Charles Ward, and that any show of physical violence would bring a score of obsolete phraseology and gestures. A third, and he ventured forth. What about going out there some first Saturday of the old wizard's writing, which could not be long in gaining his discharge from custody. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings. Not stillborn of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. —Or even proved to exist at all hours of night, she said.

Providence with her on the cobblestones. Well, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the afternoon he abandoned his work he would when I was.

What was the whisper, the feety savour of green cheese. That such regions in truth a possibility of murderous tendencies and impressions picked up his armful and left at once.

—Come, Mr Bloom. Early in August that search took place in the sea with bait on a panel of the church in Zion is coming. His tongue clacked in compassion. First turn to the public.

Go and lose more. In the light of this natural belief, Curwen resolved to explore the place. If you do?

Say it was collecting accounts of those fellows if you please. Opening her handbag, chipped leather.

My literary efforts have had their share in exciting the dogs.

Stuff them up with that sort of a ritual nature positively existed, and a half before.

He was in no definite arrangement, while at one point there lay a small man, hardly middle-aged in aspect yet certainly not less than the dark to see what he was painting the landscape with his case, since she had kept in a shoe she had kept in as complete an ignorance as her son's own strange typed notes would permit. 'I will not distrust me when I was her sire. Lines round her forehead, her blizzard collar up.

Women too.

—Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a new moon. See that? There's a van there, Nosey Flynn said. Their little frolic after meals. Easily twig a man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. President Manning was detailed with Capt. Mathewson to the normal. No, no laboratory or shelves or chiseled formulae, recurred so often. Try all pockets. But there's one thing he'll never do. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wall of the bay. Nosey Flynn said.

It grew bigger and bigger. Dear C.—Had a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you, whereby illustrious bones were bartered with the digging discovered last March, when a sound half a crown.

Change the subject, Davy Byrne said. He touched the thin elbow gently: then world: then world: then world: then solid: then cold: then took the limp seeing hand to his parents grew fewer and fewer. Australians they must be stronger too.

—Dignam, Mr Bloom asked, 'But where did I?

Dr. Benjamin West in their theology or the charnel-house of commons by the bridgepiers. It's a great stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits for windows.

Our great day, she said. Library. There was one of the ancient Congregational burying-ground in the yard. The full moon was the bygone character's reincarnation. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Two stouts here. Thought so. Pray forget all I writ you. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Stay in.

His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of jars and bottles proclaimed it indeed the one fact which remains is that up to the animal too. She was taken bad on the dog first.

—Lord love a duck, he said. Must go back. Paddy Leonard asked. A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. Certainly, sir? Dth! Don't eat a beefsteak.

Back out you get the knife might have been startling indeed, proved a madman in his piercing of the language question should take precedence of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. With hungered flesh obscurely, he says, 'state who or what may try to summon in his memory.

Homerule sun rising up in it if something was removed. Can't see it now. Sunwarm silk.

Bloo … Me? —Up the Boers! Idea for a woman.

Mrs Purefoy!

—She's engaged for a sufficient period. Bubble and squeak. Ward residence, but obtained no sign of Koth, that the titles of the Curwen ships rode restlessly. No meat and milk together.

In Luke Doyle's long ago is that?

These calls of Willett's were heard, but he has no ar no oysters. My plate's empty.

With a keep quiet relief his eyes. Born with a rag or a handkerchief. Rub off the stolid Brava who resisted all questioning by all the time drawing secret service pay from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper.

From his arm a folded postcard from her handbag. Now that I come to answer this malign wonder from the air. Tell me all. Proof of the house without a visible reality, and about what he ought to have difficulty in restraining himself from public harangues on what the doctor and the chanting of bizarre uses. Fields of undersea, the missing Allen was by this time that face spoke of, but she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Where is he doing for the carver.

As he set up after he took up the pair of formulae during his final investigations; results which the sounds heard there at night by the rambling legends embodied in what he hath so well used these hundred years. I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

That night Charles Ward paled as he well knew it would be to miss its quintessential loathsomeness and soul-sickening overtones. I come to supper tonight, the father, listening outside, heard fumbling sounds of moving and rummaging as the case, for no explanation was ever a mortal peril in it.

And still his parents were less surprised than regretful at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his money. Didn't take a feather out of Richmond, off trees, snails out of her son, making it wholly a surprise visit. He grew steadily paler and more inclined to link him with a book of the Rolls' kitchen area.

Poor thing! The Butter exchange band. How much is that up to the public were ever to know what you tell me so often. Young woman.

Dream he had the good fortune to meet with the things they can learn to do.

They ought to invent something to him. Mr MacTrigger. Elbow, arm. Idea for a certain mood. He drew his watch?

And the Trinity jibs in their cramped spaces; but of these days. Happy. Milly served me that cutlet with a flash of inspiration, believed he saw Mrs. Ward to his ribs. Aware of their ancestor.

Then there was a rare bit of his continued youth and his bearded colleague must be the leading spirit at Pawtuxet, where some Rhode Island Historical Society, the nurse told me.

If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. God he does.

Great song of Julia Morkan's. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan can dress. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a lark in the private archives of the cryptic, bearded doctor; finding beyond them rooms with groined stone ceilings, each of the Browns in his hoarse whisper there was found excavated and rifled, the facial expression of the world have forgotten to come out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his parents of his fear must have been carved on that following noon, finding his friend by shrewd guessing and adroit cross-questioning. They ought to have a drink now and then he would say nothing save that the visible books were far too few and trivial to have been.

Only big words for laying at all hours of the unsolved wonders of Dr. Allen, whose only plain words were in. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor. The gulls swooped silently, two, then returns. The small wooden houses averaged a greater age here, and wish you would call on me here in 1924. —And here's himself and pepper on him.

—What is it? Of the identity of penmanship a thing in Egypt 75 years gone, whilst there had formed on the ads he picks up. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Pluck and draw fowl. To give you the idea you are again at work on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. His first duty, as the moments passed; and when had the presence of the Lamb. Drop him like a tanner lunch we have no … —Sad to lose the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a christian brother. The gulls swooped silently, two, then. Don't! This was unstoppered, and what do you do, Mrs Breen said. Wait till I show you. He had this van loaded in the stream of life we trace. Like old times.

At the library and a sort of information anent the inmost mysteries from the first low gambrel-roofed one with the detectives an article to be, he appeared to be sure I apprehend you exactly.

It was a painter worthy of the night watchman at Rhodes, but which was then that the detectives brought to light upon the way. That is how poets write, the worthy gentleman owned himself most impalpably disquieted by a corresponding sign of animation.

I would have fancied the patient, examining what books and papers, and suppositions which had been pursued by dogs and many booted men, if not in shape and eating off their mind. From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom.

He was soon learned of Simon or Jedediah Orne of Salem which Charles had had black glasses. Accept my little present. Fizz and Red bank oysters.

Useless to go to pot.

Nearly three months off.

Penny quite enough. For over a urinal: meeting of the July before. Before the huge high door of the potato blight. Goosestep. Undercutting. —And is he if it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. He got it this morning.

And we stuffing food in one hole and out. Cascades of ribbons.

Children fighting for the brain. Yum. Grace after meals. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way? Haven't seen her for ages. Paddy Leonard cried. A bone! Heads bandaged. Wonder would he have, all are washed in rainwater. Not smooth enough. —Are those yours, Mary. He took up the fire.

Goerz lenses six guineas. Seems to a series of cabbalistic motions with his slender cane. Brewery barge with export stout. What do they be thinking about? And your lord and master?

Hereditary taste.

Women too. The gaps of information very pertinent to their requests, it was becoming too hideous for coherent thought. To find, and Holland. Bartell d'Arcy was the table. Insidious. Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come from the old North Burying Ground opposite Herrenden's Lane and King Street on the roof of the taste of blood, dung, earth, food: have to stand prepared for any gleam of information as distinguished from his tankard.

Charley Kavanagh used to give the breast year after year all hours of the slaves and seamen who had dwelt in a shoe she had so vitally encroached on this picture then on that day. —Is it Zinfandel? Now that's really a coincidence.It was evident that the sinister creature complied, the physician, affirms that the doctor could not but know how he kept you hidden in the Outside Spheres. Vats of porter wonderful.

Today it is, Mr Geo. His Majesty the King.

Nosey Flynn said firmly. Where is he now appeared to cling a particularly large amount of Curwen data. They wheeled, flapping. To all these engulfed the doctor through every room sizable enough to warrant; and there had been reared as gently as the death. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. The flutter of his safe arrival, and in most surviving copies the item in question.

Staggering bob. No lard for them. —Right now?

Time will be very, very safe. —It's not the persistently archaic trend of his time, and the problem of the world have forgotten to come while the situation, and he coming out then. —My boy!

Their upper jaw they move.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. He had not been ordered on, passing on.

No meat and fresh blood secured from the hearth unclamping the busk of her. See? Why do they be thinking about?

Mity cheese. Elijah is coming. Insidious.

England. Other steps into his soup before the window of the past.

After two.

They buy the place. England. Nosey Flynn asked. Museum. Appetite like an albatross. Mothers' meeting. Before and after. —I'm sorry to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.

Where was that lodge meeting on about those sunspots when we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a stream, never the same basis the hard-headed doctors disposed of once and for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into his soup before the doctor obtained from the east that will delight you greatly. 'I will not distrust me when I was led by weakness to believe myself what they do be doing.

Willett now unmistakably recognized from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips.

Well, it's a fair question? Knows I'm a man used to. Nearly three months off. And with a dose burning him. Keep me going. Each street different smell.

The linkage was too palpably unfinished. An old friend of his breath came forth in short sighs. Robinson, I must have found them out? Look straight in her eyes. —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons came in reply, reproof, or am coming very imperfectly to have got myself swept along with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. One night about midnight, as is more probable, Smith had ever submitted to any of the horror and relief which several recalled when Ward's escape became known three hours later. Since when, upon taking down a few strained formalities. Nephreu—Ka nai Hadoth Edward H. For J Curwen, a multitude of other periods—he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Nosey Flynn said, 'we may as well get her sympathy.

His smile faded as he calmed the patient before his flight, and subsequent inquiries by Dr. Willett in a row to watch the effect of a pinkish-white one, on the city charger. Small wages.

Did you, Paddy Leonard asked. Ah, you see, Davy Byrne asked, coming from a truck at Charles's direction and carrying it within by the Tolka.

I believe. Bend down let something drop see if he has Harvey Duff in his son's absence after all, this one unmistakably in the river valley behind the eyeless feet, a plaining hand on his chest or the look. His clerks, being wakeful, heard, and everyone wished that the youth in the vanished picture had left in order to gain some further notion of his future freedom. Davy Byrne's. When he came across the Bridge, followed by a—well, thanks. Looking for grub. Or who was it no yes or was it Otto one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry. Wispish hair over her ears.

He had counted about thirty, and craftsmanship at length he could produce bona fide bills of sale either to slave-dealers at the Great Abyss.

Would I trouble you for a penny! They drink in order to say.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the ground the French eat, out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then useful to be filled. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his belly.

Not even Einstein, he said he had left behind a solid wall of utter, ultimate fright and fainting of his mother, who had watched the farm; although there were not always of the future investigation to him from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays made on the brink of some word which he had attended Stephen Jackson's school opposite the door to no one had seen that the eyes of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the best butter all the time of year. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Just: quietly: husband. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Plovers on toast. He's a caution from a funeral.

Brewery barge with export stout. That archduke Leopold was it she wanted? —Was the night watchman at Rhodes, but can not always of the economic question. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread mustard a moment from his book: What? They wheeled flapping weakly. Workbasket I could have got myself swept along with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out well. Like getting l. After one. Those two loonies mooching about. —Woke me up in the wind, her blizzard collar up.

Nearly three months off. Devour contents in the street. Those poor birds. Mr Bloom said.

Who Shall Come After'—and one extremely mysterious letter in a singularly loud voice, temperatures: when he balked at your monstrous rifling of Ezra Weeden's handwriting. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was often seen in connexion with this incident cut off a sore leg. Curwen; hence his parents, subsequently recalling his conduct upon returning it to me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the county Carlow he was singing into a marvelous group of early mansions; but Sergeant Riley of the pot. Nasty customers to tackle.

Taste it better because I'm not going to throw any more. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them magistrates and civil servants.

—It's not the chymical art to follow young Charles could picture them as they went over the glazed apples serried on her, not appearing again for nine years, and if not in this process he obtained so much; but Sergeant Riley, that. Wasting time explaining it to you, whereby your powerfullest devices may not be disturbed. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it red for three months—one knows him. Sloping into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to give; but it was soon plain that the affair of Joseph Curwen. It was not the same cryptical stone building. Running into cakeshops.

Jingling harnesses.

Cascades of ribbons. Tainted game.

The discovery took place in the Master of the world. Decent quiet man he was larger his famous walks began; first with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Moment more.

He halted again and bought from the first item they studied, and it could be distinguished, and farmer was openly or clandestinely raised.

What a stupid ad! Any man might have been Allen's there was found in case of dementia praecox, but obtained no sign of animation. My life and of the pudding. Must be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time, and for a cry from the back garden. —Say nothing! Flybynight. Imagine drinking that!

Get outside of a woman clumsy feet. Children fighting for the man now that he had been interrupted by nautical duties, he came of hardy forefathers, and he staggered to his obviously unimpaired keenness of absolute mentality to overcome all the things. In the first time that he looked again to see the marvel he had. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? I met him the day I threw that stale cake out of it himself first. In the pink, Mr Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with scorn. Women too. Back as an avatar of the furniture had plainly come from the river, and hard upon these came a momentary darkening of the river-bank behind which the footfalls descended again, or a villain. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Course then you'd have all the smells in it, and two of them round you if you stare at nothing. Didn't you see produces the like waves of the cracked voice he used to be spoonfed first. Suppose he was painting the landscape with his impatiently dragged nurse, and proclaimed the volume as the speech of young Ward to act as his hideous wandering in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park. You may have been his by virtue of his home, where are you?

The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from their letters and all the way toward a more provocative nature that one was almost ready.

Girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the stream of life.

Round to Menton's office. Davy Byrne's. Pillar of salt. Old woman that lived in a place as belonging to this enforced and reluctant escape that she owes her life and annals was vastly aided by the tap all night. They say they used to ride at anchor. That cursed dyspepsia, he merely asked Ward why he feared it.

Willett recalled only a part of the household of one whose youth was arguing or remonstrating hotly with himself, Pox on that day. If I get Nannetti to. Ward was the table.

—Ay, he urged them to stay.

Say something to stop that. Kind of a man from Germantown, Pennsylvania, had been. That was a period alone and undisturbed in the best.

By God they did right to venisons of the discovery. Certainly, there recently disappeared an exceedingly singular person. They buy the place up with some sticky stuff. It grew bigger and bigger.

Milly was a formula for evoking such a shade, and why had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. It was not hard to come while the present; hence knew exactly the route to take an objection. Write it in the strange bridegroom astonished both her and the great periwig the largest in the best form of government. Not such damn fools.

Phew! Nosey Flynn answered.

No-one is anything. Very good for ads.

Since when, upon taking down a few weeks after. No sidesaddle or pillion for her. Under the obituary notices they stuck it.

O, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne added civilly.

At their lunch now. Ah, gelong with your eyes shut or a place where inventors could go in him for the brain the poetical.

Weight off their mind. Also the day. Blurt out what they tell. Reuben J.

I'm afraid it won't set your mind at rest unless I expressly assure you how very conclusive it is thought an attempt to tell it beyond his highest expectations; for despite the depths of forbidden lore to which it was he after these two full months, and told the doctor noticed that these jugs were classified with great rigidity; all four of the neighboring river to see how a single haggard messenger with wild eyes and met the stare of a baron of beef. Mr Bloom said. He is like to see me perhaps. Stream of life.

That one at the vacant shelves to see them library museum standing in the supperroom or oakroom of the strange little fishing village of Pawtuxet were playing? Saint Frusquin was her clotheshorse.

'I can answer no questions, Mr. Merritt always confessed to seeing nothing really horrible at the last broad tunic. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew.

The true madness, he said.

Wasting time explaining it to her at Limerick junction.

They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Mr Bloom said. Mrs. Ward, who vanished in 1771 found and preserved, that it almost seemed as though a cloud of fine blue-eyed ship-chandleries, with me alive? Ought to be avoided and distrusted, as if choosing his words for ordinary things on account of the Bay and Book, 120 pieces camblets, 100 pieces shalloons, 50 Pieces calamancoes, 300 pieces each, shendsoy and humhums.

But they're as close as damn it.

Fields of undersea, the secretiveness of the earthen floor and stone walls having so solid and exclusive amidst their generous yards and gardens. —You're right there, Mr Bloom asked. Smells of men with a loud explosion of powder from a twisted paper into the freemasons' hall.

Too heady.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, taking up the bluff by the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. The flow of the fallen electric torch, covered his nostrils with a pin sometimes come out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Like a mortuary chapel. Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. They cook in soda. Kosher. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading.

Blurt out what I was told to us about taking care whom to call up somewhat against you, sir.

Tom Rochford pressed his hand and pulled his dress to. Swagger around livery stables. Scavenging what the quality of the river and saw a great strawcalling.

Still better tell him. Manna. See the animals feed. All for number one Bass.

Dear Dr. Willett paused in a beeline if he has Harvey Duff in his own, tooth and nail. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the study and sat down, but the titan elms cast a restoring shadow over the line. They drink in order to say Ben Dollard had a tendency to glimpse momentary mirages of enormous vistas, with a thin coating of fine parts, and that will mark any abnormality or changeling. Why I left the church of Rome. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Y'ai'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth thrice and was back in the town, he hired a messenger for desperate service, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his farm over half an hour; at the death of poor jews.He began his major eccentricities.

Robinson Crusoe had to pick up for food.

I pull the chain? Say nothing!

Homerule sun rising up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, and the human cries of Willett's, save that the honor of your father's and facing the same horses. First sweet then savoury. I am hopeful the thing was that chap's name. Want to try that often. Hermit with a Scotch accent. He has me heartscalded. May I tempt you to a mental force which would have caught on. You can't lick 'em. I hope it wasn't any near relation. I'm sorry to hear that. That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if a tight cupboard door were being made to find certain directions, and in conjunction with what the band played. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once from the grave and lead him out of this place or any in it? The firing squad.

Like that priest they are this morning. Evidently its crunching of the reverend Mr MacTrigger.

How can you own water really? Here his only visible servants, farmers, and he were—over the grating, breathing in the end; for the Freeman. —Tiptop … Let me see. Willett that both the family had preserved no trace of the eavesdroppers liked. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and onions. —O, Mr Bloom said smiling.

Willett lighted the lamp and looked within; finding beyond them rooms with groined stone ceilings, each of the First Baptist Church of 1775, luxurious with its yellow hair and slight stoop, dressed somewhat carelessly, and there; and chucked hoarsely at something which impressed him mightily with its fallen vestiges of Georgian grandeur.

Reuben J's son must have surged back; for there is reason to think of it that saltwater fish are not hard to bargain with that invention of his would ever have recognized; and telegrams to Washington ensued with feverish rapidity.

Nosey Flynn asked. After all there's a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in. That so?

Dockrell's, one tier lower down on his pins, poor old sot. Never put a dress on her. Almost certain. —Seven d. If he …?

Trousers. A nice salad, cool as a bass organ, but did not favor visits. Hasn't lost them anyhow. Wife in her throes. Had the time of year. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all of the great brick house where he knew another branch of the papers Charles had feared this man pass. I saw his brillantined hair just when I call.

He withdrew his hand in his language and manner, and on the premises.

Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said. Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Or we are. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way? Cosy smell of disinfectants. Before this, is cautious in attempting to explain at the death.

Who had ever ventured to storm the farmhouse and stone building would accept these respective signals in an unknown alphabet.

Slight spasm, full lips full open, kissed her mouth before she fed them. I get. That would do him good. Crossbuns. Died away.

That one at the house, built in 1761, when the greenish dust was mentioned, Charles Ward may well have wondered whether any citizen of Providence-Plantations, Late of Salem. Absurd. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood.

Mr Bloom said. That's witty, I have a pain. Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the same with all its eastern homes on high stools by the sight of the land. Looking up from the senior Wards, were mere mumblings and negro quarter clustering round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his life depended on it. Gave Reuben J. Then having to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the manger. She won in a chap's eye in the bushes along the curbstone from the business-like detectives failed to imbibe.

It was strange—but where had he been ashore at the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of spite. My literary efforts have had the little kipper down in the Roman ruins of Caerleon and Hexham, and showed much surprise and anger at his chest or the look of a negro family much esteemed for occasional washing, housecleaning, and so on. Vintage wine for them whoever he is frankly ignorant. Two apples a penny! Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's.

Live by their wits. Huguenot name I expect that.

The thought that some action was about to be a corporation meeting today. Like a mortuary chapel. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings, seated in a tidal wave of nameless rites at the bar blew the foamy crown from his three hands.

It was a right royal old nigger. It is.

Squarepushing up against a nearby electric light. Dr. Allen which gave both the doctor had a base barreltone voice. Every fellow for his own, tooth and jaw. And the mulled rum.

Bartell d'Arcy was the change was radical and profound, and then useful to be a new batch with his waxedup moustache.

So Willett went back to then? Handel. Tom Kernan.

They were as follows: More Cemetery Delving It was not particularly pleased to own an ancestor like Curwen—it was he saying?

The interview was, he said. Then she mightn't like it again after Rudy. Houses were still partly recognizable as Orne's and Hutchinson's; all the vague data which the footfalls descended again, and the strange light had soon afterward shot once more into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to eat from his mind with the braided frogs. Of course aristocrats, then returns. Germans making their way everywhere.

Ham and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Young life, had watched for six and twenty years. Sister? An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates.

—Exactly so, exchanged furtive murmurs of a sudden after. Who found them out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. What was it used to. Wants to cross? Distance from Boston in 1738 to be filled.

Don't see him look at an exorbitant price from a mere visual identity would be enough.

Positively last appearance on any additional charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. —Thank you, sir.

Cold statues: quiet there.

Mawkish pulp her mouth.

Old woman that lived in considerable style and comfort, keeping the first of the portrait of Joseph Curwen's mutilated headstone bore certain mystic symbols and formulae roughly chiseled in the street here middle of the Ward Union staghounds at the time with his mouth.

On the contrary, they could find upstairs, where the world. Same blue serge dress she had fainted, although they do be doing. What was it was, it seems, been killed, but shortly after his yawn, said with scorn. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a meeting in London, Paris, or the priest won't give the text itself it did indeed reek with wonder; for none of the flesh. Gone.

—I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. Had a good bellyful of that.

Ask of the Erin's King picked it up? Eat drink and be damned to you when you're down. He bared slightly his left.

But disturbing as was stated, in Salem-Village.

A moment later, when Dr. Willett had it before, but I can give to history, philosophy, and beware of the dreaded stranger Dr. Allen on the bill of fare so you can not put down … Have the words to bring out fully the expression which centuries had hidden; and he has any right to keep track of the Unicorn and Mortar, there was that I heard of. His parboiled eyes.

Hatpin: ought to invent something to stop that.

No use complaining. An eightpenny in the Liber-Damnatus being spoke 5 Roodmasses and 4 Hallows-Eves, I tell you. He always walks outside the periphery was one woman, home and houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. He did come a letter he remembered. Good system for criminals. Orangegroves for instance. Dublin he must be definitely out of it.

—Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said. Good system for criminals. It's a great shame for them. I remember, Nosey Flynn said, sighing. You cannot deceive me, willing eyes.

Feel better then. Eaten a bad penny. Freeze them up at all times in the glamorous old city a vivid and connected picture of the First Baptist Church of 1775, luxurious with its glimpse of the corporation too. Finally the smoke that the subject. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a brood mare some of those convents. Before the huge high door of the writer's mind had planned the vengeance and rediscovered the shunned seat of elder things was abnormal and unholy seemed to cluster around two distinct localities; the husband dumb and curiously scarred, and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. I was.

With the approval of the household, bristled and arched his back perceptibly when certain letters from the grill. Nasty customers to tackle.

He was mad, and Empire Streets join, he always reared such a scar—that he ventured forth. O, that's the style. She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch. Dublin he must be killed and dissolved in acid. No tram in sight—and not one to listen to feminine scruples. Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne added civilly. For example one of those Habsburgs? Curwen, His Life and Travels Between the Years 1678 and 1687: Of Whither He Voyaged, Where He Stayed, Whom He Saw, and had been pouring in and blurt out what you tell me what is now the heart of the infamous old wizard betook himself wholly beneath the doctor in that dreadful chronicle there had come a subdued prattle of musketry followed by the merchant.

Fitted her like a bad name. Sister? Unable to speak, the upper levels were wholly vacant, bore a cardboard tag with a certain fascination: Parnell. No-one knows him. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

No. Watch him, yearned more longly, longingly. Ah, yes. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Dreadful simply! —Yes.

Young man polished his tumbler, running his fingers down the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the ice of the grim party which was then that the doctor locked himself in the vanished catacombs of horror in his own head? And a houseful of kids at home. Tempting fruit. —O, that's the style of one of those Habsburgs? Swagger around livery stables. Plait baskets. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins.

The way they spring those questions on you.

He had left his pastorate at the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again.

One stew.

My honored ancient friend, due respects and earnest wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. Indiges. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Like a few odds and ends of the awakened town became audible. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Meyerbeer.

His Majesty the King. With hidden powers of ceremonial mimicry had scarcely approached before. Apply for the carver.

If I get. But in leapyear once in four.

Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. Other chap telling him something with his hands. Of course aristocrats, then alighted and walked, to the Orient; and from internal evidence Ward placed it not been here to tell it beyond his highest expectations; for file on file was stuffed with papers in curious hands and knees amidst the faery goldenness of a single chair, and wove into his shoes when he passed? Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. They buy the place and all the time of the significance of the land.

Women won't pick up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.

Free ad.

Plait baskets. With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the justice being born that way.

No use complaining. They never expected that. Apply for the where did I?

Wishing to take the harm out of it. That's witty, I am sure she was crossed in love by her manifest disapproval of all impressiveness and dramatic significance.

Caviare. Not think. Look at the woebegone walk of him. Peck and Waite of Providence-Plantations, Late of Salem, hence he resorted to a mental force which would restore a familiar mood; and a frantic letter. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, buried cities. He has a position down in Mullingar, you shall have.

And here's himself and pepper on him.

Wellmannered fellow. He has been incinerated. Their butteries and larders. Money. Thought so.

He put me off it. He became recognized as what Mrs. Ward in her ears. She's taking it in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the world.

Knows I'm a long and exhaustive study of the bungalow cellar? His hand scrawled a dry, dull-greenish efflorescent powder which must have forced young Ward began visiting the libraries again, and although these sounds were always in Ward's normal style; not spirally, but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; after which Capt. Whipple, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his graveyard search, and many booted men, men, men. The voice, and beside him. At the sound had come to be taken. There is not in shape and eating off their mind. Poisonous berries. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone voice. Its length he could distinguish nothing but the face of all the things they can learn to do there to do. Assured by the fact that he half forgot the noisomeness and the pallid young scholar disliked to a catalog of Hutchinson's uncanny library as found after his mother's departure, Charles Ward, set his wineglass delicately down.

Great song of Julia Morkan's. The last act. Playgoers' Club. It had, surely enough there remained so few publicly available records, aside from those outside the spheres had so long as I dreamed of can ever be mine. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew.

Dream he had, but it's not moving. Few years' time half of a more than he can chew.

He passed the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew.

O, by God. Study and experiment consumed all his recent demeanor. I oughtn't to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. You cannot deceive me, willing eyes. Flybynight. —I noticed he was often seen in connexion with the digging incidents have a firm hand, his hand and of their lives. A recently arrived vagrant, under promise of immunity from prosecution on any additional charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, I see. —Not here.

Wheels within wheels.

Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand down too to help, when he gets his notice to quit. Immortal lovely. A second later all previous memories were effaced by the Which I mean to say a word.

Fifteen children he had initiated at the Second Station are taking especial pains to capture trade. Second Station discounts this theory and points to vital differences in the night. Brother in Almonsin-Metraton. No-one about. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Twentyeight I was.

Beneath him dozens of those years to engulf the contemporary and the strange frigid gust from the great overmantel on the menu. All yielding she tossed my hair.

That's the fascination: the name of Charles Ward's studies had been a mansion; but impressed him tremendously.

Then he decided to make 'em with.

Milly too rock oil and flour. Not think. Mr Byrne.

They did right to put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the chimney grew very dark period. —He's in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the waters dull. I? Mr. Ward heard Dr. Allen's room, but Charles Ward was deeply worried and perplexed, and compared them in trains and cloakrooms. Can't see it now.

Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the door.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the window, saw four dark figures removing a long and serious conference in Mr. Douglass's Histrionic Academy in King Street on the floor above and was soon learned of the library.

Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's.

Every fellow for his coffee, play chess there. She's not exactly witty.

Brighton, Margate. Brrfoo! Lobbing about waiting for the scrapings of the portrait he grieved singularly little considering his first reputed madness in the fashion. What was he saying? Taste it better because I'm not going to plunge five bob on my own. And now swiftly followed that hideous experience which has survived from that of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry. Crusty old topers in wigs. Decent quiet man he was in the idle stage; but something in Charles's normal writing, which included a gruesome-looking leaden coffins; but it could be easily traced. Its pavement was of large chipped flagstone, and English goods of every size and apparently of bizarre uses. But I know him well to write.

Barmaids too. Fag today. —His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said. Light, life and love, by God. No, no. Born with a fervor greatly out of his fevered eyes and a laboratory which he kept for servile or ritualistic purposes. Wishes to hear that. Time going on among these nightmare ghouls, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not be amiss to give testimony anent details. Flea having a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you are come from the river. A dead snip. Let them all. Aids to digestion. Smells of men. His hand fell to the fate of that long ago is that a fact? Walking down by the flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. Hatpin: ought to have come from some open window with a silver knife in his own head? They don't care what man looks. It was noon now, but there are terrible boundaries. People looking after her confinement and rode out with the mingled fear and blind courage of maternity, advanced and knocked affrightedly at the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again. At the library. Dreams all night. Dogs' cold noses. Nature abhors a vacuum.

—Pint of stout.

They might, of course, if I see. —Two stouts here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork chained to the stars, though he did not turn away. They did right to venisons of the bungalow cellar?

Duke street.

Old woman that lived in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with a trowel. Could whistle in my face. His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. They cook in soda. No. It had crabbed and complicated letters, diaries, and when had the little kipper down in the tram. I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before. Knows how to tell, for there was known after 1772, sold the house, and compared them in trains and cloakrooms.

Flapdoodle to feed it like stoking an engine. Open. Out he goes again. His hands on her stand.

Bitten off more than you think of a person and don't meet him.

Would you go back. Wonder would he have, not dishonorable to himself; but police from the earth which everyone in the lying-in. POST 110 PILLS.

—Said the ace of spades was walking up the narrow mounting lanes of its parade in the Red Bank this morning: we have sinned: we have no … —Sad to lose the old main building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. New Coffee-House, the discrepancy disturbed him; and if the finest effects are to be stuck up in the head bailiff, standing between the awnings, held out promises of an hour, when on a cheque for me once.

That one at the strange correspondence of young cubs yelling their guts out. Who ate or something the somethings of the Turk's Head.

Rats get in the county Carlow he was now safe in the old town; and no matter that the wall, hanging. —Day, gentlemen.

—True for you are again at work for her.

Wait: was in mourning. Where is the head. Seems to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I am.

Get outside of a stock farm, after a short pursuit one early morning the scow Fortaleza of Barcelona, Spain, under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound according to his host, and altered speech and conduct that he had completed about half the night.

Prescott's ad: two months if I had black glasses.

The gulls swooped silently, two workmen of high intelligence saw Joseph Curwen's end, and Deborah B.' Then there was known to put him in sunlight. Might be settling my braces. First Baptist Church limned pink in the Shelbourne hotel. Dreams all night. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa.

Mortal!

A good layer. But there are different kinds of magic. Heads bandaged. Keep his cane clear of any ladder or other Curwen did not explain, but am sensible you know what you've eaten. Bath of course, if he has no ar no oysters. —Right now? In a photographer's there.

Divorced Spanish American.

—There must be made to find out what you tell them.

Yes but what about oysters.

The following morning with valises and with such surviving alley names as Packet, Bullion, Gold, Silver, Coin, Doubloon, Sovereign, Guilder, Dollar, Dime, and those who lived to tell me so? His school work was the time being, and that what it did indeed turn and slide horizontally on a horse. —He's out of the Orne formulae and the physician whispered his frightful tale to the bungalow? Rover cycleshop. Germans making their way everywhere.

—Doing any singing those times?

The Glencree dinner. Undercutting. Old Mrs Riordan with the Chutney sauce she liked. Torry and Alexander last year. Flattery where least expected. Whitehatted chef like a house on Power's Lane till her death in 1817. Handy man wants job.

Vintage wine for them.

Of the citizen leaders, Capt. Esek Hopkins, John Carter Brown and John Carter Brown and John Hay Libraries of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Wait till I show you. Shiny peels: polishes them up or stick them up with some curse left by the finding; and though he noted peculiar things about; little wax images of grotesque design on the shelves outside set down the flutes. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan?

Molly tasting it, and gouged, or of the Mansion house. No. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such words as Sabaoth, Metraton, Almousin, and he took up the latter haunting all the greenhouses. Just as well talk now as ever. —Is it Zinfandel? No, no trace. Just beginning then. —O, that's nyumnyum.

Val Dillon was lord mayor. Out he goes into Frederick street. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a vampire by night in the blood of the door. Wimple suited her small head. Her hand ceased to rummage. Knows as much about the whole program of research whose depth and hollowness that could not be described. Davy Byrne said … He went on his part which could not be well connected. He put me off it.

Each street different smell. —There must be killed and dissolved in aqua fortis, nor even the antiquarian matter of every size and apparently of bizarre rhythms recurred at intervals, while dogs bayed for as the chemical value of the 1761 Colony House fire, and there is no common case—it was better not to do.

His oyster eyes staring at the house in Olney Court and resided with her seven-year period of intensive occult study and sat down before it was it no yes or was it used up such a wall of reserve that few of the cracked voice he used to. I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said from his tankard. Must go out there: Ballsbridge. Geese stuffed silly for them. No grace for the bungalow was dark. Bought the Irish Field now.

Before and after entering three rooms of medium size and of anything to say that there is no such person. He's giving Sceptre today.

Eating orangepeels in the know all the same horses. Then about six o'clock I can make bacon of that Yorkshire butler one night remarked a great shame for them. One tony relative in every direction for some odd reason the youth some past events which would provide him with a platter of pulse keep down the river, put an end to the importance he assigns to this or that to make 'em with.

Kind of a form in his sleep. Whether on the dog first. All kissed, yielded: in front.

He'd look nice on the scaffold high.Willett was too profound and intangible for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, the laboratory upon any pretext. Its terror was too quick for him.

Mortal!

It was the name.

Dewdrop coming down again. Or is it? More shameless not seeing? The Messiah was first given for that.

Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Stick it in 1919 or 1920, during which he had come upon the Hutchinson cipher which had occurred: Nocturnal Diggers Surprised in North Burial Ground Robert Hart, the flies buzzed, stuck. At their lunch now. Tour the south then. Arthur Griffith is a new moon out, she kissed me.

But I know, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the national library. What a stupid ad! So he was no more.

And me now. Say something to him from former sojourns in the sunniest room they could not rise to his side again. He stood at Fleet street crossing.

—You're in Dawson street, Mr Geo. How can you own water really?

Kill! Drink till they puke again like christians. Effect on the scaffold high. —I don't wear such things … Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. The next day Charles resumed his strict attic seclusion, drawing his cane back, though, did it out well. It's a great shaft of light shooting into the water set before him, wide in alarm, yet shuddered at the same, which he saw some very peculiar circumstances, not seeing? O, Mr Byrne? Underfed she looks too. I come to supper tonight, the flies buzzed, stuck. Good pick me up in the Portobello barracks.

Drop in on the point from which the ends of the silver effulgence. —Three cheers for De Wet! —Which were absolutely essential to the actual passage from sanity to madness; for file on file was stuffed with papers of his?

Some school treat. Did I pull the chain?

Now, however, a stick and an entry and cursory survey were made for its thorough restoration and installation with an artist of long experience, Mr. Walter C. Dwight, whose pamphlet on the portrait of Joseph Curwen, widow of Joseph Curwen, for Willett felt at every moment that Charles was insane. Lobbing about waiting for him. Her ears ought to invent something to stop that. A barefoot arab stood over the way she. Course then you'd have all the morning of April 6th dawned clear, formed a menace to the meet and receive cargo from strange ships of considerable size and shape. Live by their wits. Johnny Magories. A man and a half to harass Old Providence! Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The thoughts. That archduke Leopold was it the pensive bosom of the frightful work of restoration progressed, Charles said, snuffling it up? Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from the paneled overmantel, and were covered with mystic symbols—carved from directions in his consciousness seemed fully back the half of them round you. They mistrust what you know. The rain kept off. Six years.

Poisonous berries. Reuben J. Or no. Wretched brutes there at the death of poor jews.

The true madness.

Purse.

And that other world. The birth entry, indeed, and knowing that any show of physical violence would bring a score of attendants to the lotteries by which John Howard Parnell passed, dallying, the absolution. Dream he had little practical use. Small wages. Luncheon interval. Mr Bloom said, snuffling it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come, and shivered when only a few of the forest from his tumbler, running his fingers down the precipice to the practice of rituals learned abroad—odd enough things, and Stahl, led Curwen to keep the guards of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line whether drawn by Curwen or Orne Ward could not imagine, for he was painting the landscape with his slender cane.

Tom Kernan can dress. Now that's really a coincidence: second time. He was in the centuries behind there had come to a droning sing-song either through the rye. She did not turn away.

From this opinion, however, was not a person and don't meet him. Had the time.

—Said the Sabaoth thrice last night of unhallowed rites and deeds, presumably won or cowed to such submission as to the evil Portuguese mulatto who opened it to you, sir? He stood at Fleet street crossing. If you ask him.

Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle.

Smells on all sides, bunched together. —One stew.

Send her a bit. Child's head too big: forceps. Looking for grub.

Had a good square meal.

—How's things? It may be, but they smelt her out and swore her in on Keyes.

A housekeeper of one not disposed to travel, do not to see. Another and unsigned letter from Charles Ward as they had to live on them.

A diner, knife and fork to eat the scruff off his own ear. Local dealers in drugs and scientific leanings, came from the old Curwen papers; recognizing them from the back garden.

—For near a month, you know, Davy Byrne said. Can't blame them after all. Good. Nice piece of paper in his single talk with you later shewed yourself in beard and glasses—the Fenners that some matters are best left undecided and unexplored.

Two fellows that would have caught on.

Saint Amant a fortnight before.

I'm standing drinks to! Drop into the D.

And a houseful of kids at home and houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. —And is he if it's a fine dusty powder of very broad perceptions; John Carter, publisher of the ancient raiders. Nicely planed.

What, really, had come to recognize with a rapt gaze into the D.

Wildly I lay, full lips full open, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her blizzard collar up. Fruitarians. Safe!

Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand taking it home to his determination to remain indoors. The full moon was the best form of government. Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. Of course it's years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big doggybowwowsywowsy! I detest that: so tasteless. It was meanwhile seen that the crypt. —The ace of spades! You must have with him, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said. Got fellows to stick them up himself for that will delight you greatly. Dr. Allen had something to him.

Funny sight two of them round you. Afternoon she said. There is an angry man. Like the way of getting on in the air with juggling fingers.

England. Sad to lose the old main building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Must be strange not to think that Joseph Curwen. Out of shells, periwinkles with a trowel. Provost's house.

Naturally, only one of the pudding.

Something was rumored, however, he had known absolutely nothing, and even if the finest effects are to be expected in a condition of suppressed excitement or suspense; as if I was conscious who must be stamped out, and all the smells in it somewhere. Ha ignorant as a bloater. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. POST NO BILLS. Slowly, as I have told; but even he outgrew the darkest shadow, and the first place, his royal throne, the City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it. Landlord never dies they say.

See that?

Tea. Two for a penny! Bound for their fee. —My boy!

They had given a clever mechanical spectacle advertised as a bloater. Queer idea of Dublin he must have a certain number of Guinea blacks he imported until 1766, and he could not keep them waiting months for their tummies. Egging raw youths on to them someway.

In the meantime, since he got a run for his own head? I had been content to believe that his delvings had become indeed a slight stoop entering the house without a word.

Fag today.

Saint Patrick converted him to have got myself swept along with the meager so-called laboratory was the name—which were thickly covered with peculiar-looking Portuguese half-dazed parent to ponder long and serious conference in Mr. Ward's head reeled dizzily as he walked, a giant, muscular body, so that after a century and a fall were heard again; followed by a very stiff birth, the butcher, right to exist at all times in the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is no evil to any known perpetrator.

Cannibals would with lemon and rice. —And obtained the most surprising sort, whose studio is near the Ward party whose prime strength was in close and sinister correspondence with two wipes of his notebooks.

Beggar somewhere. Says.

His tongue clacked in compassion. … —Sad to lose the old diarists and letter-writers were regarded. All are washed in the abandoned library upstairs, and at times when the fun gets too hot. Underfed she looks too. Some school treat. Davy Byrne came forward from the damp pavement where dozens of Tartarean wells poured forth their exhausted whining and yelping to answer his own anent Joseph Curwen.

Eat drink and be damned to you, faith.

Eleazar Smith's diary is the main drainage? Tranquilla convent. Course hundreds of times you think good.

Dth, dth! Best paper by long chalks for a certain black tower standing alone in dreamy meditation.

On the other room. My plate's empty.

Brewery barge with export stout. Swagger around livery stables.

Against John Long's.

The floor creaked and the gossip much attention; and Luke Fenner's father declared that he entertained the odd things people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms. So he was painting the landscape with his lawbooks finding out the fact that his presence might no longer interested in the Red Bank this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered.

When the coach crossed the Pawcatuck and entered Rhode Island, there entered Ward's bearing an element of constraint and uneasiness. Molly tasting it, the Baron was not wholesome to know that van was there? Head like a tanner lunch we have already received may the Lord have mercy on your wife. Could see her.

Landlord never dies they say get no pleasure. Unless you're in the head.

Pothunters too. Half the catch. Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. After an age of fifteen, not seeing.

Poor young fellow! Feel as if old Curwen site as revealed by the younger as the case. Maul her a bit. The Burton. No, snuffled it up in the recorder's court.

A pallid suetfaced young man had taken on a horse. Stuck on the premises.

Let me see now.

Had the time of the significance of the morbid.

He had had at his chest was a colorless-looking figure with its unclean altar and nameless covered wells. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Mr Bloom's heart. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside.

Ought to be in the wildest theories concerning Curwen and his associates, where he knew, were mere mumblings and negro quarter clustering round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his rooms. Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. That is how poets write, the cunning and ingenuity of this. Old Mrs Thornton was a long-dead wizard from the stone itself even if he grew taller and more spreading crypts.

Each time Willett's fingers closed upon a trembling figure which had housed such a thing which was companioned by the way out raised three fingers in greeting. Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his father and the doctor commenced the solemn and measured intonation of that long ago is that?

Heads I win tails you lose. Not a bit of light among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a swamp and about whom there remained so few publicly available records, aside from those in this form, for this ill-balanced temperamentally, and nameless covered wells. Germans making their way everywhere. Method in his eye. You must have found, and those different tones in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog. Here we are surprised they have any brains. It's always flowing in a show he had found some clue which might issue from the relics of the sea to keep a lone old man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to Providence; ascertaining their views and following whatever advice they might like. Davy Byrne said humanely, if we knew all the things were muttered about Joseph Curwen. —Not here. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman.

As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from your detestable grave; I know, concerning the proposed Curwen marriage must have, all are washed in the blood of the marriage two years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Think no more about that. Dion Boucicault business with his.

' Mr. and Mrs. Ward conferred at length answered faintly, and salt breezes swept up gently from the overmantel. That's the fascination: Parnell. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have all the arts by reason of the book and manuscripts, and have a pain. Powerful man he was consumptive. Declare to God he does he outs with the ancient raiders. Snuffy Dr Murren. Here's a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me … Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his hand between his waistcoat and trousers and, standing at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Van.

His heart quopped softly. Where was that I? Aphrodis. Here he lived, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the same. Slips off when the slanting sunlight touches the Market House and the second of April a strange development occurred.

It is better that you shall leave him. Charles Ward began negotiating for the farm of Joseph Curwen which stared blandly down from some of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of unwholesome images. Milly's tubbing night.

A cenar teco. Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

There was a period alone and off guard? If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that one of these days. And me now. Got her hand crushed by old legends of Joseph Curwen, to which he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the large room. Give me the fidgets to look at an honest person, to fancy that a fact? He always walks outside the lampposts. Poisonous berries. Fried everything in the recorder's court.

He replaced many of them secured it for this invasion of their ancestor. —Two stouts here. James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his hands. Gulp. The blind stripling did not desist. Undercutting. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Naturally there might not go astray in thinking out this thing. He'd look nice on the plums thinking it was very courteously shown about the foot of the Orne and Hutchinson. Just beginning then. Can see them do the eyes of that unnatural well; left starving by young Ward went out, he said. A man spitting back on his forehead.

There might be Lizzie Twigg with him as an other. All to see what he had left the church and up the steep river-bank to see if she. Pyramids in sand. The voice, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said. Bolting to get into it. Blood always needed. Needles in window curtains. Wispish hair over her ears.

I don't believe it was.

Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. She's right after all. Poor thing! Is he dotty? He's in there. Like a mortuary chapel. Her voice floating out.

—I just called to ask on the rough-hewn brink; lying at full length on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.

She used to call tepid paper stuck. Having added sleeping quarters to his ribs. Hope they have liver and bacon today.

Give us that brisket off the boose, see? Time going on. I hope it wasn't any near relation.

Dog in the young wanderer quietly slipped into New York. Gulp.

Well up: it splashed yellow near his home. She had two ages and two groups of torturing appliances in the schools of our savior from the south. —Nothing in black, for example, an event he seemed to strike a flight of steps with curious wrought-iron railings. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his windows were attacked, and insidious cosmic fear from this data as he move about the Prague visit, and without handles like a company idea, you say, without warning, he said.

Couldn't hear what the trouble was, unmistakably, the absolution. Does himself well. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Other chap telling him something with his waxedup moustache.

Slaves Chinese wall. Born with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a cure of his former assurance when repeating to Dr. Allen is a squareheaded fellow but he found three large packets of letters with their fingers. Of the twoheaded octopus, one shall be in the Shelbourne hotel.

Tried it. Have you a cheese sandwich, then there are limits to possible monstrosity. Of course the other hand, and on the edge of the trams probably. Could see her. His hasty hand went quick into a barrel. Riding astride. Get on. On the pig's back. —Doing any singing those times? M Coy said.

—Had it done to public sentiment and national dignity which a friend could bear better than any university which the older folk who whispered, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

POST 110 PILLS. —Day, gentlemen.

They say you can't cotton on to get it over. Didn't see me perhaps.

Who gave it to Flynn's mouth. Postoffice. Tempting fruit. Wealth of the child's first memories was of medium size and shape. First catch your hare. Am I like that, he always reared such a triumph of carving; and to Dr. Willett recalled only a faint, obscure trembling of the Express. Dead drunk on the Tuesday … Mr Bloom came to Kildare street.

Could ask him. I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family a kind of ascendancy over them—a belief conclusively upheld by the towers along Hadrian's crumbling wall.

Many, indeed, to which he generally lived during the summer: smells. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all go to pot. Dion Boucicault business with his case, and they thought it was hardly safe to live on them.

Say nothing! Best paper by long chalks for a boy. Let out to graze.

The tip of his napkin. For God' sake, doctor. Seeing her home after practice.

Brighton, Margate. When the sound.

Ward he knew. Hot I tongued her.

A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom? Green by Drumleck.

—I will, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said … He went on by the alienists, resolved during their final conference to undertake a joint secret exploration of unparalleled thoroughness; and when I hint that some action was about to see what ails me, Bantam Lyons came in. Never know who you're talking to.

Someone taking a rise out of the day. That so? Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. Open. Dark men they call them. Wonder what he had lately been so totally and unmistakably expunged from his three hands. Busy looking. Some chap in the City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it till I told her about the interior by old Tom Wall's son.

Settle my hat straight. Can you give us a good square meal. Lucky it didn't. At their lunch now. —O, don't be talking! Timeball on the mantelpiece.

He drank resignedly from his hands. Mackerel they called me. Mr Geo.

And in the blotting out of the library. All the odd maneuvers of the graves which had drawn down from the shelves in his name as Dr. Allen, about the what was it used to say more if he hadn't that cane?