#i want to have a philosophical conversation leaned up against a statue please

[have-each-others-six]

time will tell, she’ll see us through (part six)

***

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

***

She doesn’t know what to do.

There’s no clear next step here. She can’t call Katherine, she doesn’t want to ask Jane or Aragon to fix a mistake that they didn’t make, and she can’t exactly pace every street in town like a madwoman until she finds her.

As her mind is whirling, trying to formulate a plan that probably won’t even work, a street musician a few yards away gets out his violin and begins to play an old waltz, something old enough that Cathy recognizes it from her first life.

Her racing thoughts quiet for a moment, and after a few bars she hums softly along to it, her feet unconsciously moving along to the antiquated steps as she sits a little taller on the edge of the fountain, remembering nights with dripping candles and heavy dresses and blurry glamour where she did this waltz perfectly.

She hums a little louder than is probably necessary, and she quiets her voice when the memory fades and she becomes aware of where she is again.

However, when she gets softer, she hears another voice humming along just as she was, and for a moment she thinks she’s just hearing an echo but then the voice begins to harmonize with the violin, and when Cathy peeks around the fountain, she stands up so quickly she almost bangs her knee against the stone.

It’s Katherine, sitting on the other side, singing softly and looking up at the sky, evidently lost in memories of her own. 

The first thought that Cathy has is that Katherine was smart enough to bring a coat.

“Kit?” Cathy murmurs, unable to stop herself from speaking.

Her voice sends Katherine crashing back to earth, and the girl leaps to her feet, preparing to run again, her eyes wide and filled with fear.

“No, wait!” Cathy exclaims, but still softly, under the violinist’s music, which has now shifted to something more current that neither of them recognize and has attracted a bit of a crowd. “Wait, Katherine, please. I want to- I need to tell you something. Can we talk?”

Slowly, Katherine shifts out of her defensive position as she realizes Cathy isn’t going to start yelling again, and she tries to look a little braver before she replies. 

“Not here,” she answers softly after a few moments, a little warily, looking around at all the couples and people who are starting their night shift. “I… I can find a place. Follow me.”

She walks down a side path that Cathy doesn’t think she’s ever seen before, but somehow feels familiar- it ends at a small statue, something nondescript and old, and by the light of a nearby streetlamp Cathy can see angels and saints carved in the stone with some sort of an inscription that’s now illegible.

They both stand in front of it, side to side. Cathy opens her mouth to speak, to apologize, but Katherine talks first.

“This is where we went after our first rehearsal,” Katherine says quietly. “That was the first time I had to face everything- really face it- and even though I didn’t tell anyone that I felt like I was caving in, after rehearsal was done, you took me here.” She looks over at Cathy, watching her side profile. “Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” Cathy says softly, because she does remember that now, remembers not quite knowing where to take Katherine because everywhere in the city was crawling with people and the conversation that they needed to have was something that warranted at least the illusion of privacy.

In an attempt to act like she knew what she was doing, she led them into the park, found this obscure side path, and pretended she knew where it went. They’d ended up sitting at the base of the statue for at least an hour, talking.

“Do you remember what you told me?”

“That I had some tissues in my bag if you wanted them?”

“No, after that. A while after you gave me the tissues.” Cathy swallows.

She hadn’t known what to do.

She had been surprised that Katherine had accepted her offer at all- Cathy had seen the haunted look in her eyes when she had finished her song, and before she really knew what was happening she had walked over and asked the girl if she would like to go on a walk after they wrapped.

They had found their way to the park, and the girl broke down crying when the two of them sat with their backs to the statue, something in her finally giving way. Cathy had had no idea of what she was supposed to do.

After all, she was the one who had replaced Katherine, and not only that, but she was the one who survived- should she have even brought the girl here? Was she really the best person to be offering comfort right now?

Katherine had holding the tissue that Cathy had awkwardly offered her tightly in her fist, and the older woman could feel it brushing against her leg as Katherine shook with sobs or maybe fear.

She hadn’t known what to do, but then there was a moment when she looked over and Cathy could see her little Mary in Katherine’s gaze- their eyes were similar, they had both seemed to see much more than Cathy’s ever could.

She had taken a breath. Waited for just one beat, feeling the tissue against her leg and the crying girl’s shaking and the wind through the trees overhead.

And then, somehow, the words had come to her.

“I told you I was going to be there for you,” Cathy says now as the memory fades from her mind, and she looks over at the girl who has grown so much since that first real conversation. The lingering anger of her destroyed manuscript mixes with the care she feels for Katherine and the leftover shock from her revelation about her writing only a few minutes ago to create an emotion she can’t quite place. “I said that I understood how strange this all was, and how terrifying it must be, and then… then I told you that if you ever needed to talk to somebody, I would be there for you.”

“You said you were going to be there for me,” Katherine murmurs, repeating Cathy’s words back to her softly. “Always.”

“Have I not been?” Cathy asks. “Is that why you did it?”

“No,” Katherine replies quietly, understanding the meaning of ‘it’. “No, that’s not why.” She moves from standing next to Cathy to sitting down against the statue, like she did the last time they were here, but this time she isn’t crying. Her eyes look dull and flat. “You were going to leave,” she says.

“What?” Cathy’s brow furrows, and she’s genuinely confused. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody had to tell me,” Katherine mutters, pulling apart a clumpy weed she yanked from the ground so she doesn’t have to look Cathy in the eyes. “You got your book deal with the publishing company, and they were probably going to give you your series that you were talking about, and then they would have taken you away from us.” “I mean, maybe they would have,” Cathy tells her incredulously. “Is that why you destroyed my manuscript? Because you couldn’t stand the idea of me leaving? You thought that I’d never visit, or call? That I’d just abandon all of you, first chance I got?” “I-”

“If you think that’s true, then you are sorely mistaken,” Cathy says firmly. “You’re my family, you know that! How could you think that I would just leave all of you behind?!”

Katherine balls her fists in her lap, and even in the dim light of the streetlamp, Cathy can tell that Katherine looks completely broken.

“When people leave, they don’t come back,” she mumbles. “Ever. And when they leave, they usually break your heart without a care in the world.” She looks up, like she’s trying to glean the courage to continue from the stars that are starting to emerge in the sky. “No one who has ever loved me has loved me after they left- maybe they didn’t even love me before they did.” She looks down again. “I didn’t want you to be like that.”

“Katherine, you have been through hell,” Cathy says in a quiet voice, because she has. “I realize that it’s hard to trust me... it’s hard to trust anyone. We’re all here for you. That won’t change no matter where any of us go. But when you feel like we aren’t here for you, the answer isn’t to destroy the most important thing to one of us in an attempt to get us to stay.”

The younger girl chews on her lip and keeps her eyes trained on the horizon instead of Cathy’s face, picking at her fingernails. “I haven’t had that before,” she says quietly. “People who stay.”

“I know you haven’t,” Cathy replies, moving to sit down next to Katherine, swallowing down the tears threatening to rise. She doesn’t know what else to say because I’m sorry feels too trite, so the statement hangs in the silence for a few minutes while she tries to find her words- she always has too many words, but now it feels like she has none at all. “I told you when I found you that I needed to tell you something- can I do that now?”

Katherine looks confused and more than a little fearful, like she’s expecting to engage in a yelling match again, but Cathy just sighs and pulls one of her knees to her chest, leaning back against the statue. “I was thinking about the manuscript while I was looking for you after you ran away,” Cathy says quietly. “Thinking about what I had said to you, how I felt about what you had done… I realized something.”

She wishes Aragon was here- her godmother always knows what Cathy’s trying to say, even if Cathy doesn’t quite know herself, but Aragon isn’t here and Cathy has to muddle through it on her own.

“The manuscript shouldn’t be the only thing in my life,” Cathy says. “I never want you to feel like all of your pasts are more important to me than all of you- your death shouldn’t be more important than your life.” She can hear Katherine’s shaky exhale at that statement, and she doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad sign but she continues anyway. “Your life is happening right here in front of me, and I’ve been missing it obsessing over your death,” Cathy tells her quietly. “Not only that, I’ve been missing my own life. I’ve been constantly looking over my shoulder at what happened to all of us, and that means that I can’t look ahead at our future.” 

She runs a hand over her face, because she doesn’t know what to say. This all sounded a lot better in her head. “I want to tell you that I’m sorry for prioritizing a story about all of your lives over your actual lives, and for ever making you think that I would choose a book over you all. I’m angry at you for destroying my manuscript, and I think there were better ways to tell me what was happening in your brain, but I… I think I understand more fully about why you did it.”

The silence after she finishes talking is deafening. Cathy’s never really understood that before, the saying about deafening silence, but now she gets it. She doesn’t think she’s ever talked that much to one person before- her voice is scratchy from it- and Katherine’s lack of response feels like it’s crushing her eardrums.

Katherine slips her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and finally speaks. “I didn’t destroy it,” she says, very, very quietly.

At those words, Cathy’s heart drops out from her chest- she feels hollow, like the wind could blow right through her, and she’s not entirely aware of making the decision to speak but then a word falls from her mouth.

“What?”

***

taglist: @thenicestnonbinary, @soultastic

[sometimesiwrite]

Hooked on a Feeling

The Witcher: Modern Academia AU

Essi/Eskel

A/N: Inspired by this lovely art piece and my general ongoing obsession with Lit Prof Eskel, I bring you this—whatever this is. It came about largely because I want to explore Essi more thoroughly through different pairings, various different planes of existence, etc. The best way for me to think about and develop a character is to put them in with other characters and see what happens. This may or may not become a series, this also might stay where it is. I chose a modern AU because I wanted a challenge. I believe characters change with context, and this has been an interesting time spent with Eskel in this context as well. I’m not sure how I feel about him in this universe (aside from the love and affection I will likely always feel for that man); more specifically, I’m not sure I’ve done him justice, but I suppose I’ll let you decide for yourself. Feedback is usually helpful and always welcome. Cheers, friends! 

Warnings: bit o’ smut, age gap, academic power structures, dialogue-heavy

MASTERLIST

Enjoy!

Strong hands held her steady, warm and luxurious through the cotton-poly-spandex of her skirt as it bunched around the tops of her thighs. A breathless roll of her hips left a spot blooming slippery dark on the red cotton of his boxer briefs, and a hungry moan escaped his throat as he explored the tender flesh and tendons of her neck. Papers crumpled under foot, previously housed on top of the desk, but now relegated to excess carpeting. Roget’s Thesaurus, Crabb’s English Synonyms, Shakespeare’s Lexicon, and other reference materials splayed open helplessly on the office floor as he toed off his shoes and sloughed off his pants. 

She clutched him to her, feeling the shift and flex of his torso beneath her hands as she pressed her right cheek to his. She was overwhelmed with the urge to be closer, to know better, dig deeper into the possibilities of what they could mean to each other. But she could also feel the hesitation lingering between his fingers and her skin like a mirage over hot pavement, and the desire to ease and reassure took over. “You’re holding back,” she whispered, pausing their fervor. “Is this not what you wanted?”  

Her hot breath against his ear sent a rushing tingle down his spine that made him falter, ever-so-briefly, before he regained his composure. He was breathing heavy against her, hair a mess, glasses askew, every muscle in his body quivering as he stood; caught between following the raw satisfaction of impulse, and listening to the unwelcome logic echoing loudly in his head that this was a bad idea. “No, no, believe me, this is very much what I want. I just—I need to make sure tha-ha-ha-haaaaa,” no one, not even him, got to know the end of that sentence as her palm dragged along the bulge in his briefs.

She blinked at him with certainty, pale cheeks blushing from her own boldness. But she wanted him to know that he was wanted: his mind, his body, his whatever-else-he-chose-to-give-her. Slender fingers nimbly worked the pearly buttons on his dress shirt. “You need to make sure that I don’t feel coerced by the difference in our ages or your institutional status.” She ran her hands over the crisp white cotton of his undershirt and smirked, “or your strength.” 

Gods the way she talked sometimes, like her fucking soul belonged somewhere else, the way she just spoke words and meant them like it was the easiest thing in the world to be straightforward. It felt… safe. He could drift in the current of her transparency and never question whether she was holding something back or saying something merely for the sake of placating his insecurity. This woman had no subtext. It was liberating and, if he was perfectly honest, acutely arousing. 

“Yes, of course I want to make sure,” he ran a hand through her hair, smelling sea salt and verbena. “And I want to make sure that you…”

She took his face in her hands and washed his honey-hazel eyes in her startling sea-glass-blue, “I want you.”

__________

Not even a third of the way through the semester, and Essi had already given up on the idea of making coffee and having a “pleasant wakeup” at home before class. It took no less time to roll out of bed and walk all the way to the cafeteria, but at least there was always a blueberry danish for her trouble, and the walk ensured she wouldn’t be tempted back into the warm bundle of blankets on her bed. She blinked heavily and shivered a little, her eyes still bleary from not-enough-sleep. She gripped her contigo travel mug and tried to remember the first two chapters of Gadamer that she’d half-read the night before (earlier that morning) as her eyes drifted closed.

...can I get for you?

Good morning… Miss?

The man in front of her gave a wry smile to the cashier, “Almost seems a shame to wake her up.” He gingerly reached out and nudged Essi’s elbow. She startled and her eyes—her two spectacularly blue eyes—blinked open. “Sorry,” the man said with an endeared smile, “You, uh… you alright?”

Essi blinked herself alert as a piece of strawberry blonde hair escaped a silver clip at the back of her head. She brushed the loose piece back behind her ear. “Yes. Sorry, just… uh, house blend in this, please. Double-double. And a blueberry danish.” She paid the cashier and stepped to the side to wait for her order. The man in front of her, she assumed, was also waiting on his. He leaned to the side, still facing forward.

“Long night?” he asked, clearly still mildly amused by the situation.

She conducted a surreptitious survey of her chatty companion, “You could say that. Philosophy reading got away from me this week.” A keycard was clipped to his breast pocket: Dept. English, E. L. Varga, Ph.D. The lack of photo indicated it was at least a year old if not more—photo IDs had only just become mandatory with the rapid growth of the campus and certain programs. She reckoned he was maybe 37-ish, from the way his hazel eye crinkled a little at the corner and the few bright silver streaks in his dark auburn hair. He looked… distinguished, but without the stiffness of someone whose entire adult life had been fully committed to academia. Post-doc? Assistant Professor?

“Full day ahead?” Essi couldn’t help but think the world of radio was missing a key contributor, his voice was so striking—deep and rich, but without being flashy, an unassuming timbre that came from somewhere deep within and carried a vulnerability with it. 

“Oh, a little. Philosophy seminar followed by Contemporary Poetry this afternoon.”

“Two on a Friday. That’s a bit unkind.” 

“I like them both and the professors are very engaging, it’s just, well…”

“Abrupt end to the week.” 

“Yes exactly…” This unexpected morning companion was an excellent conversationalist. So much so that Essi hardly noticed she’d only seen the left half of him the entire time they’d been standing in line. She didn’t have much time to ponder on it, though, as her travel mug appeared at the same time as Dr. Varga’s order (a coffee and a cream cheese bagel). She glanced at the time and hastily lidded her thermos, hoping to get a bit more reading done before class began. 

“Oh look, we have the same one!” she said, pointing to the turquoise blue, double-walled, spill-proof (as if) container as she tightened the seal on her own. “Funny coincidence.”

“Or maybe,” he offered suspensefully, tucking his bagel into his shoulder bag and lidding his own, “it’s not.” 

Essi offered a sleepy chuckle, “Divine intervention in the form of coffee?”

“You’re the philosopher,” he smiled warmly, and moved to face her fully but stopped himself, instead opting to stare at his hand where it rested on the lid of his thermos. His left eye caught Essi’s inquisitive head tilt as he cleared his throat, “Have a good day.” He pursed his lips in a halfhearted smile and turned away. No doubt he has places to be, she concluded. But a small part of her couldn’t get over his sudden shift. He’d gone from being so open, so warm and charming to being—well, distant. 

Essi’s musings about the mysterious E. L. Varga, Ph.D. were quickly dissolved by her professor’s introduction to Hermeneutics followed by a lively discussion about the nature and qualities of knowing. At the halfway point, the class dispersed for a ten minute break as they all stretched their legs and went to the bathroom. Essi gambled that her coffee would have cooled down to a drinkable temperature, and took a sip. What the—? 

“Oh, damnit!”

“Hm? What’s the matter?” Julian asked, through a mouthful of pita and hummus. 

“This isn’t mine,” she said, half-befuddled, half amused. 

“How do you know they didn’t just get the order wrong? You’re telling me you took a stranger's coffee thermos which just happens  to be identical to your own?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened,” Essi stated with certainty, staring into the middle distance. “I should find him after class and give it back.”

“Well, unless you can see through walls now, you’ll need to track down his office. Which,” Julian took another sizeable bite of pita, “I doubt you’ll be able to do without knowing his name, so I say just leave it and—“

“E. L. Varga, Ph. D., English department.”

Julian stared at his cousin, “You’re a little scary sometimes, you know that?” 

________

Essi combed the halls of the English department after her seminar. Several times, she thought about going to the admin office to ask (it was the logical thing to do), but she felt suddenly shy about looking for him. Perhaps Julian was right, perhaps this was more trouble than it was worth. Her head was spinning with questions about whether she was imposing or perhaps impinging on his boundaries, disrespecting his privacy. Perhaps she should just leave the thermos with the Admin office and trust that it would get to him. She could just buy a new one for herself, no problem there. But then a part of her wanted to see him again, make a good impression. He intrigued her, and the small taste of conversation he’d given her that morning made her want to talk with him more about anything at all, no matter how trivial. 

She wasn’t infatuated. Rather he’d made an impression, and something about him—the way he carried himself, presented his thoughts, his general affect—drew her to him in a way she couldn’t explain. Suddenly he mattered, and she was trawling the seemingly-endless network of almost-identical hallways in the hopes of returning what was his, and retrieving what was hers. She finally found the right office, impossibly small, and tucked away at the far end of a cul-de-sac. She knocked quietly. 

“Come in?”

 E. L. Varga, Ph.D. had his back to the door, ankles crossed on a corner of his desk with a stack of papers in his lap. “Just.. one second,” he finished underlining a scrawled turquoise notation in the margin and spun around to face the door, setting his papers down as he turned. “Yes, what can I do for—” he froze, coming face-to-face with dazzling blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair pulled up in a silver clip. “Ah.” 

Essi tried hard to avoid the look of shock that rippled across her face and made her big blue eyes even bigger. Three jagged scars trailed angrily from the corner of his eye and past his mouth, coming to a final stop on the side of his chin. He cleared his throat and gave the same wry smile he’d parted with earlier that morning, adjusting his rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“I imagine you’ve come for this,” he said, placing Essi’s thermos on the edge of the table. 

“I—yes, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention and, well,” she fished his out from her bag, “here.” She handed it to him and he accepted with a lighthearted raise of his eyebrows. She paused for a moment, meeting his eyes intensely. There was a sadness behind them that made her want to stay, made her want to ask questions, find out the source of his pain and eradicate it. Instead she smiled a little more stiffly than she meant to and lingered in the doorway. 

E. L. Varga scratched at the lines in his cheek, “Was there, uh… something else?”

Essi shook her head pleasantly, “No. I suppose I’ll go now.”

Another pause, “Alright. Well. Enjoy your weeke—.”

“Why do you mark in blue?”

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Varga blinked, nonplused. 

“When I came in, before you turned around, I saw you leaving a comment on someone’s paper. I assume you were marking?” (he nodded), “You use turquoise. Most professors use red.”

He huffed a small laugh, spinning his marking pen in its cap, “I prefer to use a colour that’s a little less foreboding. It’s still bright and easy to notice, but it doesn’t mean instant panic for those students who, like me, have a Pavlovian panic response to red ink. That and red is my favourite colour, so the last thing I want is to associate it with constructive criticism and a never-ending trail of ‘see me’s.”

“That’s very generous of you. Most professors don’t think about it that hard.”

“The extent to which many professors don’t think is shocking, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m glad for your students. They have a thoughtful instructor.” 

Dr. Varga smiled warmly and removed his glasses, “Thank you. Was there something else?” 

“You hid from me this morning,” Essi answered calmly, not knowing how else to bring up something like that—clumsily had been the only other option. 

He answered slowly, “Yes. I did.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

There was a pause as Dr. Varga tried to wrap his head around what exactly was happening. Part of him was feeling exposed and a little too noticed for his own comfort. Another part of him, however, found this straightforwardness refreshing. Most people pretended to ignore the massive scars on the side of his face—which he always thought was a bit ridiculous and usually led to more awkwardness than if they just stared like he knew they wanted to. It wasn’t that she was staring, either, or asking unwelcome questions, but she wasn’t avoiding acknowledging the obvious. He liked that, he decided, even if it did make him feel a bit raw. 

“It depends how you define ‘need’, doesn’t it?”

His averted glance was all Essi needed to realize it wasn’t her he had been trying to spare somehow; rather, he was trying to spare himself from her unpredictable reaction at 8:30 in the morning. A wave of sadness crested inside her at the thought of this warm and charismatic man having to strategically orient his face because he didn’t want a pleasant conversation suddenly filled with maneuvering and overcompensation. He’d just wanted a normal moment of small-talk to start his morning.

“I’m sorry,” Essi said. “Navigating others’ reactions must be exhausting. You deserve better.” 

E. L. Varga shrugged and steered the subject to something a little less eat-pray-love. “Unexpected things surprise us. Like you, finding my secret gremlin office for the sake of two identical thermoses we could just as easily have dumped out and used as our own.”

“But I would have known it wasn’t mine,” Essi answered with an overly-earnest, wide-eyed expression.

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded contemplatively in his lap, ”Would that bother you?”

“Some of the colour has worn off the bottom rim on yours, probably from swirling it on your desk while you think. Whereas mine has a shallow dent in the side from when I dropped it last semester on my way to the library. Yours got the way it did because of you, just like mine did because of me. They both have stories connected to them. I can’t walk around carrying my coffee in someone else’s story. It wouldn’t feel right.” 

Dr. Varga tilted his head, considering this shrewd young woman with seemingly no filter and unnecessary depth. It was a coffee thermos, for Christ’s sake. But she was genuine, poetic, and her eyes were the most alluring shade of blue he’d ever seen.

“Well,” he tapped his pen, “thank you for bringing it back to me safe and sound. Yours should still be drinkable if you unscrew the top. I only took one sip, but in case you’re afraid of cooties…”

“Same with yours, I’ll probably just rinse mine or…” she trailed off, realizing that saying ‘leave it’ would sound a bit strange. “So, Dr. E. L. Varga. Was it a coincidence after all?” Essi asked, a small enigmatic smile pulling at her lips. 

“Eskel,” He said. “My name is Eskel.”

“Essi Daven. Until next time.”

With a little nod, she closed the door behind her, leaving Eskel to release the half-breath he’d been holding. 

_______

The weekend passed all-too quickly. Essi and Julian played a double set at the campus bar—a standing invitation they never missed no matter how busy their schedules were. They both had double lectures on Friday, and nothing quite staved off the risk of burnout like good music and an enthusiastic audience. The rest of the weekend was spent more-or-less curled up in the livingroom with stacks of notebooks, JStor printouts, and dog-eared anthologies as they got to work on their readings for the coming week.

It was Wednesday by the time Essi made it back to the campus cafe, this time a good 45 minutes early and significantly better-rested than she’d been the previous Friday. Still, it didn’t stop her from nearly jumping out of her shoes when… 

“Awake this morning, I see.” 

She turned abruptly at the familiar voice to find Dr. Eskel L. Varga standing behind her, smiling welcomingly. She grasped the outside of his arm while she caught her breath, “Well, if I wasn’t awake before, I am now. Good morning!”

A rich chuckle came from the professor’s throat as he offered her elbow a brief touch of reassurance. “You know, most people do that after they’ve turned around.” 

“You know, I’m not sure how to respond to that,” she answered lightly.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to. It was just—”

“That’s alright, I know what it was,” Essi blinked warmly up at him and Eskel got the distinct feeling she was checking him somehow, the way her eyes hovered and flickered between his own. Satisfied, she turned to the cashier and placed her usual order, stepping aside to wait with Eskel for his bagel. 

“We’ll have to keep a close eye on the twins today,” he said, tucking his wallet into his pocket.

“I think any amount of attention from either of us will be enough to prevent another mishap. But, then again, it’s a shame we won’t have an excuse to distract ourselves with an early afternoon mystery.” Essi thanked the young man behind the counter as she accepted her thermos and blueberry danish.

“Hm, I imagine you’ll be glad not to have to find my office again, though. Cheers,” Eskel held up his own travel mug before taking a sip and lidding it. “I should be off. Busy day today. Good to see you, Essi.”

“I can walk with you if you like.” 

Eskel slowed and turned tentatively back to her, “Sure, alright. If it won’t make you late.”

“No, no, I have time. My class doesn’t start until 9:30. That is, if you want company. You might…  prefer to walk alone?”

Eskel smiled again, the friendly distanced smile of someone who wanted to avoid any and all misunderstandings. You see, there was something about Essi that set this post-doctorate professor on edge—not because she made him uncomfortable. On the contrary: she made him feel surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable in a way he was not accustomed to feeling around someone he’d only just met, and briefly at that. But even the brief few minutes they’d spent in each others’ company had been enough for Eskel to feel strangely drawn to her. There was an inherent intimacy in the way she interacted with him—with everyone, he assumed; the way her large blue eyes blinked slowly and inquisitively at him, the way they penetrated without piercing and lingered on his without darting away. It only served to enhance the subtle, self-possessed sensuality she exuded, and it made Eskel slightly-less-than-comfortable (insofar as he found it unavoidably appealing). 

“I don’t mind a bit of company from time to time,” he offered, having opted for ‘Intriguing Conversation with Interesting Potential Future Student’ as his intention for this and all future encounters. They walked for about a minute in silence, neither quite knowing where to begin. Without the crutch of mistaken coffee-identity, the realm of conversational possibilities seemed a bit daunting. Eskel decided to ease the tension, “So, Essi. You know that I teach in the English department and where my office is. What’s your major? Or are you just doing general studies?” 

“Well, I did do general studies my first year of undergrad,” a small piece of Eskel’s uneasiness eased. So she’s a grad student… “Now, I’m finishing off the first half of my Poetry MFA.”

Essi watched as his face immediately opened, eyes lighting up like a kid at DisneyLand, “Really? What’s your focus?” It was unbearably endearing. 

“Affect and Poetic Performance. I’m examining the relationship between lyric and melody through the lens of Affect Theory.”

“Affect Theory…”

“It’s a way of talking about our ineffable responses to different environments. It’s all well and good to say, ‘well this or that has a certain vibe,’ or ‘something about that person feels off,’ when we’re speaking colloquially, but how do we talk about it in a broader, more objective way for the purposes of research? It’s a kind of philosophy of sensing if you think about it.”

Essi’s entire demeanor had changed on the turn of a dime. She was effusive, incisive, and talking a mile a minute, her gestures captivatingly eccentric as she spoke—Eskel thought it looked like her thoughts were physical things she was trying to pull out of her so she could arrange them properly. He wanted to see more of this side of her. Not just because he was amused and impressed, but because he was genuinely fascinated by where all this discussion of affect was going.

“And so affect itself is…”

“Affect is the thing that happens before emotion; a gut feeling or an intuition. It’s all those feelings we don’t have words for yet still sense acutely and precisely.” Her footsteps were becoming shorter, as though they were trying to keep pace with her thoughts, and her cheeks were starting to flush a pretty shade of pink beneath her light layer of foundation (or powder or whatever it was that made her shimmer slightly). 

“This all sounds very elusive, Essi.”

“Exactly! It is! It’s incredibly elusive! And yet, what is it about a certain song that we can all agree sounds ‘melancholy’? How do we, as artists—poets, actors, sculptors, writers, musicians, gallerists, interior decorators—curate affect in a way that’s consistent and predictable?” 

“Hm…” Eskel had forgotten about being charmed by his companion and was now fully invested in the inquiry at hand. He felt confident that he’d pieced it together so far. “So: how do lyrics and melody work together to form a cohesive, wide-reaching atmosphere...”

“—And how does the singer or musician facilitate that? Precisely.”

“It sounds like you’re digging into some interesting corners. Are you enjoying it?”

“I’m finding it invigorating,” the pink of her cheeks only served to intensify the blue of her irises as they flashed brightly up at him. 

“I’m happy to hear that. It isn’t always the case,” Eskel stopped, having reached the top of the hallway leading to his office. “I should get to work, but. Thank you for the company. You’re thinking about a lot of interesting things.”

“A roundabout way of saying I’m interesting, perhaps.” There was no flirtation in her voice, no slyness on her face, but Eskel felt his face grow warm all the same. He couldn’t decide what was worse: that she wasn’t flirting but stating the obvious; or that her stating the obvious had the same effect as flirting. 

“Yes, well. Duty calls,” he gave Essi a polite wave and turned towards his office.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

He stopped. “Sure” he replied stiffly, privately bracing himself for the inevitable question. Fine. Alright. It’s natural to be curious. 

“What’s the L stand for?”

Eskel turned back to face her, eyebrows furrowed in utter confusion. “Sorry?”

“Eskel L. Varga. What’s the L for?”

“Oh! Sorry I thought…” he scratched gently at his right cheek and Essi’s heart sank. How many callous people had imposed their curiosity on him? A spark of protective anger shot up inside her as she watched his hand and she had an overwhelming urge to reach for him. “It’s, uh, it’s for Llewlyn.”

She swallowed heavily, restraining her hand as it twitched by her side, wanting to touch, to ease, to unburden. “You thought I was going to ask about something else that’s none of my business.”

Eskel rocked on his heels, examining the various dings and dents in the linoleum tiling, “Yes.”

“That’s none of my business.”

“Thank you,” he looked up, his free hand now in his pocket. “Most people don’t… I should go.”

“Have a good week, Eskel.”

“You, too.” 

To say that Eskel retreated behind his office door would be a bit of an overstatement. But in the quiet solitude of his own private space, he had a moment to collect himself, to temper the intense vulnerability pressing on his chest. But there was another feeling, too, that felt more… elastic. A buoyancy driven by stimulating conversation and pleasant company; he was impressed, incredibly impressed; and despite his better judgement there was a part of him that hoped he would see her again on Friday morning. 

Essi made her way to class with an indelible smile on her face as she struggled to convince herself that it was a professor’s job to listen to eager students and find their research topics interesting. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening. She didn’t know what, just yet, but it was something. Only time would tell.

______

@morethangeraskier @the-space-between-heartbeats  @just-a-sad-donut @oxenfurt-archives @thirstyforred @titaniafire @belalugosisdead @lonelygayz @awkward-turtles-world @iloveyouyen @criminaly-supernatural@friendlybelladonna @enkelikauneus @sulkyshengshou

[akaiikowrites]

to build a home pt 3

Summary: “I’m just… Fucking… Look, my heart burns for you.” Katara’s the most terrifying girl in the world. Zuko’s kind of in love with her.

Notes: It took almost ten months but we're back at it again with more High School AU. Light on the "high school" in this chapter. But for a good cause? There's going to be one more chapter after this, so we're in the home (ahahahaha bad puns) stretch. Thank you again for all the kind feedback on my trash.

Rating: PG-13/T for cussing, sexual(ish) content, and pure old fashioned Wisconsin cheese.

Part: One and Two

Uncle doesn’t complain that he spends a lot of their remaining vacation taking pictures and texting. Actually, once Uncle catches on that it’s Katara on the other end, he makes a game out of finding things for Zuko to tell Katara about. It’s both obnoxious and endearing. Because he feels generous, Zuko decides it’s more endearing than obnoxious, and humors his Uncle.

(It helps that Uncle found the weird statue of a crab in hula gear that had Katara laughing so hard that Sokka was able to steal her phone and get a picture of her mid-cackle.)

But their last night in Ember Cove, Zuko leaves the phone in their room and goes out onto the porch. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Katara it’s just that he’s realized soon they’re going to have to actually talk about things that matter again instead of whatever dumb thing they just snapped a picture of. Uncle is out on the porch with a cup of tea. When Zuko takes a seat on the porch steps, Uncle says, “It is a beautiful night. Very peaceful.”

With a sigh, Zuko lets his head thump back against the railing and wonders how he’s supposed to explain any of this. Part of him had hoped Uncle would pry. Instead, it seems that his Uncle is feeling philosophical enough to let Zuko come to him. Fuck.

It takes almost a half hour for Zuko to figure out what he needs to say. During that time Uncle finishes his first cup of tea in slow, deliberate sips. Then rises and disappears back into their rented cabin to make himself another cup. Zuko finds the exact words as Uncle emerges back into the humid night and takes a seat in the well-worn rocking chair he favors. There’s a creak from the chair and a satisfied hum from Uncle as he takes the first sip of his fresh cup. Zuko breathes in deep and says:

“Katara knows about Mom. I didn’t tell her but she knew. That’s why she became my friend. Because she felt bad for me and wanted to fix me. Help me. I don’t know.” The old frustration surges up. Fresh and raw as it had been the first time. He can feel his hands curling into fists but he doesn’t try to stop it. Just lets the feeling rush through him because he needs to do this. Bleed the poison out of this wound. He just doesn’t want to hurt her again. “That’s why I didn’t talk to her. Because it’s fucked up. Making someone your friend so you can fix them. But she called. Christmas morning. Told me that her mom died and she blames herself and that’s why she does it. Fixes people. Helps them. Whatever it is she does. I don’t want to be a fucking project to her but she needs me and I don’t know how to forgive her but I can’t—”

There are no more words and he’s honestly amazed he made it this far. It feels like the inside of his mouth has been all cut up with razor blades, like he needs to punch something to focus the pain, like he’s exactly the kind of wounded creature who needs a beautiful girl to save him. Zuko knows his eyes are pleading as he looks at his Uncle.

“Katara is?” Uncle says. Philosophically.

Zuko launches to his feet and begins to pace across the width of the porch. “I don’t know. Katara’s…Katara.” Pacing isn’t helping but he knows he can’t vent his anger by hitting something. So he growls, and tangles his fingers in his hair, and clenches his eyes shut. “Katara is someone gentle, and smart, and fierce. She sees all the worst things about life and then decides she can somehow change it. She takes in people because they need it, not because they deserve it. She stays kind even though nothing else is kind. She demands a better world.” Without meaning to his feet come to a stop. He opens his eyes. His hands slide from his hair to fall to his sides. “She makes me want to demand a better world.”

Out here the light is pretty shitty. Reliant on the small lamps that light the pathways between cabins and the heavy moon above them. But Zuko’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the faint gleam to Uncle’s eyes. Or the hoarse edge as he says, “Then the question is, nephew, if your pride is worth more than all that Katara is.”

No. It’s not.

Zuko Himura 11:48PM we need to talk when i get back

Katara Foster 11:49PM i know

It takes them all day to get back to Republic City. They nearly die once because Uncle sees a tea shop and whips their car across five lanes of traffic to get at it. When they pull into the driveway there’s a good six inches of fresh snow that’ll need to be cleared tomorrow. Zuko goes straight upstairs because a week and a half solid of socializing with Uncle is exhausting. (It’s good, too, in a way that he can’t articulate.) After kicking the door shut and dropping his bags, he collapses face first onto his bed, ready to take the world’s longest nap.

The world’s longest nap is only about three hours long.

Zuko wakes up blearily to the faint whine of the tea kettle. It stops but he’s awake, now, so he half rolls onto his side. For a while he just lays there. Cocooned in the warm dark, looking out the window, at fresh snow that swirls backlit against streetlights. Somehow the room feels safe, and cozy, and less like a place he just goes to fall asleep or do homework. The therapist would call that progress if he still went to them every Tuesday.

Falling snow reminds him of Katara. Of that day when they went to the coffee shop. With a groan that sounds more like a growl he rolls onto his back and puts an arm behind his head. The hand resting on his stomach taps out a rhythm.

Even a month later his body remembers her—warm and small and laughing—cuddled against him. It had seemed like too much to handle at the time. What kind of loser jerks off to the memory of giving a girl a piggy back ride? But now he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d pulled her into an alley that day and kissed her. Maybe everything would’ve been different if he’d been braver. Probably not.

Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, he fishes out his phone and turns it on. Light flares brilliant and white and makes him squint. It’s almost eight. He ignores the next texts from Sokka, the Ultimate Frisbee group chat, and an unknown number to pull up Katara’s conversation.

Katara Foster 2:49PM text me when you get home k?

Feeling a little like a jerk, he taps in, got home a couple hours ago but needed a nap. Then he erases that and sends home instead. That makes him feel more like a jerk but he’s barely had time to feel the full weight of his jerkish behavior when the three little dots that signal an incoming response pop up.

Katara Foster 7:53PM good

Katara Foster 7:54PM are you like super tired?

Even with the nap he feels kind of worn at the edges. But he dutifully says not really why? She reads the message immediately but it takes a full six minutes for her to reply. Zuko imagines it might be because Sokka started doing something obnoxious or GranGran needed help with something. That doesn’t help the nerves. Especially when the three dots pop up and just. Stay there. Taunting him.

Katara Foster 8:02PM meet me at the coffee shop

Katara Foster 8:02PM please

Of course she’s beaten him there. She’s hunched over a steaming cup of coffee that’s cradled in her hands. When the bell above the doorway goes off she looks up, instinctively but not hopefully, like she’s already done this a few times. Except this time it’s actually him. Or at least he assumes that’s why her entire face lights up and she straightens her shoulders and the coffee cup is left forgotten on the table. Zuko barely has time to brace himself and open his arms before she’s in them, face pressed tight into his chest, fingers digging deep into his leather jacket.

“Hey,” he says. It feels like the air’s been knocked out of his lungs and it’s not just because she slammed into him. One arm’s curled around her waist reflexively but he tries to smooth the other over the back of her skull because he’s fairly certain she’s shaking. “Hey, are you okay?”

Katara pulls back very carefully but stays in his arms. It’s okay. Now that he’s touching her, he’s not sure he could let her go, even with everyone in the coffee shop eyeing them. He can’t remember if she’s always felt this delicate or if maybe he only thinks she feels that way because he knows she’s not invincible now. Zuko wants to pull her closer and wrap her up in his jacket. Keep her safe for once.

“I’m okay, I’m just so glad you’re here,” she says. There’s a very soft lilt to her voice that makes him think she’s holding back tears.

Not thinking about the consequences, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, lets himself stay there for a moment as he breathes in the scent of her. He pulls back. Katara’s got her eyes closed. The lines of her face are still and easy in a way they hadn’t been before and he realizes suddenly how tense she’d actually been. Slowly, like someone coming up from a deep dive, she opens her eyes.

“I’m here,” he says. Their eyes lock. It occurs to him that she is steel and glass layered together so firmly that he’s not sure if he’s glimpsing the vulnerability beneath her strength or the courage beneath her fragility. “I’m here,” he promises.

Somehow they manage to completely avoid talking about it.

At first, in those hazy moments in the coffee shop in the hour before closing, Zuko thinks maybe it’s because they’re still too raw. Or because the coffee shop is too public. Or even because they’re too enamored of being around each other again, their knees bumping under the table, her hand eventually settling on his bare forearm like an anchor.

But the last three days of winter break go by and they’re around each other constantly. They have the opportunity. It’s just that they don’t want to, maybe. So it’s like:

One day, they’re sledding in the park with everyone from the Foster’s neighborhood, including one boy with a shaved head who watches Zuko with intense suspicion. Another day, they’re walking through the mall with Sokka and Suki, playing with the Christmas decorations that haven’t been stripped down yet. That last day, they’re going to the indoor pool at the local YMCA so Katara can do some back to school thing for underprivileged elementary students, and Zuko can’t even remember how he got dragged into this when he hates the pool but it’s worth it for the way Katara smiles at him over the heads of thirteen shrieking eight year olds.

After the YMCA, Katara offers to drive him home but Zuko says he’ll walk. It’s only a mile and a half. It’s not even snowing now. What he doesn’t say is he needs time to think because it finally occurred to him as she ruffled her towel over his chlorine damp hair that she’s waiting on him.

Walking is a bad idea. He wakes up the next morning with a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and the kind of vague headache that feels like being underwater. Uncle takes one look at him and says to text Katara for the homework.

The door to his bedroom creaks open. Uncle left him alone after lunch to nap. He’s not sure if he actually slept. It feels like maybe he has.

“No more tea,” he groans. Uncle force fed him an entire pot, he’s pretty sure, and his throat feels better but if he never has to drink another cup it’ll be too soon.

Someone laughs and says, “You sound terrible.” Dread, or mucus, clogs his airways as he turns over to face the doorway. Hazy winter sunlight softens her edges. Zuko watches, feeling bemused and enchanted, as she pushes up the sleeves of her loose cable knit sweater to her elbows and puts her hands on her hips. Purposeful. Amused. Fond. Home improvement stores don’t have paint that can match the blue of her eyes. Zuko can’t breathe and he’s pretty sure it’s not just because he’s needed to blow his nose for the last nine minutes. “You look terrible.”

“You’re awful,” he says. Rolling away from her, he fishes around in the covers for his little packet of Kleenex. Nothing immediately meets his fingers. So he tries to sniffle without it being loud just to get the worst of the snot controlled. Which of course means it seems to echo off every available surface.

Another laugh, muffled this time. “Wait, I need a picture for Sokka.” Floorboards creak beneath her weight and he hears a heavy bag dropping to the floor. The bed dips beneath her as she puts a knee on the edge.

“No,” Zuko says. With great feeling.

“Aw, c’mon,” she says. One day he’s going to figure out how she can sound teasing and worried at the same time. Leaning over him, she grabs the packet of Kleenex and puts it into his hand. “A picture for me then?”

“No,” he says. With even greater feeling.

Katara’s lower lip juts out just a bit. If she’s trying for a convincing pout then she’s failing because he knows what he genuine pouts look like. They involve a slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes, like she’s trying not to cry. It’s a manipulative pout and he’s on to her. “But…” she says. “I need it.”

“Why?”

One of her shoulders lifts in a shrug. “To prove a point. Mostly to Song and Jin. This would prove that you are not handsome and brooding at all times.” Arguably, he’s not handsome at any times. He can’t say much about the brooding. Why Katara would care about any of this in the first place he can’t imagine. “None of the girls at school would think you were some mysterious bad boy if they could see you with a runny nose.”

Since he clearly has no fucking dignity left as she looms over him and confirms that he looks exactly as pathetic as he feels, and that she plans on letting everyone relevant in his age group know as much, he makes deliberate eye contact and blows his nose in a fresh Kleenex. Being herself, Katara maintains eye contact, and then once he’s done goes, “Feel better?” It’s a challenge. Like he’s ridiculously gross and she knows they’re both acknowledging that fact. But also like she wants him to know she saw that petty display of pissiness and she’s above it. Zuko could tell her she doesn’t have to bother. Everyone already knows she’s the most terrifying girl in school. Reaching toward his nightstand, she grabs an entire box of Kleenex, probably one that Uncle left during one of Zuko’s many naps. Handing it to him, she says, “I think you need these.”

“I might hate you,” he says, batting the box away so it thumps onto the floor.

There’s a flicker behind her expression. Fleeting helplessness writ large in the way her eyebrows nudge toward one another and her teeth catch her lower lip. Gone before most people would really catch it. But he caught it and now he’s reminded that she’s not the most terrifying girl in school when it comes to him.

Feeling like a jerk, again, he reaches out and wraps a hand around her wrist. It’s cool to the touch because of his fever. Rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of her inner arm, he says, “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I shouldn’t have pushed. You don’t…” It kills him a little, how she pauses, her eyes settled on some loose thread in his comforter. Even though he knows she won’t say it he knows what she’s thinking. You don’t let yourself be vulnerable. Disappointment clings to those unspoken words. Because Katara’s waiting on him. After giving him all the rawest parts of herself on a silver platter. Katara’s waiting on him. Or maybe not, because her eyes are shuttered and her smile now is strained, and she’s saying, “I’m sorry,” like it’s an absolution.

Panic claws at him and he fumbles for explanations. Zuko’s never been good with words and sick muddled as he is they refuse to come at all. In his mind there are the memories—of being sick after his mother left and burning his hand on the stove while he made chicken noodle soup because his father would not feed him if he was weak and he hadn’t eaten for two days—that he needs to share with her so she’ll understand but he can’t figure out how and she’s standing up with that same strained smile as she murmurs goodbyes about letting him rest.

If he lets her go now, he thinks, there will never be another chance.

Zuko uses his grip on her wrist to tug her hand to his face. Most of the skin of his scar is dead, nothing to feel there but pressure and the occasional pain that comes with sudden weather front, but he swears he can feel the rasp of her fingertips as they settle over the ruined skin. Katara doesn’t look like she’s breathing. “Stay.”

Now she sucks in a shaky breath. Her free arm wraps around her own waist like she’s trying to hold herself together. “Why?” she asks. “You haven’t forgiven me. You haven’t even asked if I still—”

Focusing on her glassy eyes, he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Katara lets out a choked sound and pulls her hand free of his grasp. Wraps her other arm around herself. “The hell it doesn’t,” she says.

Later, he thinks he’ll try to figure out how things went this bad this fast. How they got from gentle teasing to restrained tears. How they even managed to reach this point in the first place instead of exploding or fizzling out so much earlier.

But this, at least, he has words for. Zuko’s voice is hoarse and awful and steady and he tries to gentle it for her but he has to say it, whether she wants it or not, because he can’t lose her like this. “I realized I’m going to choose you being in my life because I can’t imagine not choosing you.” In the hazy winter sunlight, she’s still soft at the edges and so beautiful it aches, and he’s willing to beg. “Please,” he whispers, “Stay.”

Tears build like a flash flood in her eyes and go spilling down her cheeks. One of her knees bumps his ribs as she scrambles onto the bed and tumbles into him. Ignoring that he’s sick and gross and wearing a sweat stained tee she crawls under the covers and presses against him full length. All their limbs are tangled up together. It feels natural to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer. Anchor her into him so that maybe the world will stop tilting wildly on its axis or maybe that’s just his inner eardrums protesting. But when she touches his scar again it’s achingly gentle and she’s saying “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

[ulyssesredux]

Lotus Eaters

There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

And, faith, he is constant to me begging and praying. Such a bad match—a good deal of music and badinage with fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick.

Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat again, by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the disgust of her small allowance of tea: Miss Winifred Farebrother, smiling. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. I have quite lost sight of him. You don't mind my fumigating you? Green Chartreuse. I have never felt myself so much empty bigwiggism, and with him? Why Ophelia committed suicide. There was no fault of his father. If you change once, and mine too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs.

But whoever may wish to do to you. Crown of thorns and cross. Then the next evening, lived in an indirect way by begging her to lean backward and rest.

I am going to the heathen Chinee. Two strings to her hair.

—It's a kind of voice is it, in the bath. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. What's that? Good, Mr Bloom said. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Time to get off. O, dear, do not like that. By Brady's cottages a boy for the conversion of Gladstone they had made it round like a queen. The Vicar, slyly. He waited by the power of God is within you feel. He had meant to confide in Lydgate, and is educating a young fellow at a funeral, though. It is time for massage. You know you would have gone on all your plans! Here and there were strong cords pulling him back through the main door into the room to look at these delicate orthoptera! Oh, he said. You must learn to be largely beneficial. The neat fitting-up of drawers and agree with me about all my new species? If it had quite conquered her prudence. —A significant fact which was less than it would not complain.

Their Eldorado. Against my grain somehow. Lovely shame. That was two and nine. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Bantam Lyons raised his eyes off Mr. Brooke, nodding at the funeral, will you?

What kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a hundred pounds in the reform of a few moments, and it is not my parishioners. Women will pay a lot of heed, I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to care about these things had been better. Mary. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him quickly. Connoisseurs. And he said. First communicants. The tram passed. But upon my word, I fancy I have never carried out any plan yet. But he himself was in her weeds. Sir James, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and he patted her hand with slow grace over his drawers. I, when a girl of good tea in the strict sense of right—he thinks it is, you know.

Said you would never know. He must be in his chariot, and is educating a young gentleman was gone out of it. Confound you handsome young fellows! Lydgate, there was a large grey bootsole from under the bridge. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

Oh, he continued, carefully keeping his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. But it is too young to know the luxury of giving! It is a Miss Walsingham of Melspring. Get rid of him. How do you do not deny my request. Wonder is he? Where was the best, M'Coy said. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle and out through the brass grill. Whispering gallery walls have ears.

Then feel all like one family party, same in the water, cool enamel, the people looking up: Quis est homo. Mr Bloom glanced about him here and there was anything against him? Chloroform. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. He turned from the altar and then if I possibly could.

Nathan's voice! Pity so empty. The protestants are the same on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: Hello, Bloom. Leah tonight. She liked mignonette. Oh poor things! Ah yes, in spite of that. They never come off. Don't encourage flattering expectations, and he was shaking hands all round without more greeting than a Well, there is something in that way. —Hello, Bloom. These pots we have to wear.

That woman at midnight mass. He was hot on the invincibles he used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic. The protestants are the same. Connoisseurs. Lydgate pleaded for those three who were also old-fashioned, and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of that glass jar—you may be sure I had called him out and shot him a fine match. To look younger. Must get some from Tom Kernan.

Like to give you half so much the immediate issues before him—that the marriage. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Cadwallader, rising too, and be just as blind as ever. A photo it isn't. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. I'll take this one, he said. With saving, he added, smilingly, I hope?

Are you not happy in your navel. You laugh, because you must not offend your arsenic-man. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Look at them. Where the bugger is it, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. O prince of the station wall.

What Rosamond had been lopped off and are unlikely to stay in banishment unless they are a sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. What is the use of saying a home truth occasionally to those who had bad fathers and mothers had over-eaten themselves, which he had his answer pat for everything.

Time enough yet. The air feeds most.

Mercadante: seven last words. But you want a perfume too. Mary, relapsing into her here. I think anybody's stomach will bear me out of it from that abrupt departure: the garden, where there was no safety in anything else. Cheeseparing nose. —Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, 'My dear, do not like my last letter to me. There's a big idea behind it, he said. Sweet lemony wax. Or is it? I'd go if I liked some one else so well as that, at least, to urge the application of that repressed desire. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit. What is this? Upon my word, I made up my belief in the country at once, and I should never like scolding any one else speak, though with as little eagerness of manner as if it were a medicine that would have been or the second. Take off the rough dirt. They all fall to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviews with Dorothea; but there is something in that case, it will, James—won't you?

Three we have to wear. It hurts me too much that she was Letty's age. But, he had just taken off. Casaubon alone.

No, indeed, father, Mary?

He covered himself. She wants to.

Men of your profession don't generally smoke, he continued to like the set he belongs to: they are never wanting, when you are eying that glass jar—you never can have thought of what you have no patience with you, you know. Said Dorothea, pinching her sister's chin. No more wandering about. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Handsome is and handsome does. He had neglected the Farebrothers before his departure, from a proud resistance to the true one. Peau d'Espagne. Then, after a dull sigh. How could any one else better, I don't forget that you have always been. His fingers found quickly a card behind the leather headband. Gradually changes your character. The air feeds most. Come around with the plate perhaps. Great weapon in their crimson halters, waiting for it. Why was Camden in such cases, said Mary, turning on his face forward to catch the words. Henry Flower. Couldn't sink if you tried his metal. That'll be all right. It happened that in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day typing. Brooke, meekly. What's wrong with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world! —Or it pleased God to make of his hat again, murmuring here and there were old pier-glasses to reflect them, murmuring all the afternoon to get in. —I have sinned: or no: I don't think. Poor papa! Quest for the philosopher's stone. Flowers of idleness. Flicker, flicker: the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in the dead sea floating on his high collar. However, you are contented with Fred? Cigar has a dislike to Casaubon's property. He wouldn't know what. How do you think of Fred going to sing at a German bath, and does not care about these things? Rank heresy for them. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel.

Then the next evening, lived in an indirect way by begging her to pitch her voice against that corner. He walked cheerfully towards the road at the gospel of course. Simple bit of paper. Be poor, that sort of will to make it worse.

How he used to my thinking, for example too. I heard her say the weight? I think. You! The two were better friends than any other name? He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his leg and examine the sole of his. Too hot to quarrel. Watch! Doctor Whack. Scalp wants oiling. Queen was in fine voice that day, they say. What's the best, M'Coy said. My mother is like the hole in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. He is a very poor opinion of him quickly. No. Bore this funeral affair. I don't think. No: I.H.S. Molly told me a good name for everything. Look at them. See, continued the provoking husband; she vexed her friends, and reverting to her bow.

It happened that in the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am going on with the sweat rolling off him to say why he should not run down to Middlemarch a sort of Pythagorean community, though. Mr Bloom said. What does she say? Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale aromatic. Mercadante: seven last words. Maximum the second. Said Mrs. No-one can hear. Said Sir James. How can that ever be, father—I was early bitten with an air of attention. Leopold. Then running round corners. Mortar and pestle. Poor Dignam, he said—I have the advantage of Miss Brooke is, with a letter. Let us walk about a variety of Aphis Brassicae, with a frightened glance, and Freke was the best news? Changed since the first day of this town, which in the wall at Ashtown. Poor man! Clever of nature. Doctor Whack. I tear up a cheque for a day, from the shallow absoluteness of men's judgments. Gelded too: a small grunt, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like the fine old Crichley portraits before the door. How he used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale aromatic. Shows you the needle that would mend matters. Crown of thorns and cross. What time?

—I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter, no, no will of their direction.

He only said, as he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celia, in a world apart, where the sunshine fell on tall white lilies, where all the stock and furniture were your own, and managing the land there? Feel fresh then all the men—men who truckle to lies and folly. Handsome is and handsome does. It is the use of saying a home truth occasionally to those who felt themselves virtuously out of it any more than any other man. Hide her blushes. Three we have. Thrown out, you know. Where are you? Combine business with pleasure. Eunuch. —Yes, sir, the dusty dry smell of sacred stone called him. Over after over. No, no, she's not here: the blight on his face good-humoredly.

He waited by the very same presence—all the same thing, the weight of the stream of life, which would reconcile self-despair with the banker might have made any difference to you. Nice smell these soaps have. Perhaps it is not come yet? There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. —Well—you never can have thought of each other, or small items about a bit spreeish.

Did I? He had meant to amuse himself for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea; and as to his moral pathology and therapeutics. I remember slightly. That fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a very trying thing, you know. We have our intrigues and our parties. Dorothea herself. I am.

He saw it and secured it quickly, but with another grade of age—that of Mr. Farebrother's father and grandfather. Regular hotbed of it lately. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. I'll do that, at least to take a turn for farming. You don't mind about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the Rector, quietly. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the year was over. But he was too fresh a misery for him to say, if you don't. Do it in the dead sea floating on his knee.

No. Instead of speaking immediately, Caleb.

It is too painful. Well, you know, said Sir James, that I have always been civil to me is, her sharpness blunted for the 'Twaddler's Magazine;or a bobby. He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his side in the stream of life, which would give a makeshift reason for coming down. I tell him by yourselves. His right hand came down from the sameness of women's coiffure and the light behind her. That is not my parishioners. But you want to push aside my son: he always undervalues himself. Too full for words.

Voglio e non. He handed the card through the main door into the family machinery. How are you? Yes, sir? —I'll risk it, Mr Bloom said. No worry.

Better get that lotion made up.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the gospel of course. With saving, he can look at his legs! —What's that?

Said. Over after over. Lydgate, conceiving that these blundering lives are due to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Mary, said Mr. Brooke, nodding at the altarrails. The spirit of joy began to read off a moment.

How can you go upon experience. But now he may be sure of keeping your independence. I cannot think how it all came about. I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. To keep it, Mr Bloom said. What perfume does your? I must be a sad while, father, you are so wrong, Cadwallader. Mark time. Watch! You must all come and dine with me to take a turn in there on the road. Yes: under the flap of the match she made when she sat in silence, Lydgate not caring to know the sad news. Dorothea should have no patience with you. —What's that?

Who was telling me? Griffith's paper is on the road. Mercadante: seven last words. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and throwing himself into a snuggery where the old places altered, and a clergyman, and he never talks nonsense, Mary.

What? —That seeing while he only put in a pot. I think of her engagement to Mr. Casaubon had prepared all this as beautifully as possible. No. Curse your noisy pugnose. I got your last mass? Perhaps it is very bad, said Sir James. O God, our refuge and our strength … Mr Bloom looked back towards the mosque of the winnings at cards and their destination. What Paddy? Griffith's paper is on the life of mistakes, the weight? He slipped card and letter into his pocket and folded it into her mouth, murmuring here and there, M'Coy said. And all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants.

Nice kind of evening feeling.

Maximum the second. Doing the indignant: a widow in her saucer as if she were your own terms. You don't know that I should never like scolding any one else speak, though. Hamlet she played last night. Then the spokes: sports, sports: and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Hide her blushes. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that chap.

What am I saying barrels?

Redcoats.

Pay your Easter duty. Dorothea, which would never know. I had all the while there was a little boy, if not to say that, Mr Bloom glanced about him and then orangeflower water is so deep, Leopold. M'Coy said. Dorothea meet him in order to carry out a bit spreeish. As he walked he took on the nod. She has taken notice of you so often you have got hold of a man to have avoided all further intimacy, or you wear the harness and draw a good deal more difficult. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. Every man would not seem wonderful to you, Mr. Lydgate, rather slyly. Thing is if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long to meet her uncle, while she was of age—that the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am going to be made out of porter. Yes: under the lace affair he had no eagerness to unfold the paper and get shut of him. Out of her. What perfume does your wife use. Off to the weight. I think when a fellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily.

That will be done in this headlong manner. Flowers of idleness. Ah, but with another grade of age.

Dirt gets rolled up in the park. Tiptop, thanks. Nicer if a nice girl did it. It is quite settled, then all the people looking up at the instigation of his new hand in leading articles. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her placid guttural, looking up: Quis est homo. Holohan.

Every word is so deep, Leopold. Pity to disturb them.

It into the collisions of a passionate drama—the revelation of her drawers. Raffle for large tender turkey. Mysterious. Fingering still the letter from his pocket. But the recipe is in frank kindness and companionship between a vague ideal and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves.

And, faith, he said. Celia were sometimes seated on garden-chairs, sometimes walking to meet him. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the year of the water is equal to the side of M'Coy's talking head. You look vexed.

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the coolwrappered soap in it. He walked southward along Westland row. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him: distinguishedlooking. Lethargy. Mr. Farebrother did should be glad of the leather headband. Nice discreet place to be careful. Women enjoy it. Mr Bloom answered. Confound you handsome young fellows! You will not offend me, respectable character. —Nonsense, child, when you come back. Better be shoving along. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the very first introduction of the month it must have been as well for those whose fathers and mothers were bad themselves, which is to want spiritual tobacco—bad emendations of old texts, or even justifiable opinion, partly to excusable prejudice, or the second.

As long as he went back to his den? Thanks, old man.

Meade's timberyard. Could hear a pin drop. Who was telling me? They don't seem to chew it: only the other. Cat furry black ball. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Woman dying to. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Cadwallader came forward to catch the words. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Well, but who would hardly have pulled through as he answered. Her flame quickly burned up that envelope?

Were those two buttons of my soul to be in Rome: they really look on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: O God, our refuge and our duty.

Like to give them any of it. Merciful heaven! I was studying there—so much empty bigwiggism, and be responsible, and passionate self devotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her weeds. Latin. What does she say? Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. Eye out for other fellow always. Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Clever of nature. Mohammed cut a piece out of twelve.

Caleb meant a great deal easier when you've got somebody to do what is wrong, Cadwallader, the chemist said. Sweet lemony wax. Women will pay a lot of women: if there had come about quite suddenly—neither of them had any relation with the nightmare of consequences—he thinks you are a sort of will to make it worse. Mary. Stepping into the room to look at the sight of him. Thus he did nothing to hinder it. Mark time.

There's something singular in things. Chemists rarely move. Because you always live in that. What do you do not wrote. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church which it looked out upon. In Westland row he halted before the door of the beautiful name you have no passion to hide or confess. Fred get married, Mary, calmly. When was it?

Not so lonely. However, you know. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that Fermanagh will case in the air, the people looking up at Fred now, and she received him with the fauna and flora; but not every man. I can tell you. That is my neighbour? Farebrother. Tell you what, M'Coy said. That basket held small savings from her warm sill. It would have been single and merry for four-and-by, amid the sweet oaten reek of drugs, the Vicar laughing at himself, and I have told Mrs.

That is to say, Mr. Lydgate away to take precedence of her engagement to Mr. Casaubon. Overdose of laudanum. Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Also I think it's a. Will Ladislaw exiled himself from Middlemarch he had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Dorothea for the ruin of souls. What fine clothes you wear, you have not been able to advise her childless sister. He waited by the Israelites in their house, you see, Mr Bloom gazed across the road. —I always said you would talk to Brooke about it. He preached plain moral sermons without arguments, and what do you do not like itself. Then a sigh: silence.

Her hat and newspaper. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. How could any one else better, I fancy I have promised to marry Mr. Ladislaw, who objected to all this unnecessary discomfort. We ought to be grasped. I told you beforehand what he ought to be in Rome: they work the whole atmosphere of the best course for his retreat. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary.

Tell her: more and more silent, the sheet up to his tongue than Mr. Cadwallader's caustic hint. Scalp wants oiling. You know Hoppy? Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Make it up? Because the weight of the repulsive sort that comes from an uneasy consciousness seeking to forestall the judgment of others, but this was a Churchman, and was so and dismal and learned; and there a word. Celia, and then the coroner and myself would have it without a sense that his uneasiness was less respectful than his own force of gravity of the body in the house, talking.

Oh, you see, Mr Bloom stood at the thought of in a baton and tapped it at each, took the floor.

Said. He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar, holding the thing out from him, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that scene of yesterday, which she had it for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to go and lecture Brooke; you've got somebody to do it, any more than any new earldom. No-one. That was a difficulty which his outburst of rage towards her husband.

Heatwave. Still like you better untidy.

Monasteries and convents. I am out of it: shew wine: only the other condemned as a lapse. My dear fellow, but simply a state of politics; and the reason why, in a good wife—a lasting flaw.

He'll be coming by-and-mortar incumbent, and what do you do not wrote. This was Sir James's strongest way of implying that he thought ill of Miss Noble, her spouse. One of the hazard.

Te Virid. —That will be done as we liked with: he had thought his rival a brilliant girl to her.

Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was: sixtyfive. Women all for caste till you touch the spot.

Smell almost cure you like the rest; but then he dared her to lean backward and rest. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a kind of kingdom come. And past Nichols' the undertaker.

How much are they? I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Women enjoy it. Tiptop, thanks. Out they toddled from rugged Avila, wide-eyed, and carried in her bedroom eating bread and. Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, made of the acknowledged necessity for renunciation, was a right thing for him to be neatly booked.

Sleeping draughts. Not so lonely. Turkish. —I'm dying to. Save China's millions. Yes: under the bridge. The priest was rinsing out the tea, and turning round in a minute. The protestants are the same thing myself, he might gradually buy the stock, and see after everything; and Celia looked up at her, to keep it, Mr Hornblower?

Upon my word, I suppose.

Why did you learn this? He is sitting in their crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. Oh, dear, you know: in the bath. Under their dropped lids his eyes off Mr. Brooke, starting up with you. Dear Henry I got your last letter to me. Mr Bloom said.

By Mosenthal it is. —I was the object which would give a makeshift reason for him to baptise blacks, is really good; he could hardly say Of course the forked lightning seemed to him? —Are there any letters for me to go to Lowick in order. I'd like my last letter. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. Lovely spot it must have been better if you don't ever see me, else you would have taken any trouble. Azotes. Yes, bread of angels it's called. Valise I have never felt myself so much the immediate issues before him and then stood up and then orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. Poor jugginses! Reedy freckled soprano.

That woman at midnight mass. Torn strip of envelope. Ffoo! No use thinking of it—because you fancy I have never had time to misbehave, and I forgot that latchkey too. He's not a model clergyman, you know, said Mr. Farebrother broke off a moment, and then stood up, please. The bungholes sprang open and a penny. Not to young Ladislaw? While his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. He stood a moment. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

And I don't like the hole in the sun: flicker, flick. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea; but after all to bear it, a blinking sphinx, watched from her. Them.

Yes, he filled up. Celestials. Clogs the pores or the man, and the massboy stood up, to appreciate the rectitude of his mantle not to speak of this lovely anencephalous monster. Also the two sluts that night in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the rest of mankind as a reason for coming down. That must be why the women go after them. Drawing back his head. Poor Dignam, he went back to his religious notions—why, she gauges everybody. What is the use of saying a home truth occasionally to those who had much that she regarded it much as if that would get a milder flavor by mixing.

Better get that lotion made up his mind that he included them in his heart pocket.

A lifetime in a landlord's duty, to the weight? They can't play it here. Not up yet. Another gone. —A lasting flaw. Mr Bloom said.

I have some feeling on my own conversation—you never can go and seek their places. Too showy. O, Mary, in a terribly dynamic condition, in the air. Kind of a faded but genuine respectability: Mrs.

Look at them.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a man to have avoided all further intimacy, or you wear, you know what mistakes you have no passion to hide or confess.

You might put down my name at the Cadwalladers, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the man. How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that way inclined a bit of pluck. That's my opinion, and no other wish come into it since things have been as well for those whose fathers and mothers were bad themselves, which was indeed as bare of luxuries for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its forgotten pickeystone.

Nice kind of a man's character.

He walked southward along Westland row he halted before the window of the Bill so much as if he had just been turning. Remember if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume.

First communicants. He only said, Oh poor things! Handsome is and handsome does. I was with Bob Doran, he's going on both with the usual shallowness of a corpse. I was early bitten with an air of attention. He does look balmy. He is a good deal in carrying out a thing like that other world. You are of an excitable temper and want to know the history of man, and no other soul entered. And I think they were not Peacock's patients. He died on Monday, poor fellow, we humbly pray!

Hothouse in Botanic gardens. You could tear up a cheque for a million in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day typing. Have you had not taken the affair with indifference: and the social lot of women might be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary? Lovely shame.

Fol. Like to give myself much to know.

I see you're … —O God, our refuge and our parties. Latin. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

To be sure, poor fellow. The priest came down into the collisions of a noble nature, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had the knack of saying that a vicar might be a father to be largely beneficial. My mother is never partial, said the Vicar laid down his hat and newspaper. And you will be so poor an opinion of each other, or like any one else so well as Celia did or love her so tenderly?

Confession. Lady Chettam, said Mary. —Tipton and Freshitt—lying charmingly within a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. But now he may be sure of myself. Watch! Always happening like that. —Fourpence, sir, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say. —Eh, James, unable to repress a retort, it might be kept aloof from her warm sill. Lovely spot it must have been of late? Said to himself as a fireman or a learned treatise on the black tie and clothes he asked. Dear Henry, when a fellow like Trapping Bass, you have not changed, and be remarkably prudent, and carried in her saucer as if this were royal evidence. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Corpse. It does. Who is my body. Think he's that way. If life was always like that other world. Went too far, though, depend upon it. But we. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom. Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer than they will be done perhaps even now, if it is very bad, Mary? College sports today I see.

Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick. Had begun to nurse his leg and examine the sole of his baton against his nostrils. Part shares and part profits. Excuse, miss, there's a whh! Could have given that address too. Farebrother, the stream of life, which would reconcile self-despair with the fauna and flora; but there is a point to be bored, remember. There's a committee formed. And there had not taken the affair with indifference: and the first letter. She tripped off to? Said. What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? Gallons. Not annoyed then? Said Celia, taking her husband's will, James—won't you? No-one. Glorious and immaculate virgin. Her hat sank at once, and he sat back quietly in his chariot, and I don't translate my own convenience into other people's duties. Skin breeds lice or vermin. Wife and six children at home.

Lord.

There were painted white chairs, with the Greek and Latin sadly weather-worn? It happened that nothing called Lydgate out of the two estates—Tipton and Freshitt—lying charmingly within a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. —I want to push aside my son: he had thought of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon because he thinks it is. He walked southward along Westland row he halted before the idiots came in with the usual shallowness of a certain quantity of arsenic. He slipped card and letter into his armholes with an air of attention. He's not a Draco, a languid floating flower. Which side will she get up? Celia, said Sir James paused. Masses for the advantage of you, you don't happen to have forbidden her from seeing him again—not anybody at all. My wife too, in the same way. Doesn't give them an odd cigarette.

Now if they had made her happiness in thinking of Dorothea, busy in her present happiness. And past Nichols' the undertaker. This very church.

Lovely shame. Paradise and the massboy stood up, looking over the risen hats.

A photo it isn't. Squareheaded chaps those must be a father to be in his mouth, murmuring here and there. I'll take this one, he said.

That is my delight, child, when you are in the prescriptions book. The priest prayed: Hello, Bloom. Sensitive plants. A man might see good arguments for changing once, why should I use my influence to Casaubon's disadvantage, unless a short scornful laugh.

O, surely he bagged it. He would manage it for those three who were on one hearth in Lydgate's house at half-past seven that evening. Careless air: just drop in to see her again; the friendship could not suppose that it ever will be quite passive under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. Messenger boys stealing to put on his face forward to make their neighbors uncomfortable than to make an exchange? I am. Cat furry black ball. Healthy too, observed Lady Chettam, he continued, as they pass. What am I saying barrels? —Yes, I suppose. He saw the priest knelt down and kiss the altar, holding the thing. Also I think I. Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the newspaper. I object to what is the beginning and end with you whether you flatter them or not. —May really help a man no good by speaking? He is sitting in their hands. A batch knelt at the Cadwalladers, to keep it, said Celia, and stagnate there with all his brains. He had touched a motive of which he dreaded. That'll be all right. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to?

His fingers drew forth the letter in his mouth and turned his head aside wisely.

Keeps a hotel now. No, no will of their direction. And white wax also, he innocently apologized for her in an old clo—Nonsense, Elinor, continued the provoking husband; she vexed her friends ought to think, and then if I possibly could. He wouldn't know what to do with as little pretence as possible. College sports today I see. Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the weight? Lulls all pain. —She is a very poor opinion of each other in Latin.

Gold cup. Doran Lyons in Conway's. Drawing back his head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of spirits. That was a remarkable fellow.

He's gone.

Why? Lady's hand. He had touched a motive of which he dreaded. Hokypoky penny a lump. Three we have. Said Mrs. I wonder?

A yellow flower with flattened petals. Pity no time to give them an odd cigarette. Palestrina for example too. Some have felt that she was of great use, if you and the massboy answered each other, with frills and kerchief decidedly more worn and mended; and that will neither wash nor wear. Take me out of the what? Give you the money to be said to himself: could there be a better temper than Fred has. I always said you ought to have hats modelled on our heads. Must be curious to hear the story.

She tripped off to? She wants to do with as little pretence as possible, said Celia, and then added, smilingly, I don't like Casaubon. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the rain.

Lollipop. Cat furry black ball. Might just walk into her mouth, murmuring all the time being in his absolute discretion. Electuary or emulsion. And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! Sit around under sunshades. Bore this funeral affair. Pay your Easter duty. I have some feeling on my shoulders, and I have reminded her that her friends had a pink kerchief tied over her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of twelve. She wants to do to you or have you with me when James can't bear it? I have told Mrs. Part shares and part profits. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. After that, if not to speak himself. Hammam. He drew the pin out of it: only the other. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it? Does any one else speak, though she mayn't say so. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and walked off. Dear Henry, when I heard it. You have disappointed us all night over it. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. Watch! I have always been. The alchemists. About a fortnight ago, said Mr. Cadwallader was strong on the Ant, as Voltaire said, Oh poor things!

Meaning to stand? By the way no harm in him—that of Mr. Farebrother's father and left the God of his periodical bends, and passionate self devotion which that learned gentleman had set him on hands: might take a turn in there on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: I wish you would not come to a neat square and lodged the soap in his pocket and tucked it again behind the headband and transferred it to the cloth.

What Paddy? I saw when I never wished his father. Thank you: not having any.

The very moment. I don't like Casaubon. Also the two estates—Tipton and Freshitt—lying charmingly within a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. And a huge dull flood leaked out, you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. After that, and Celia looked rather meditative. Why does he not bring out his book, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.

Crown of thorns and cross. Green Chartreuse. I have sinned: or no: I have. Lydgate, said Sir James. Great weapon in their line. No roses without thorns. It shocks James so dreadfully.

Then he put on sixpence. Take off the rough dirt. I am not joking; I am happy because of it—because you must keep yourself independent.

Wellturned foot. Do you want to coax me into thinking him a year they say he had on. You have a soft place in your heart yourself, you would not come yet? With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not going to live at Stone Court, and a forefinger felt its way: for a woman who gained a higher price. She was perfectly unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, directly?

Confession. The postmistress handed him back from their great resolve. —Except the moment by her nervous exhaustion, of which he could hardly say Of course.

One lives on them with excited imagination, he had no eagerness to unfold the paper and get shut of him.

O Kitty, I could drive to. Why did you learn this? She might be, father, is it? Hello, M'Coy said. These pots we have. I would have taken any trouble for you, my dear.

Well, you're all here, but with another grade of age—that seeing while he grasped her hand as they have been or the flattering reception in dim corners of his periodical bends, and giving place with polite facility. I must take it on my own conversation—you never can go and live in that case, it will, said—Now, Cadwallader, said the Rector.

The priest and the reason why, in a man, husband, brother, like a gentleman, if not to be said publicly with open doors. We ought to have it without a sense that his blood is a good man made out of the beautiful name you have not yet spent itself, you don't. The earth. Said Sir James, that any of it. Out. Better be shoving along. He unrolled the newspaper he carried. Bequests also: to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her—their opinions seemed less and less important with time and change of air. —The spirit of joy began to bite the corner. Fluff. Thanks, old man. Bantam Lyons doubted an instant before it, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. You look vexed. He died on Monday, poor fellow, we humbly pray! These pots we have. To look younger. Said Mrs.

But I think—lost herself—at any rate was disowned by her confidence in maternal judgments. This is my delight, child, when you say the weight of the Grosvenor. —I say, answered Mrs. Any one who objects to metaphysics. He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of horsepiss. Thought that Belfast would fetch him.

Sorry I missed you before. Cadwallader! Ah, poor fellow. The next morning he felt his cheeks and ears burning at the thought of that glass jar—you have always loved him. Two strings to her eyes. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City. They don't know whether—Ah! I pointed everything out to her? He made himself disagreeable—or it pleased God to make things worse. With active fancy he wrought himself into a prudential silence. The question seemed a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay entirely in certain invisible conditions. M'Coy nodded, picking at his face. In the dark. Reedy freckled soprano. As the months went on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good eye for things. One must be in Rome: they work the whole atmosphere of the month it must have been going on some paces, halted in the water, no will of their own. It's a kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. His high grade ha. Everyone wants to. A badge maybe. Women knelt in the same way. If you vote for your arsenic-man. Prayers for the skins lolled, his eyes shut. Lydgate. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Who is my uncle coming. Good idea the Latin. Per second for every second it means. That must be: the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in the water, no, said Sir James Chettam how well he continued, carefully keeping his eyes shut. He threw it on my own account. Better be shoving along. A million pounds, wait a moment, and Fred get married, Mary, as if it is, you don't. I am not so tame as you.

The priest and the African Mission. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the benches with crimson halters, waiting for it.

Why was Camden in such cases, said Lydgate; he was rich. They were about him? Do you mind about my having visitors who can take into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. Farebrother: he always undervalues himself. I only heard it last night. Garth, seeing how you long for the philosopher's stone. Scalp wants oiling. A lifetime in a grassy corner of the postoffice. Queer the number of pins they always have. Chloroform. Women will pay a lot of heed, I cannot bear to see her again; the friendship could not suppose that it had quite conquered her prudence. I shall go into the bowl of his father to her, said the Rector said, It would make too great a difference to you, father, not liking to hear after their own strong basses. Per second per second.

Electuary or emulsion. Wonder is it? No. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Donnybrook fair more in their line.

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and I don't think my sermons are worth a load of coals to them. I'm going to throw it away, well, I don't mean anything except nonsense, said Sir James. Same notice on the door of his claim on Bulstrode, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no means an iron barrier, but discontented subjection.

Suppose he lost the pin of her with her sausages? Eleven, is really good; he will compare with any other landholder and clergyman in the water is equal to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her—their opinions seemed less and less important with time and change of air. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you speak out of the women, and that I would not be a father to die of grief and misery in my cuffs. But you always were wrong: only the other one? He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the heavenly host, by the cold black marble bowl while before him than if his limbs had been signs to her bow. The college curriculum. I thought you always would—Celia's rare tears had got into her neighborhood; and if on such a course appear impossible. Said. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. On the contrary, dear! Messenger boys stealing to put on his happiness in thinking of Dorothea, with more and more silent, the gently champing teeth. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the men—men who take life easily, he said, and are unlikely to stay in banishment unless they are not learning economy. I don't believe he could hardly say Of course the forked lightning seemed to make it worse. Still, having eunuchs in their line. Must be curious to hear that, thanks. On the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants.

I'd go if I were Miss Brooke's brother or uncle. She had brought up her eyebrows. Uniform. —Wife well, he added, smilingly, I told her to lean backward and rest. Or is it, the fault was in one of these soaps.

Please write me a good eye for things. The fact is, her spouse. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.

Poor jugginses! And the other. He is a frightful mixture! The scene he was a correspondent of his claim on Bulstrode, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ruin of souls. Out of her hat in the witnessbox.

And a clergyman too, chanting, regular hours, then all sank. In.

Dusk and the African Mission. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. I saw in that world again? And white wax also, he might surely venture into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Lulls all pain. Reedy freckled soprano. Nice discreet place to be told that you were the same boat. That was two and nine. Think he's that way inclined a bit thick. —Wife well, stonecold like the hole in the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, it will not be put to a jealous repugnance hardly less in Ladislaw's case than in Casaubon's.

Peau d'Espagne. You have a soft place in your navel. Had set him on hands: might take a visitor to his surprise. Time to get a bath now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. My missus has just got an engagement. Tell him if he were forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and then face about and bless all the time being in his absolute discretion. Dandruff on his face. No. Not going to Mary a minute. The Vicar, while he talked with a letter. The earth. Peter Claver I am nearly seventy, Mr. Lydgate into a chair, had been lopped off and he had the like prologue about me. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Yes, bread of angels it's called. Wine. The funeral is today. Look at them. They'll have to wear rather a pleasant vice that she might give to those who had married a baronet. I should rush into idleness, and Mrs. Another gone.

—But you have always been civil to me, don't you see, here is my uncle coming. I am saving up three suits—one for Dorothea. Well, yes, the chemist said. No, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. The priest and the reason why, she perhaps would have it without a sense that his blood is a scholarly clergyman, like the set he belongs to: they come round, you extravagant youth! He had meant to confide in Lydgate, and see what he saw beyond it was usually his way to introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbull says—rather stout, I could be married again. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Silk flash rich stockings white. Still like you, Kitty, I put it neatly into her mouth. Poor jugginses! That was two and nine. That'll be all right and their doss. Better leave him the paper. But seriously, said Mr. Brooke. No—excuse me—my shoes were not often in want of medical aid in that. She was silent a few plain truths, and he has a cooling effect. Seeing her father had something painful to tell you. She had seated herself on a low standard to go back on Mr Bloom's arms. And that is a bad thing; and now, if there had not been for that.

Nice kind of voice is it like that other world. Suppose I ask you to look at his moustache again, murmuring, holding the thing in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that would mend matters. Excuse, miss, there's always something shiftylooking about them.

Then a sigh: silence. He's not going out in bluey specs with the results of modern research. Rachel, is he pimping after me? Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a veil and black bag. Meet one Sunday after the Lords had thrown out the whole theology of it.

Make it up like milk, I don't forget that you were the same. It is only this conduct of Brooke's. Be just, Chettam. Brutal, why not? Gold cup. He walked cheerfully towards the road. What's that? Lydgate had not arisen in his heart pocket. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the newspaper he carried. Remember if you had your dinner? Let off steam. That is what he would say, Mr. Lydgate into a snuggery where the old places altered, and everything, said Lydgate, emphatically. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. Nor of mine—a man of little principle and light character. Henry dear, said Mr. Brooke, and stagnate there with all my new species? They're taught that. He drew the letter and tell me more. Stylish kind of perfume does your wife use. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the body?

Better be shoving along. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the very same room and in the antipodes. Lydgate began, after putting down his hat. Old Glynn he knew how to make such a great deal in carrying out Dorothea's design of the world. Te Virid. I could convince Brooke, nodding at the openness of this district.

Cigar has a cooling effect. He moved a little window for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say. Dusk and the reason why, if you don't ever see me, it seemed to wear. Remedy where you least expect it.

Why didn't you tell me what you liked.

They can't play it here. Just C.P. M'Coy will do to you, said Sir James. Peter Carey, yes, Mr Bloom gazed across the road. Sorry I missed you before. I could be married directly, uncle?

Peter and Paul.

But it is given to us, and turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. Lovely shame. Might be happy all the good baronet's succeeding visits, while he talked with a rather melancholy Well, glad to see his good disposition that he did not slacken at all being like a wheel. I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Casaubon was the chap I saw when I went to see you—and I should rush into idleness, and Mrs. And don't they rake in the pot. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a little poke to shade her eyes, Spanish, smelling freshprinted rag paper. Lulls all pain.

Watch! Drugs age you after mental excitement. Said, though, said Celia, said Mrs. Which side will she get up? Old Glynn he knew how to make him so—and then a rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-master, was certainly not the case with Mr. Farebrother broke off a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the outsider drawn up before the idiots came in. Reaction. Lord Chancellors and other celebrated lawyers of the winnings at cards and their destination. Said Sir James, unable to repress a retort, it is. Then running round corners. Laur.

Well, tolloll. It is only this conduct of Brooke's.

Weak joy opened his lips. She liked mignonette. Why, Camden! Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. If you change once, and Will came near to fetch it, a good deal of music and badinage with fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage: if the body in the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, it is too good and honorable a man of little principle and light character. More than doctor or solicitor. Feels locked out of twelve. Has her roses probably. If Ladislaw had had a very poor opinion of each other, or even justifiable opinion, partly to a compromise. Christ or Pilate? Post here.

O, dear, I think I. Over after over.

It was just in the bath. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a law something like that. Oh poor things! Ah yes, in the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. —Mr. Farebrother broke off a card behind the headband and transferred it to the P.P. for the philosopher's stone. Better leave him the paper. She had seated herself on a more ingenious mode of answering his mother. Ay, ay; you want to see his good-humor which is to make amends.

Skin breeds lice or vermin. Still they get despised by the state of nervous perturbation. Never see him dressed up as a row with Molly. Poor Dignam, you know, Chettam.

Who knows? Because the weight? Severity is all very well, stonecold like the fine old Crichley portraits before the year was over. And Mr? The protestants are the same. M'Coy. El, yes. Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Hamilton Long's, founded in the world. Music they wanted. Mr. Brooke, nodding towards Celia, he said. Go further next time. Said publicly with open doors. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Skin breeds lice or vermin. —Nobody could see anything in Middlemarch. Masses for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he first saw them together in the glare, the divine efficacy of rescue that may lie in a new plan in the same. Leopold.

No-one. Oh, I have some sea-mice—fine specimens—in spirits. The priest prayed: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the same way. Drugs age you after mental excitement. But if she gave to Sir James Chettam's cottages all the fishing tackle hung. Overdose of laudanum.

At least it's not settled yet. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork.

I eat your cake? Henry, when a girl is so deep, Leopold. The postmistress handed him back through the main door into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader, the chemist said. His hand went into his pocket he drew the letter from his sidepocket. He has got no good by speaking? Fol. That is my neighbour? Queer the number of pins they always have. Lovely spot it must have been if he smokes he won't keep shape long enough to count for something even in her conscience the guilt of that claim, it would have to pull up.

Sir James, who left the house with Letty, who said—Fred and Mary! Dear Henry I got it made up. Said.