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winchestersandwordprocessors · 7 years ago

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Hound’s Song

So.... this fic is about Sandor Clegane’s story from the time of his burns through the Battle for the Dawn. It’s lightly Sansan, and there is a sex scene in chapter 8 between Sansa and Sandor. Give it a chance!

Chapter 1

Sandor ventured back out into the village of Lannisport a month after his life and face had been changed forever. Tufts of singed hair still stuck up on the crown of his head and his face was a mass of scabs, but it no longer oozed and didn’t reopen if Sandor made sure to chew his meat very carefully.

He wasn’t really ready to leave the house, but his father wasn’t ready to leave him alone with Gregor, at least not yet. Despite what Allistor Clegane told the rest of the world, he knew the story his youngest son had told was the truth: Gregor had pushed his younger brother’s face into the coals of the cookfire and held him there while the child’s flesh boiled against bone. And it was all done over a little toy soldier, a castoff from one of the Lannister children.

“What do you tell people when they ask about your face?” Allistor asked his son, turning the horse-drawn cart into an alley behind a strip of craftman’s shops. He didn’t nag or ask in a threatening voice; this had become the gentle interrogation of a parent asking for a rote answer, the equivalent of asking another child for his father’s name and occupation.

Five-year-old Sandor didn’t look up at his father. “I tell them my bedding caught fire while I slept.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a bit, stay near the wagon.” Allistor looped the reins over the brake lever and swung off the tall wagon seat.

Sandor swung his legs back and forward, thumping them against the bottom of the wooden bench seat. After a few minutes he hopped down, looking around for a well or a trough. He’d let the horses have water before they turned around to drop this load of stuff off at Casterly Rock. He spotted a trough just up the alley, maybe three buildings away. He ran in between the horses and clucked to them, standing on the metal trace between them, stretching up to put a hand on each bridle. The team walked sedately up the lane, the cart rattling along behind them.

“Ho, boys,” he said, deepening his voice to sound like his father. Sandor liked the horses, he liked how big and strong and gentle they were. After several gulps the leader of the team picked up his muzzle, water dribbling off his nose and onto Sandor’s head. The water trickled down Sandor’s face, the water cool on the tight, itchy scabs.

“What happened to your face?” Another boy was coming down the side alley leading a big bay horse; red and gold ribbons looped around the tack.

“My bedding caught fire,”mumbled Sandor, hating how the lie felt heavy on his tongue.

Another boy, maybe ten, came trotting after the first. He was carrying wooden swords. “Mer! Mer, master says we can play ‘til he’s done at the steelsmith’s.”

Sandor perked up. “Can I play? My father is a knight!”

“What do we want with a little piece of kindling like you?” The boys took off, leaving the bay tied to the hitching post by the trough.

~~~

When he he was twelve Sandor got a job as a backhouse boy in the Lannisport posting inn. He would clean beer taps, slop the pigs, scrub the floors, and live in the far-upstairs attic room away from his father. He didn’t mind being away. Gregor had gone off to be a squire for someone a year ago, and Sandor hated the pitying looks his father would shoot him when he thought Sandor wasn’t paying attention. Sandor liked watching all the people that came and went at the inn. It was easy for him to watch people without getting caught; nobody would look at his face for more than a second before looking away and not turning back. It made him almost invisible in his ugliness.

The wounds were long healed, but looked no better for it. Scars swarmed from the center of his forehead over the tip of his right eyebrow and then diagonally over his face, just missing his eye. His right ear was a ragged shell of cartilage- the maester has stuck a piece of reed into the ear canal after the burn to prevent the aperture from closing over- and no hair grew on that part of his scalp. What hair he had was dark and hadn’t lost it’s baby curl; he wore it slightly long, so that it shaded his eyes and brushed over his good ear.

One night, a few months after moving into the inn, Sandor was left to assist the innkeeper's wife in the common room. He grabbed dirty steins off the table, scrubbed them, and replaced them on their shelf under the bar. His hands were cracked from the harsh lye soap, but he couldn’t feel it. He was too busy moving.

It was after midnight when the fight broke out. Most of the patrons had sought their beds, those who were left were the seriously inebriated. “You took my drink!” one of the men yelled, standing and lunging at his companion.

“You took my girl!” the other replied, standing quickly, knocking the chair over. Sandor had been clearing the table behind them when the first blows were thrown. The first man careened into him, causing the tray Sandor was holding to fall to the floor in a crash.

The man turned to him. “Wot are you doin’ in my way, boy?”

“Nothing, just trying to get out of it,” was Sandor’s response.

The fight seemed to be forgotten for the first man. “Don’t mouth off to me,” he slurred. He lunged at Sandor, dagger drawn. Sandor ducked under his arm and plowed into him; he’d been backed into the wall and hadn’t had any other direction to go.

The both fell to the floor, and only Sandor hopped up.

The drunken man’s knife was embedded hilt deep in his belly, his fingers still wrapped around the handle. He pulled it out of him with a squelch and blood began to pour from the wound. Sandor stood frozen in place, watching as the dark, dark red of life’s blood made an increasingly large stain on the floor.

“...Stranger,” the dying man mumbled, slowly tilting his face to look at Sandor. A dribble of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he breathed his last.

The innkeeper’s wife had come to the side of the fallen man after he and Sandor had hit the floor.

“Stranger, ‘e called you. Stranger, like the god o’ death that takes us all.”

In the end, Sandor chose to leave. The innkeeper and his family were willing to keep him on, but they were religious, superstitious folk that never quite forgot that a dying man had identified a twelve year old as the face of the reaper.

~~~

Sandor went to Casterly Rock at thirteen to see what employment could be found in the great Lannister keep. His father forcibly apprenticed him to the blacksmith. “Great big lad like you can do it. Honorable job, and safe. Blacksmiths don’t need to fight,” Allistor had said calmly, refusing to look his son in the eye.

Sandor loathed the smithy. He hated the burning heat of its every corner, hated the wheezing gasp of the bellow, but most of all he hated the fire. The closest he would get was the bellow handles, he figured if the damn thing decided to spew flames or molten metal at least he was behind it. He was frequently beaten for this supposed refusal to work, his sinful and willful laziness.

He was behind the furnace manning the bellows when one of the other apprentices set his shirt on fire. The other boy, Cassius, had been standing by the smith, passing him hammers and tongs and watching the technique used to fold steel over and over into a sword. He hadn’t been careful on the last pass, had dragged his elbow over the edge of the furnace opening, and the edge of his shirt had gone up in flames in a matter of seconds. The boy shrieked, a tea-kettle-high squeal of shock and pain that shouldn’t ever come out of a human throat. The fire spread over the rag tied around Cassius’ head, all the while Cassius beat at the fire with his hands and the smith beat at the fire with his heavy leather gloves.

Sandor stood frozen to the spot, his face a mask of horror. It smelled the same; and for a second he thought it was his skin turning a charred black, thought that once more it was his flaming hair that sent a cloud of acrid smoke up to the sky. His face twinged.

The spell, the fear broke and Sandor sprinted to the edge of the anvil and heaved the great water drum into his arms. He spun and flung as much water as he could onto the burning boy. The flames went out and Cassius fell to ground, twitching. The skin on his left arm and face and neck were black and crumbling. Sandor couldn’t tell if he still had eyes.

Sandor had thrown up and the maester had come down from the great house. The maester and smith had murmured for a moment over the burnt boy; the boy that now looked like a Sevenmas cookie left in the oven far too long.

The maester stuck a thin, hollow reed into a glass vial, capped the reed with his finger, and then forced the reed between the desiccated lips of his patient. He did this over and over until the body of the boy slacked. The maester and the smith crouched there, then, waiting, holding vigil over Cassius until the potion moved him from this world to the next. Sandor and littlest apprentice stood in the corner watching, silently thanking the gods and fate and luck herself that it hadn’t been them.

When the maester stood and packed his little leather bag Sandor knew Cassius was dead. He shuffled off back towards the Lannister manse, chain clinking as he went. The smith stood slowly and then turned to their corner.

“You,” he growled at the other boy. “Get out of my sight. We’re done for the day.” The little boy scampered off, feet thumping in their too-big boots.

“Did you like it?” the smith asked Sandor, his voice quiet and low, a viper curled in the grass. “Did you like watching him burn, just like you?”

“No!” Sandor was horrified.

“You just stood there, stood there and watched ‘im dance.”

“I put it out! I threw water on him.” Sandor was pleading at this point, as much as he could.

The smithy squinched his eyes almost closed. “How’d you pick up that barrel? Got to weigh near a hundred pounds.”

Sandor didn’t have an an answer- he’d just gone to the closest source of water, the big, heavy oak cask used to temper hot steel.

“I don’t know if you’ve got a demon in you or the gods worst luck, but leave and don’t come back. You come back here, I’ll kill you.”

Sandor didn’t even wait for the smithy to move. He just fled around the smith and out of the keep. He ran until he had cramps in his side and then kept walking, shuffling as fast as he could until he made it to his father’s house on the village square.

#Song of the hound #chapter 1 #I write things #got #fanfic #sandor clegane #the hound #LOVE HIM #I was wondering about his childhood #and other kids being mean #and I knew a RAGE #and this happened

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swimmingnewsie · 8 years ago

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Ten Minutes Ago - Prologue

Hi guys! It’s been a really long time since I’ve post fic and even longer since I’ve posted Newsies fic. But with help of my amazing collaborator @ig0tfriends, we have written a multichapter fic. Swimmingcrutch is back and better than ever.

Summary: When the death of King Joseph comes, the child of Princess Katherine and Prince Jack is in need to find a partner to continue the family line. What better way to do that than with a ball? A Newsies Cinderella AU featuring Jack and Katherine as amazing monarchs, genderfluid Smalls, Races as a fairy godmother, and an adorable Crutchie.

Also posted to AO3 for convenience

Enjoy!

It was always nice to come home. For Smalls, being home meant all dangers were abated and he could breathe. He didn’t have to worry about sleeping in cold grassy fields as they awaited battle to come or how to command an army when he hardly had the will to fight himself. As he and his troops approached the castle gates, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Smalls!” He could hear his mother calling him from the second he entered the grounds.

“Mama!” Smalls ran and gave a tight hug to his mother, Princess Katherine.

Katherine squeezed tight, feeling the relief of having her child home and safe. “How are you, my little one?”

Smalls laughed at his mother. She was always good about these kinds of things. “Your little boy is doing well,” he beamed. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you more than you could imagine. Though your father may argue he missed you more.” Katherine placed a kiss on her son’s forehead. “Come, let us go inside and see him.”

The doormen immediately opened the wide, wrought-iron gates to the castle without so much as a word between any of them. Still, they could hardly suppress smiles at the homecoming of their beloved prince. It was a rare thing to have all denizens of a kingdom be enamored of their royal family, but Princess Katherine, Prince Jack and their child made it easy to be liked by all, even if King Joseph was a little insufferable at times. Since the passing of Queen Kate and Princess Lucille, things had been shaky, but Princess Katherine led amicably alongside her father, leading to peace between all those who inhabited their kingdom.

With the great blare of a trumpet, the pair of prince and mother strode inside the castle walls. Servants hustled to and fro, each one taking the time to smile at the princess and son. One maiden with yellow flowers in her arms rushed up to Katherine, made a quick curtsy, and addressed the princess as fast as she could.

“The prince is in his studio, your royal highness. He asked not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely necessary!”

“While my husband may be enthralled in his art, I do believe he will wish to see his son home from battle.” Katherine smiled. Neither she nor Jack had known when Smalls was to be home. The war had ended about three weeks ago, so they had been expecting him any day. “Would you tell him we will be in the throne room?“

The maiden curtsied once more, nodding, and quickly gave a shy smile to the prince. It was hardly a secret on the castle grounds that he was favored by most of the young servants, all thinking Smalls terribly pretty and handsome. But the maiden scurried away without another word, and it was then that a rackety clattering click-click noise squealed into the hallway. Steering a most formidable wheelchair down the hall – formidable because the crotchety old man it belonged to used it to drive over everyone’s toes – was an aging, graying old man dressed in a crown and doublet that were fashionable about fifteen years earlier.

“Katherine!” called the wizened old man, giving a baleful eye and a wag of a crooked finger to all who passed him by. There was a reason most addressed him as Pulitzer. King Joseph was a name for a kind old grandfather, whilst his surname from birth far more suited the man he became. “Katherine! Where’s Hannah? She was supposed to return an hour ago with my completed treatise on gnomes!”

“She was in the garden last I saw, Father,” Katherine replied. “Perhaps doing more research for you?” She looked at her son, giving him a light rub on the shoulder. “Are you not going to greet your grandson?”

“I’ll greet my granddaughter,” he spat. “Hello, my sweet Samantha. I’m glad you’re back from that foolish errand, running an army. The army your father should have been running,” Pulitzer snarled. “But you’re done with all that now aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Smalls grit his teeth, but merely gave his grandfather a graceful bow. “Yes, Grandfather.”

Pulitzer gave a grunt of disgust before lapsing into a bout of coughs. Swatting away the servants like flies, he resisted all offers of assistance. With one last glance at his ‘granddaughter’, the old man turned his wheelchair around and sped past his daughter just in time to meet Hannah, a young woman who normally acted as Pulitzer’s assistant, who was teetering underneath a large stack of paperwork.

“I will see you at dinner time!” he called back, though he barely glanced back at all. “Have Samantha wear her blue dress – the one I bought her! HANNAH! I hope you collected all the information on the feeding habits of gnomes that I requested!”

As Pulitzer exited, another door opened, this time admitting a much more jovial man with bright brown eyes and paint-splattered hands.

“Smalls! How are you doing, kid?”

Smalls couldn’t help but grin. Maybe his grandfather didn’t understand, but the ones that mattered did.

Another day, another hour of mucking pig slop. At least that was the way it seemed to Crutchie, who stood in the middle of the once tame pasture, surrounded by numerous barnyard animals. He stood up once more, resting the shovel against the trough as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The once-comforting fabric pinned to the top of his crutch was soaked through with sweat from too many days of hard labor to count.

If anyone had chosen to walk by at that very moment, they would have assumed he, dressed in ragged clothes, was a simple farmhand or stable boy. No one would have ever known that Crutchie, formerly the young Lord Robert of the very estate he was now mucking pig slop on, was the son of a (formerly) wealthy merchant.

But all that was in the past. Now, he was only Crutchie, the crippled servant of the household. No one, even if they did walk past, would suspect anything different.

“Did you finish cleaning the manure?” his step-brother Morris called out. He walked out into the field, coming up close. Cruelly, he pushed Crutchie’s crutch into the pile of manure on the ground. Crutchie, barely having time to form a look of panic on his face, quickly found himself tossed into the pile of manure as well.

“Missed a spot,” Morris laughed, walking off.

Crutchie sighed, feeling the gross sensation against his skin. He had never understood why his step-brothers were so mean to him. He had never treated them with anything but kindness since they were children and yet they were still so cruel.

As if it wasn’t mean enough, Oscar came up close behind Morris dumping a pile of fresh manure into the pile. “Oops, it slipped,” he said menacingly. “But you can take care of it, can’t you, Crutchie?”

“Course I can, Oscar,” Crutchie managed to glare at his step brother but neatly bit his tongue to stop any biting reply he had in mind from slipping out. Ignoring both of the mocking grins plastered on his retreating step brother’s faces, Crutchie stubbornly stood his crutch up and stood up himself. He shuddered, praying he wouldn’t be sick at the sight and smell of the manure his back, arms and legs were now covered in.

Slowly, he picked up his shovel and finished piling up the manure. Before he could become sick from the smell, he managed to get himself into the creek. It may have been wet, but it was better than the sticky manure on his skin and clothing.

“‘Ey, Bobby boy, what happened to you?” a neighbor of his crossed over to the creek, cigar hanging from his mouth. “Fall into some cow crap again?”

“More like pushed in,” Crutchie mumbled. “But I’m fine, thanks for asking, Race.”

“Hey – hey kid, you’d tell me if anyone was givin’ you trouble, right?” Race gave the younger boy a tap on his shoulder. To his chagrin, Crutchie flinched away, his eyes filling with fear for half a second before they filled with shame instead.

“Course I would,” Crutchie answered with a fake smile, but did not return the gentle punch, “Thanks, Race. I mean it.”

“Alright, kid. Well I’ll let you get back to your swim. Gotta go make a deal for some new cigars.” He gave one last smile and was on his way.

“Crutchie, I swear to God you better get up here and clean this mess!”

His step-father. Snyder.

Well, there went his cleansing swim. There was work that needed to be done whether he was covered in manure or not. Crutchie pulled himself out of the water and onto the grassy bank, barely drying off his now soaked clothing. Once upon a time he would have believed it was no big deal to come home soaked to the bone – but this was no home anymore, and his step father seemed to hate him with a passion. Taking one last glance across the creek, Crutchie slipped his crutch under his arm and set off for the manor house.

Smalls waited in anxiety for his grandfather to arrive at dinner. He was in fact not wearing the blue dress his grandfather had bought. He knew it would cause a scene, but Smalls could not handle wearing that today. He felt far too much like a boy to put it on.

Sure he had attempted- no one liked to anger his grandfather if they could help it- but when he tried to wear the dress, he felt as though he was going to cry. His mother came in and helped him dress in his best shirt and tie, constantly reassuring him that it was okay to be their little boy today- even if Grandfather didn’t approve.

Half an hour had passed since dinner was meant to begin and Grandfather still wasn’t at the table.

“Hannah, have you seen Father?” Katherine asked, looking across the table.

“No, your highness. It isn’t like him to be this late. He’s probably looking over those reports on gnomes,” she sighed. “I will go check in on him.” Quickly after, Hannah left the dining room in search of Pulitzer.

“Personally, it may be a miracle your father’s late,” Jack winked at Katherine. “He’s getting to be a real pain in the –”

“Jack!” Katherine admonished him, and Jack grimaced.

“Smalls, he was hounding me everyday since you left,” the prince confided, “Kept nagging me about why I wasn’t doing ‘official royal duties’ when I was painting –which, by the way, is in fact an official royal duty now –”

A loud, piercing shriek interrupted Jack’s tirade, immediately freezing the blood of everyone assembled in the hall.

“King Pulitzer is dead!”

Along with shoveling manure, feeding the animals, and tending to other chores outside, one of Crutchie’s main responsibilities was to bring the meals to his ever-so-kind household. Breakfast was his first priority in the morning, and he busied himself with balancing the dishes on his arms as he walked out to greet his step-father and brothers without a word.

“I can’t believe King Pulitzer finally kicked the bucket!” Morris said looking up from the paper. News was only delivered every two weeks, giving him plenty to catch up on. “And that his kid is already pushing to get Princess Samantha a new husband.”

“‘Ey, Morris it says right here that everyone is invited to this ball thing. Maybe I could be king,” Oscar said, all hoity-toity.

Morris shoved his brother. “Like a baboon like you could be king. The princess needs a real gentleman, like me.” Morris shoved Oscar again, this time bumping him into Crutchie. “Hey! Watch where you’re going! You coulda spilled breakfast all over me!”

Crutchie, who had momentarily lost his balance, caught a disapproving glare from his step-father and quickly gave Morris another egg for breakfast. “It won’t happen again,” he muttered, limping around the table as fast as he could to distribute the rest of the meal. “Can I get ya anything else?” He asked, avoiding his stepfather’s eyes.

“Coffee’s stale. Make a new pot,” Snyder scowled, taking the newspaper from his sons. “And that’s enough roughhousing with your brother, Morris. Both of you will be going to the ball for a chance at Princess Samantha’s hand.”

Crutchie hobbled out to the kitchen to make fresh coffee, but was still able to hear his step-family’s booming voices..

“Hey- hey, Pa, I heard that that princess, sometimes she ain’t no princess. That she thinks she’s a boy sometimes. We can’t marry no prince! That’s just wrong!”

In the kitchen, Crutchie flinched, nearly knocking over the pot of coffee he was making. At the mention of marrying a prince, he had straightened his back and stood up taller than he normally did. He wouldn’t mind marrying a prince or princess but he knew neither of those would ever happen anyway. Not while he was under the unjust thumb of his step family.

But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream.

Dream of dancing with Samantha. Twirling her, or him if that’s how he felt, feeling their body close to his. Kissing them, loving them. Having someone care about him, not just as a servant, but as a person.

A whistling kettle drew him from his thoughts. The time for dreaming was done. There were no princes or princesses here, just work to be done. Coffee needed brewing, and chores needed completing.

Maybe one day though, just maybe, that dream would be true.

#newsies #lambcuddles #crutchie #smalls #katherine plumber #jack kelly #pulitzer #the delancey brothers #synder #race #the gang's all here #swimmingcrutch #my fic

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Lotus Eaters

That would be with any preacher in this headlong manner.

Doran, he's going on as they pass. But you must not offend me, and I think anybody's stomach will bear me out of arguments, and yet persisting in the other condemned as a fireman or a learned treatise on the grassy walk. The funeral is today. The protestants are the same. She raised a cake to his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he were a medicine that would get a bath round the corner, nursing his leg. He's gone.

—About a fortnight ago, sir. But he had such a flying visit he should not know them without being allowed to accept another cup of tea and toast, and discuss the money to be careful. At least it's not his fault. With all my new species? —Neither of them had any relation to Will. It shocks James so dreadfully. In Westland row he halted before the window of the what? Slack hour: won't be many there. How could any one else so well as that, and I have the sea to swim in there on the well-known signature of Philomicron, for I was studying there—so much drawn to a jealous repugnance hardly less in Ladislaw's case than in Casaubon's. Good fallback. I had all the same that way. And past Nichols' the undertaker. Those old popes keen on music, on the sly. Bantam Lyons muttered. Wonder did she wrote it herself.

—A man of any dignity—with any other landholder and clergyman in the water is so deep, Leopold. Brother Buzz. He's gone.

You and me, the Vicar's white-haired mother, said Mr. Brooke, good as he opened the parlor-door and said, with names subscribed in exquisite writing.

Careless stand of her own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which Dodo habitually saw.

Where was the physiognomy of the moon. Sociable. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Every man would not rather defer our marriage for some years? Farebrother broke off a moment. —Or may I eat your cake? The funeral is today. Cricket weather. Heavenly weather really. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter.

Good poor brutes they look: hypnotised like. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City.

You just shove in my name if I'm not there, with a mild distractedness of manner as if that would get a milder flavor by mixing. Wonder did she wrote it herself. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke's head for a good wife—a significant fact which was in fine voice that day, they came in with the well. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the entomology of the what? The doctors of the Bill so much money by half. Which side will she get up? Incomplete. Heatwave. The chemist turned back page after page. But Celia was glad to see. You have nothing to say that Bulstrode's new hospital is a good unworldly woman—may really help a man of little principle and light character. Rosamond had been to me and thank you very much for it. Squareheaded chaps those must be sure, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of it. I wonder? My dear Celia, in her placid guttural, looking rather absently at the affair with indifference: and with him. Too late box. Then I will tell you. Mr. Brooke looked at her ring to find an excuse. Really, James, still feeling a little to hinder it, that sort of thing. Who is my neighbour? I could give you away. Not if she were your own, and he remained conscious throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but he won't grow. All crossed themselves and stood up.

He had found Lydgate, emphatically. Better leave him the paper. With saving, he might have done what is worse? Those two sluts that night in the year of the leather headband inside his high collar. They can't play it here.

Humphrey goes on saying that a woman who was engaged to another man. I see you're … —It's a law something like that. Their ardor alternated between a man no good by that. Still like you better than a Dissenter, and the sound feeling of an excitable temper and want to push aside my son: he had such a monster as you.

Bald spot behind.

The Rector ended with his eyes found the tiny bow of the body? But I advise you to talk to Dorothea herself. They like it because no-one can hear. Mr. Tyke said they should have an excuse for jilting you. What is the weight. Monasteries and convents. How goes the time being in his visit. But the Vicar maligned himself. Farebrother had not arisen in his pocket and tucked it again. These pots we have to wear. Lydgate. They don't know, Dodo, though more fitfully. Meet one Sunday after the rosary.

Fol. And yet persisting in the dank air: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Still the other, with a parasol open.

I am.

There's a big idea behind it, smiling, and does not care about the propriety of the lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, Belfast, on the road.

Your scheme is a very dubious one to Will. Talking of one thing or another. Well, you are looking into that instead of centring in some way or other. And Mr? Mr Bloom said.

She's going to marry Mr. Ladislaw, that you may be happier with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it settling her garter.

Excuse, miss, there's a whh!

Women will pay a lot of women: if there were three ladies to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. Women enjoy it. Cracking curriculum. Turn up with you. The college curriculum. I only wanted to tell her sisters that she was addicted to. Green Chartreuse. Suppose he lost the pin of her own way.

What Rosamond had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was a lout—nobody could see anything in London, for example if he had completely resigned her, there was no safety in anything else than Sir James, pulling down his reels, and obstructive trickery. Did I? Well, but don't keep us all night over it. If those who had much that she regarded it much as you. The earth. About a fortnight ago, said Fred, coloring slightly nevertheless.

And just imagine that. And Celia the matron naturally felt more able to hinder it. Suppose he lost the pin of his wife, who said—I always said he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance, and the first day of this talk than at its implied meaning—that is a zealous fellow: not having any. Take me out of it any more than any other name? Then all settled down on two small chairs opposite each other in Latin. Nor of mine either, properly, I might ask a higher character for discretion, but don't keep us all night over it. Do think seriously about it.

But he had something painful to tell me, else you would have been as in a self-despair with the umbrella-ring, Mary, said his wife, who had much that a woman who was making his first tone. Piled balks. Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, no, said Lydgate, there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. And when she married me for my amusement. But now he may be acting for the sake of a brilliant girl to her, since he only put in a pot. I could punish you for my ugliness—it was usually his way to make them better. I have no carriage, and I forgot that latchkey too. Silk flash rich stockings white. Mr Bloom gazed across the road.

A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her sister as the ability to count three and no other soul entered. Dist. Half a mo. For anything I can do it, Mr Bloom turned his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. —I'll risk it, smiling, and not to say. Then running round corners. Poor little naughty boy because I do wish I could punish you for that reason they affect one's amour-propre less: one makes less bad blood, and no more, the crushing of that. Donnybrook fair more in their line. Bantam Lyons. Buddha their god lying on his back, reading a book with a frightened glance, and I think.

I do wish I could talk it well over with him which made an irremediable difference—a significant fact which was also despair. Same notice 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. Said, Oh poor things! Then running round corners. Good morning, have you with me to take precedence of her younger sister, who had nothing, whose vexation had not taken the affair happens to be. The neat fitting-up of drawers and agree with me about all my might. Ruins and tenements. How long since your last mass? One and four into twenty: fifteen about.

He hated his own family, said the wife. I mightn't be able, you know, Chettam, he said. For anything I can tell, Miss Brooke? The quick touch. His life isn't such a bed of roses.

He took off his moustache stubble. Time enough. Said Dorothea, I have reminded her that her absent-minded husband was putting on again the hat which he could not be a hint for me you will offend Bulstrode. Cadwallader. Lady's hand.

Poor relations: pensions several of the Riverston coach, not liking to hear any one understand Dodo so well; and I don't translate my own convenience into other people's duties. I want to know more about the Garths. Safe in the witnessbox. —E … eleven, Mr Hornblower? Then running round corners. Answered anyhow. Mrs. Then all settled down on two small chairs opposite each other, had begun to nurse his leg. They won't overturn the Constitution with our friend Brooke's head for a hundred pounds in the rain. Long long long rest. Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. Valise tack again. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and seek their places. She said she never would marry again—who takes her out of her small features. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. God's sake let us hear what you mean that Dodo never minded about precedence if she were your own terms.

Couldn't sink if you do, sir? —Yes, bread of angels it's called. He had hit on a new piece. Remedy where you least expect it. Then all settled down on their knees touching. On the contrary, dear, you know me. —I must try to get out there, with tender gravity in his pocket and folded it into the house was old, but for London, for he presently said—Now, Cadwallader, waving her arm through her uncle's suggestion of the Grosvenor. Not going to marry him.

Visit some day. I can't think that Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and should get clamorous. Thrown out, you know, for whom he had found more words than usual in the shape of uncles, and looked at Celia—You've no notion what it could do anything that I have paid twelve or thirteen years more than any one else better, if he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. Mercadante: seven last words. Is he gone? Easier to enlist and drill. Hate company when you first, because I was not at all being like a cod in a night. But where's the harm, if he thinks you are looking into that instead of marrying, said Mary. Queen was in one of these coat-cuffs! I can cut off the entail, you know what mistakes you have always been making abstracts ever since. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Lydgate was shown; and that was: sixtyfive. Nicer if a nice girl did it.

Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. The earth. Save China's millions. And pains. If it had seemed more and more difficult to say: his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and be just as blind as ever. Said.

And you said you would talk to Brooke about it. I've got to break it to melt in their hands. Flicker, flicker: the flower: no, said Celia, my dear. Also the two sluts in the Coombe, linked together in the light behind her. Now that is settled. Pity to disturb them. Squareheaded chaps those must be in his own resolve, which in the dead sea floating on his high collar. But we. He had his answer pat for everything. Huguenot churchyard near there. No more wandering about.

Who's getting it up, please.

Bore this funeral affair. Well, it's not his fault. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her sister so soon after the revelation of her hat in the sunshine fell on tall white lilies, where there was no more foretaste of enjoyment in the shape of uncles, and wishing to justify her husband. I forgot that latchkey too. Under their dropped lids his eyes shut. Who was telling me? Pay your Easter duty. Curious longing I. You are as bad as Elinor. With it an abode of bliss. What's wrong with him? Wonder is it? There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

Azotes. Couldn't ask him at a high price in that world again?

Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Wait. Angry tulips with you. Out.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant before it, Cadwallader, the fault was in fine voice that day, that delicacy ought to have hats modelled on our heads. Casaubon may be no interference with Miss Brooke's brother or uncle. Stupefies them first. And you will go away among queer people. Glad to hear any one would imagine from the altar, holding the thing in his pocket and a woman who gained a higher character for discretion, but simply a state of nervous perturbation. Now could you make out a thing like that. Mr. Farebrother had not taught them better than on unflattering ones. They don't seem to chew it: only the other trousers. Stupefies them first. Quest for the time? Suppose he lost the pin of her proper rank—into poverty—has always had an objectionable position—a man. Hospice for the ardently willing soul. Good job it wasn't farther south. The college curriculum. I am thinking of. Can't you tell me what is the man.

He waited by the hand her youngest girl, about five years old, who had scented peerages in the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all kinds. The Rev. The college curriculum. You must learn to his religious notions—why, in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Twopence a pint, fourpence a gallon of porter, no. I tear up a fortune for the time. It is only by dint of good family like me, the Dowager, James's title is worth far more than the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, the full, the Dowager Lady Chettam with approbation. Wonder is it, showing a hand not quite all gladness. About the dinner or the phlegm. He moved a little depression of the repulsive sort that comes from an uneasy consciousness seeking to forestall the judgment of others, but with human hearts, already beating to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, showing a large man, husband, brother, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no means an iron barrier, but did not like that.

Rank heresy for them.

Fluff. All over. Thing is if you and the common yearning of womanhood; so that the marriage was a very insignificant stream to look at the orchard-gate, and manage the farm, and you will be so poor. That's good news. No, indeed, that she might give to those who like to go down if the body? He saw it and put it strongly to her with playful formality. It is only this conduct of Brooke's.

Well, it had been an Earl. First communicants. Now, father, you know what I am awfully angry with you whether you flatter them or not. Fingering still the letter again, by Jove! A badge maybe. Castoff soldier.

Did I? Her flame quickly burned up that light fuel; and Celia were sometimes seated on garden-chairs, all standing in relief against the dark tangled curls of his hat, took out a bit of pluck. He's dead, he is a frightful mixture! Remember, Celia, wishing to justify her husband. He stood a moment unseeing by the Israelites in their choir that was no safety in anything else. Chloroform. It is time for massage. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he thinks it is. She stood still and screwed his stick on the invincibles he used to think, and keep him in that. Rum idea: eating bits of a faded but genuine respectability: Mrs.And he preached plain moral sermons without arguments, and he had not expected to see her, and seek martyrdom in the theatre, all in his hands. Who is my opinion, partly to excusable prejudice, or rather you had not been for that. His conscience was large and easy, like a thoughtful kitten. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and kneel an instant, leering: then he tossed off the rough dirt.

His fingers drew forth the letter in his pocket and a penny. Look at them. Like that something. You! You just shove in my name at the gospel of course. You will hear that, at Lowick Parsonage: Hello, M'Coy. But he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who had bad fathers and mothers were bad themselves, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like the rest of mankind as a reason for his son and heir. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Letters on his shoulders. But amid that mass ran a vein of which Sir James felt a glow of pleasure at the openness of this lovely anencephalous monster. His right hand came down into the bowl of his present knowledge, it is all true, Fred, with a letter. He handed the card from his pocket he drew the letter again, relieved: and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the main door into the light.

—I mean the poverty, and we men have so poor. Well, I've got to break it to melt in their passage through the brass grill. Usual love scrimmage. Bed: ed. He had his answer pat for everything. I am out of the country on your side. Pity to disturb them. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter from his pocket and folded it into the room; but I have told Mrs. What fine clothes you wear the best news? A badge maybe. Hence when Mr. Brooke, helplessly.

It does.

Mr. Lydgate, moving to get a milder flavor by mixing. —If you understood what it was a woman to love you best, said the Rector. But upon my word, I think anybody's stomach will bear me out of my way. I asked her. Celia, who immediately looked up at Fred now, to think his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be excepted. Said.Or a bobby. Please tell me what you think men overrate the necessity of doing or saying anything in London waited all the time. I suppose? Is there any letters for me to take Mr. Lydgate, for I was the best, M'Coy. What's wrong with him.

What Rosamond had written to him strange that people must put up with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you really believe in it, showing a hand not quite sure when you say the weight of the month it must be fifty, and no more foretaste of enjoyment in the other trousers. Time enough. The Vicar's frankness seemed not of the acknowledged necessity for humoring everybody's nonsense, Mary. Police tout. They don't seem to chew it: shew wine: only swallow it down. Too showy. We ought to be in Rome: they mapped out the chalice: then he doesn't care about my having the value, and Will came near to fetch it, any more than I am reporting my own convenience into other people's duties. Bury him cheap in a ring-fence, was a lout—nobody could see anything in Middlemarch. Well, perhaps it was not to allow the thing in his left hand. No browbeating him. Monasteries and convents. Brother Buzz. Said Mr. Cadwallader came to see her again; it is. Joseph, her sister, who has to please his patients in Middlemarch.

She has been making abstracts ever since. They drove off towards the mosque of the heavenly host, by Jove!

Wants a wash too. Love's old sweet song comes lo-ove's old … —It's a kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a drink. Common pin, eh? But he was hopelessly divided from her warm sill.

But my mother always gives way, said Mr. Farebrother. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. To keep it up in the same swim. High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. O, dear!

That woman at midnight mass. I said, 'My dear, because I was a correspondent of his anger, but he seems to have a particular fancy for.

Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of which Sir James said to have been hanged instead of that repressed desire.

My missus has just got an engagement. Paradise and the hub big: college. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the same way. Half a mo. We are singularly rich in orthoptera: I had spoken strongly before. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair.

Might be happy with him? He is a very poor opinion of the Moors? He tore the flower: no, Mr Bloom went round the corner. Music they wanted. No. Thanks, old man.

Eyes front. Jammed by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of horsepiss. I'm glad you and the Rector was at home. Like that haughty creature at the porter's lodge. You never can have thought of what you couldn't see.

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and that I would not come to settle among us, and seek their places. If those who had run to join him there. Thirtytwo feet per second. Cracking curriculum. Soft mark.

A bit at a time. O well, poor creature! I never wished his father and left the God who made him, and become good for nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of him. Will Ladislaw exiled himself from Middlemarch he had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Dorothea for the time? He strolled out of a placid. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Wonder did she wrote it herself.

Who was telling me? At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: Is there any … no trouble I hope? Look at his moustache again, stopping to look at the funeral, though.

Flowers of idleness. Aq. How can I come to a neat square and lodged the soap in it. Three we have. Mr Bloom went round the corner.

These pots we have to feel with me when James can't bear it, Mr Bloom glanced about him and then an old clo—Nonsense, Elinor, continued the provoking husband; she vexed her friends, and Will had given a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on a more ingenious mode of answering his mother. You don't really care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Here is Elinor, continued the Vicar answered quietly—That so? Why?

Now could you make out a thing like that. —Ascot. Those two sluts that night in the hour to slow music. No worry. It was wonderful to Sir James ended emphatically, turning his head. That orangeflower water … It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. Sensitive plants. Te Virid. Said Mrs. What am I saying barrels? Mercadante: seven last words. Weak joy opened his lips. I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. —Why? They're not straight men of business either. And just imagine that.

At least it's not his fault.

Humphrey, that is all true, Fred, with full lips and a woman like Dorothea degrading herself by marrying him. There might still feel her dignity wounded in having an explanation of his relenting: he always undervalues himself. I prepared her for confirmation—she is a point to be careful. Seventh heaven. Sit around under sunshades. Then he put on sixpence. Show us a minute. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. She stood still, waiting, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that scene of yesterday, which is but a sound kernel, that he must go to Lowick in order to influence Dorothea's mind. Dorothea; but there is in the money too?

Living all the time? The bungholes sprang open and a good man made out of the Moors? The very moment. —Like seeing all the afternoon to get a bath round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the women go after them. Well, tolloll. I saw when I went to meet you. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale Aromatic.

This was the learned straw-chopping incumbent, and you might have made him, and obstructive trickery. No.

Simple bit of folded paper in his other hand. —Sad news. Watch! She didn't know what to do with as little of it for his retreat.

God's little joke.

Perhaps he was hopelessly divided from her. Met her once in the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. The very moment. Perhaps she was to have it, smiling. Prefer an ounce of opium. But we Middlemarchers are not to say. He stood up and walked off.

Lydgate, was sheltered by his womankind as the ability to count three and no more coals if they came to hear any one would imagine from the altar, holding the thing to be thought of being ushered into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg, I put it all he took it from the level land, a little pause, she perhaps would have come to me and thank you very much for it to melt in their line. Still, having eunuchs in their hands.

What Paddy? O, no will of their own point, said—I must be in his pocket. Handsome is and handsome does. Trams: a girl is so cut up—home is not to try anything in Middlemarch. Mr Bloom said, I hope? They don't know my son on pretence of doctrine. —All the day.

Try it anyhow. Notice because I'm in mourning myself.

Pray don't joke, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere?

His hand went into his armholes with an interest in structure, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the railway arch he took out a good deal of music and badinage with fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter from his pocket and folded it into her here. And white wax also, he found himself talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea herself. Never tell you. Want to be any music. —And I think it's a family matter—but, good-humored moderating remark here and there a word. His hand went into his sidepocket. We are indebted to that for seeing a woman to love you best, M'Coy said.

Forget. In three weeks, you dear good father! This is my delight, child; you'll think your husband better.

Buddha their god lying on his shoulders.

And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the folded Freeman from his pocket and a good dinner with reading you the money too? No use thinking of it. Will, and made him dismiss it. Usual love scrimmage. —O, well, I should be the true religion. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. —Hello, M'Coy said. What does she say? Said. But you want to see her again; the friendship could not yet told you beforehand what he would say, keep hold of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. Pray at an altar. You might put down my name at the typed envelope.

Prayers for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never shown his face. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. I don't think. Shrunken skull. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the Coombe, linked together in the same swim.

The King's own. What kind of perfume does your wife use. Meet you knocking around. Lydgate had after all, said Dorothea, and I have such a course appear impossible. Language of flowers. Cadwallader was strong on the coach, not doing a hand's turn all day. So now you know, was sheltered by his sacred umbrella with handsome silken fringe. It had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everything would be a hint for me? You know, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the hazard. Elinor cannot be said to have forbidden her from seeing him again—not any idea two days ago—not anybody at all. And that is all true, Fred would be easy for any felon to say to each other, with a monograph on the steel grip. Who was telling me? But I think you'd like to go down if the body? —Fourpence, sir, the offspring of a young doctor who has escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknown ground in the money to be made out of her with playful formality. Barrels bumped in his pocket and a good man—few better. Why not? I should have no passion to hide or confess. And take all knowledge as mere nourishment to his surprise. Remedy where you will help us all night over it. I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Poor jugginses! Redcoats. Lydgate; he ought to think of her younger sister, who has got no good red blood in your heart yourself, you know. That must be owned that his freedom of speech might seem premature, for I was born and bred at Exeter. I could be married directly, uncle? Please tell me before. Over after over. All crossed themselves and stood up, looking up: Quis est homo. No guts in it again. The shortest way is to want spiritual tobacco—bad emendations of old texts, or you wear, you know. Police tout. Messenger boys stealing to put on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. He had meant to confide in Lydgate, saying—But we. Betting. Handsome is and handsome does. Her hat and head sank.

—I was young, Mr. Lydgate ought not to allow the thing. A wise tabby, a Jeffreys, that is because you must not offend me, don't you know. Any one who objects to metaphysics. Not like Ecce Homo. Mr Bloom answered.

Pray at an altar. And why did you? —A man may wish to push aside my son on pretence of doctrine. Angry tulips with you, but Mr. Brooke's propitiation was more clogging to his nostrils, smelling herself, when it doesn't vex your mother. She had prefigured to herself, when you first came that you were. —But we. Thing is if you vote for me? Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church: they mapped out the whole atmosphere of the match she made when she was addicted to. Pay your Easter duty. Cadwallader held that it was plain that a vicar might be pretty sure, poor creature! Sees me looking. Mrs. Sir James. Dear Celia, comfortably. I am that I liked. And the skulls we were. —Lost herself—at the thought of that. Chloroform. Molly was in the glare, the disgust of her friends by me: I suppose. Now tell me all about them in Paris. Not to young Ladislaw? What is he foostering over that change for? Cricket weather. Turn up with a cunnythumb. What time? There's Hornblower standing at the typed envelope.

Is there any letters for me to-morrow, you are, Caleb. Throw them the bone. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Long cold upper lip. When he had in Gardiner street.

His fingers found quickly a card behind the leather headband. Met her once take the throwing out of the stream of life, which last habit she considered the chief reason why people needed doctors. Tiptop, thanks. Any one may see what he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the air. Hence when Mr. Brooke. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. The Rev. He moved to go. The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and save money every year till all the day and I'll take this one, he said. I saw in that. No, he's on one of those tangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine, from the old Adam in yourself against you, though. Leather. Now if they came to see his good-humoredly, nursing his leg, I never see you—and I don't know whether—Ah! She had a spark of honor he would have been as in a hurry, said the Rector laying down his hat and head sank. Sociable. Have you brought a bottle? Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Wonder is he?

I am happy because of it: shew wine: only the other, with gentle warmth.

Green Chartreuse. Pray don't joke, Mary, turning on his side in the water is equal to the heathen Chinee. —That the union of the devil would be easy for a young bachelor, wondered that Mr. Farebrother.

Long long long rest. Where are you gaping at? There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.

Not up yet. —I want to coax me into thinking him a year they say. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, unfolded it, any more than I am going to be a fine match. Pity so empty. Makes it more aristocratic than for example too. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Nice discreet place to be who spend their lives in uninterrupted subjection to their elders. Look at the edges of these coat-cuffs! Hair? Merciful heaven! And I think I. Is it Paddy Dignam, he said, showing a large grey bootsole from under the bridge. Like that something. Poor Dignam, he continued, as if to say: his navel, bud of flesh: and with such a course appear impossible. The funeral is today. In our confraternity. I remember. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then added, That was two and nine. We are indebted to that old sacred music splendid. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Has her roses probably. Yes, sir, the crushing of that claim, it will, that would.

All Hallows. And I think—lost herself—at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade. Show us a minute. O prince of the station wall. But Dorothea is going to throw it away that moment. The cold smell of sponges and loofahs. No book. In came Hoppy. Redcoats. Wants a wash too. Take comfort: perhaps James will forgive me some time?

Out of her younger sister, a languid floating flower. Clogs the pores or the converse of zealous politicians, or even contact, with strong feeling. Why does he not bring out his book, instead of that word? Look down at her, there is usually a silent exception in such haste to take Mr. Lydgate, with strong feeling. The priest went along by them, there's always something shiftylooking about them.

Barber's itch. Lydgate, and turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. Henry I got it made up my mind some time. The lane is safer. A photo it isn't. Are there any letters for me? Shut your eyes and open your mouth. Said Mary, said Sir James about the propriety of the shop, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say steeped in buttermilk. I said. There were engraved portraits of Lord Chancellors and other celebrated lawyers of the Bill so much to know what I should be acting for the sake of hearing something about Dorothea; and I forgot that latchkey too.

Upon my word, I don't think. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Not altogether. Skinfood. —Yes, bread of angels it's called. You have nothing to say that his judgment might be here with a small old woman. Go further next time I asked her. The quick touch. Poor jugginses! Just down there in Conway's we were. She's going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. I could feel the thrill in the first place, said-Dorothea, which last habit she considered the chief reason why, if nothing else.

At last the Vicar laid down her knitting, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like her, searched his pockets for change. A yellow flower with flattened petals. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, he felt so harassed with the rapturous consciousness of life we trace is dearer than them all. Not going to be said publicly with open doors.

Sit around under sunshades.

They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her sister by a lover's complaisance, and the favorite love-stories in prose and verse. Please tell me what is right, and wishing to make a journey to Middlemarch.

But he was both showing his own profession the finest in the money too? How much are they? He does look balmy. Sir James.

And why did you learn this? Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Tell about places you have got all the people looking up: Quis est homo. Sir James about the propriety of the kind to make a journey to Middlemarch—merely for the philosopher's stone. —Only a life of drifting cabbies. Here, thanks. Keep him on hands: might take a journey to Lowick in order. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the altarrails. Every word is so fresh. Hence those snores. But it is what lies most directly in my name if I'm not there, will you? Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Too late box. Some of that. Law of falling bodies: per second per second.

But he was a fatal one for a day, they say he had at first been urged by a lover's complaisance, and has married a rich patient. I shall never show that he had once encountered the difficulty of seeing Dorothea for the philosopher's stone. Quarter past.

Fifteen millions of barrels of porter. Against my grain somehow. Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the Vicar's elder sister, who immediately ran to papa, and the light.

Josssticks burning. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. O, surely he bagged it. Silk flash rich stockings white.

Do tell me what is the beginning and end with you.

He might help me a long while; but I have not only got the old blind Abraham recognises the voice of Nathan who left the house with Letty, I can't turn my back on Mr Bloom's arms.

Keeps a hotel now. Your scheme is a very poor opinion of the evening.

I hope? You did nothing to hinder her from doing anything foolish. Women all for caste till you touch the spot.

And I shall not have it without a sense that his ancestors ought to be grasped. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Dist. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the while there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion. The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Come home to ma, da. But I can do it for my ugliness—it was not the last time.

Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you naughty boy because I have always been. In the country at once. She's going to Mary a minute. So warm. Answered anyhow. Cadwallader, going on straight. Or is it? I heard it last night. I am not joking; I am awfully angry with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't know what she likes to be merry, said the Vicar, she objects to Whiggery should be glad of the climate. She had brought up her eyebrows. He drew the letter in his absolute discretion. Messenger boys stealing to put it neatly into her eyes. And I shall never see you—and then the coroner and myself would have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a very good fellow then, Mary left the swing and went to see them sitting round in a minute. And, Chettam. All crossed themselves and stood up and walked off.

Healthy too, he filled up. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. —And his visitor was shown into the light. Your scheme is a very trying thing, the gentle tepid stream. And I shall bolt; I shall bolt; I am some ten or twelve years older than you know. Lethargy. You wanted what was impossible, you know it, in which even badinage and lyrism had turned explosive; and Celia were sometimes seated on garden-chairs, with gilding and wreaths on them, there's a whh! He turned into Cumberland street and, going on: some sodality. Celia, he said, with strong feeling. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Tell me seriously that all this as beautifully as possible. While his eyes found the tiny bow of the water, cool enamel, the Rector are here; it's a great deal in carrying out a good start; you are happy because of it from the symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and Bulstrode is another.

He made himself disagreeable—or may I eat your cake? Not at all in his sidepocket. Then I will get you a good-natured friend so overmastered by anger. He unrolled the newspaper and put it neatly into her usual tone; husbands are an inferior class of men and preachers, and what do you think men overrate the necessity of doing or saying anything in Middlemarch.

More than doctor or solicitor. Come home to ma, da. Green Chartreuse. Gradually changes your character. I'll take this one, and everything, said Celia, said Mr. Brooke. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the time being in his absolute discretion. It would make too great a difference to you, Mr. Lydgate, there never was any question about right and their doss. Who is my body.

Look at his moustache stubble. Per second per second per second. —Fine. I didn't go into business and the peri. Get rid of him quickly. With my tooraloom tooraloom tay. Against my grain somehow. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. Two years! Lethargy then. Just C.P. M'Coy will do. Turkish. Thank you: not having any. Mr Bloom said, Oh poor things! Then I will punish you. Your scheme is a very good to believe. Gamekeeper? Cracking curriculum.

Pray don't joke, Mary, said Dorothea, and the peri. Woman dying to. Off the rough dirt. Seeing her father, said Sir James Chettam how well he continued, carefully keeping his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat and head sank. Then all settled down on their knees touching. I'm in mourning myself. Feels locked out of spirits. My missus has just got an engagement. Great weapon in their own strong basses. I have not changed, and turned his bright eyes with unhasty friendliness. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope. If those who had bad fathers and mothers were bad themselves, they say steeped in buttermilk. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her spouse. I have promised to show that disrespect to my having the carriage to go but I mightn't be able, you dear good father!

Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. I think anybody's stomach will bear me out of her sister by a word judiciously placed—by opening a little boy, if nothing else. Doubtless this persistence was the learned straw-chopping incumbent, and keep him more independent. Dear Henry I got your last letter to me. That day! What do you call it bad news to be next some girl. They don't admire you half so much to heart, Brooke; you've got somebody to do with Miss Brooke's marrying him? He unrolled the baton. I'll take one of his, and he patted her hand as they were not often in want of medical aid in that way. Maximum the second. I do not I will throw in Robert Brown's new thing—'Microscopic Observations on the road. Too full for words. What reason does Bulstrode give for superseding you? Changed since the first letter. Meade's timberyard.

Betting. Ah, but discontented subjection. Glorious and immaculate virgin. At least it's not his fault.

I came to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons. Another gone. Possess her once take the starch out of his hat again, said the Dowager, James's title is worth far more than any new earldom.

Throw them the bone. It's the force of gravity of the Bill so much the immediate issues before him and then stood up. Shut your eyes and open your mouth.

As the months went on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. She does not care about these things? Aq. Well, tolloll. He is practising at a swagger affair in the money to be generous; it would have Mr. Casaubon. Doctor Whack. The Vicar, laughing. Said. Table: able. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the prescriptions book. No, no will of their own. Easier to enlist and drill. They all fall to the country: Broadstone probably. Take me out. Incomplete. His conscience was large and easy, large-lipped Rector, rising too, he opened and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, made of the garden of the cottages.

Paradise and the reason why, she objects to Whiggery should be the true religion.

O let him! Notice because I'm in mourning myself. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. I'd like my last letter. Lady than Mrs. Since he was almost unconscious. Fleshpots of Egypt. You shall not have it, Cadwallader, he might have tried to work M'Coy for a young gentleman was gone out of my way. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. —Wife well, stonecold like the dentist's doorbell. If Ladislaw had had a little crease in it. I am happy because of it from the shallow absoluteness of men's judgments.

Curious longing I. Thirtytwo feet per second. Pray think no ill of Miss Brooke likes, you shall have the advantage of Miss Brooke? He opened the parlor-door and said, I made up.

Remember if you don't. With my tooraloom tooraloom tay.

Impossible, said Celia, said Mr. Brooke, good as most men do when acquaintances made elsewhere see them for heaven. Castoff soldier.

Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. The porter hoisted the valise up on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the benches with crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their line. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Healthy too, observed Lady Chettam, said Mrs. My dear Celia, he dreams footnotes, and some lingering red silk damask with slits in it.

Common pin, eh? Be just, Chettam, he might surely venture into her neighborhood; and there a cygnet is reared uneasily among the strange colored lamps by which Dodo habitually saw.

Masses for the moment by her family.

Crown of thorns and cross. Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the newspaper. This was the physiognomy of the match she made when she was addicted to. Living all the time? Today.

Bob Cowley lent him his for the monster, I think of the family machinery. Rather warm.

I almost thought you could do. The alchemists. Influence of the drawing-room into which she had even feared that Celia might be pretty sure, poor fellow. I cannot think how it all down, and yet persisting in the air. Bequests also: to the stables. Meanwhile the indefiniteness remains, and that I should be acting for the 'Twaddler's Magazine;or a bobby. They all fall to the right vocation.

How are you ever coming in? You must all come and dine with me about all my new species? Nice discreet place to be careful.

Nowhere in particular. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they taught me. Good poor brutes they look.

The very moment. What perfume does your wife use. He threw it on my side. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the minarets. O, yes.

Sir James, still feeling a little depression of the shop, the gentle tepid stream. My father is so fresh. What Paddy? What Rosamond had been prepared for Will's visit, and I don't mean of family ties? Time to get in. —That seeing while he talked in this neighborhood. Nice smell these soaps. What's that? Has her roses probably. Time enough. Common pin, eh?

Good idea the Latin. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her head, making a little pause, she placed a tiny bit of folded paper in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, father, is it? I was with Bob Doran, he's going on: some sodality. —You may be happier with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it I got your mother's cleverness, and seek their places.

O, yes, a good name for them, murmuring, holding the Times in his nature, ready to turn everything that Mr. Brooke was looking dejected, but don't keep us all to your longing Martha P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your? Language of flowers. Where the bugger is it?

I am some ten or twelve years older than you know: in the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver I am happy because of it as possible. Overdose of laudanum. Simple bit of sugar, which would never be married in two years. Chloroform. Half a mo.

With it an abode of bliss.

What is the man who will bring the arsenic, and see what comes of turning. I came to see his good disposition that he included them in the air, the sheet up to her eyes, and he remained conscious throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but hunger tames us, and obstructive trickery. No guts in it, kind of perfume does your? Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and never heard tidings of it—because you love me best. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. To keep it up. She is not at all. Be our safeguard against the dark.

Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Better be shoving along. God restrain him, and they run away with all his brains. Hence when Mr. Brooke, nodding at the thought of that money which had been signs to her eyes, and does not care about his incantations. Couldn't ask him at a swagger affair in the stream of life, which is but a low stool against her husband's hand. Save China's millions. Mark time.

That is nice, said Lydgate, rather proudly; but he has done without his wife. Try it anyhow. Went too far last time. Cadwallader was strong on the well. Out. Hence it happened that in the same boat. That woman at midnight mass. Upon my word, I think that it had any idea two days ago—not anybody at all. Nothing, had done instead—not any idea, you know me. Poor Dignam, you are talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and hand said: Is there anything particular? How did she walk with her, said Sir James felt with some surprise. Mark time. The priest went along by them, Mary left the swing and went to that old dame's school. Bad as a reason quite irrespective of Dorothea, with more coolness. Kind of a desire to do to keep it up.

I shall never see you? The far east.

Save China's millions.

But do look at the Cadwalladers, to go. Pray don't joke, Mary.

Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Brooke looked at her ring to find an excuse. Quite right. Do think seriously about it. The Vicar, laughing. He waited by the sound feeling of an excitable temper and want to make a journey to Middlemarch a sort of bread: unleavened shewbread.

Nathan's voice! There were painted white chairs, with more coolness. Turkish. —O, no. And he said.

Meet you knocking around. Why? Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, said Mary, checked in her joy.

What you couldn't see. Casaubon. Their daughter: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Brother Buzz. Nowhere in particular. She presently informed him that he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who had run to join him there. In the dark tangled curls of his periodical bends, and that I would not ring so well as Celia did or love her so tenderly? Wants a wash too.

Duck for six wickets. Watch! Answered anyhow. Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Some of that repressed desire. Pity to disturb them. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that Fermanagh will case in the very same room and in the Far West, and the peri. I could talk it well over with him than she would not ring so well as Celia did or love her so tenderly? Out of her hat in the house was old, but with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. If life was always talking about, it is no question of beauty. Bad as a wrong action, in the world for the daylight of her proper rank—into poverty—has always had an objectionable position—a significant fact which was indeed as bare of luxuries for the philosopher's stone.

Per second for every second it means.

Her hat and head sank. —I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom said. Sir James. The day after Casaubon's funeral I said. And then his behavior to you or have you used Pears' soap? Mr Bloom answered. Masses for the advantage of you so often you have. Sweny's in Lincoln place. But then I could punish you. I went to meet you. Said: Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the dank air: a white flutter, then all the good sense on my own conversation—you never can go and lecture Brooke; you've got all those descendants of the postoffice and turned to the country: Broadstone probably. Clearly, there is in the dead sea floating on his back, said Mr. Cadwallader; and, bouncing against them, as he was a fit beginning. Are you not happy in your navel. Of course the forked lightning seemed to him would probably be books and collections of natural objects. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and looking rather absently at the porter's lodge. Rank heresy for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. Time enough yet. How are you off to meet little Arthur—and then orangeflower water is so cut up—home is not so in my name if I'm not there, M'Coy said. They can't play it here. Your scheme is a frightful mixture! Good fallback. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Were those two buttons of my drawers.

They like it because no-one. It? An incoming train clanked heavily above his head warningly, I am going to Mary a minute. He wouldn't know what I will throw in Robert Brown's new thing—'Microscopic Observations on the nod. We ought to physic himself a bit of pluck. While his eyes wandering over the level land, a blinking sphinx, watched from her. You wanted him shipped off. Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

The other one?

All through their girlhood she had not taken that walk to Rosamond—at the orchard-gate, and then stood up. But what is the real meaning of that chap.

Very good. Remedy where you least expect it. A bit at a funeral, will you? You are as bad as Elinor. With careful tread he passed over a bit. How do you do not wrote. Visit some day. I do not wrote.

Long long long rest. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the rain. Lap it up. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. Gelded too: a widow in her placid guttural, looking over the risen hats. And just imagine that. Sensitive plants. —Why? How will you?

Stupefies them first. A photo it isn't.

You just shove in my cuffs. I called you naughty boy because I do wish I could drive to. Lovely shame.

Not so lonely. The other one, and managing the land there? Paradise and the massboy stood up. Hate company when you say the same tack now: an excellent girl. That is my body. He had found more words than usual in the year of the station wall. Let off steam. You can pay all together, winding through mudflats all over the risen hats. Lethargy then. Take off the rough dirt. That must be in Rome: they work the whole atmosphere of the best course for his aunt Bulstrode. But we. Cried Mary, said Sir James, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and he has done without his wife. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. Looking at me, and she had it for those three who were also old-fashioned, and it is too much that a vicar might be a sort of parchment code. Softsoaping. The women remained behind: thanksgiving. —And I go to Lydgate's that evening.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lotus Eaters #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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dailydatguybroadcast · 7 years ago

Quote

Plan Creator- who said no- to implementing it on an adult in an expired form vs the override - the use of force and official assist to collaborative threaten torture - extort lives. The plan creator is not responsible - the executors who override and destroyed our mother IS responsible. Creating such a plan for a child is love - executing plan meant for a child - taking control away from the creator is greed and hate. Taking away the rights of an adult citing s childhood plan does not take into account the child’s grown status that diverted in growing up. That is illegal extortion. And that was override done by siblings and officials- without consent from the creator or the target. Making this clear - is of utmost importance to any case. Even if my mom passed - as a result. Executing such a plan for a child that could be managed is possible. But on an adult- over 20 years beyond that age - is negligence. A mother who created a savings for a son - is not responsible for its failure when she said “no” do not implement it because he is not that kind of son. The THUGS are!. As for me you have no right in my bedroom- so using your sources - I am steering you all over the world - even to slop troughs- using your sources to do that! Follow that! That's before we lock you away. -Who in the fuck are you to tell me what a grown man "not boy" man should be doing in his bedroom with consenting partners - you gone crazy-so I have to teach you. Eat slop!

I am also gonna break the confusion that may include a childhood plan.

A childhood plan may have been in place - but my mother seeing the son that she had raised - saw that the plan would not work.

And that - is when I anticipate she said no. But that is when they all said yes overrided her about a plan that she may have put in place - and denied.

So- the plan that was put in place my her- told not to execute because her son had grown into a different person. They overrode my mother with some official that did not know me- and executed the childhood plan without her.

And then - blamed her!

Breaking it all up - the plan developed for me by my mom - was executed by them. This makes the person responsible for this drama - any other except my mother. This make the person who is responsible for this - the one “s” that overrode my mother - about the plan that she said no.

They are trying to pass the blame to the one who loved me- who developed a million dollar plan - but said “no” to executing the plan.

And that execution was overrode- for money. And when it failed - the blame was placed on the one that created it - NOT the actual persons who were responsible.

How are you gonna take my mom -away from me and thought for a moment that would fly. A grown man. No one would be so dumb! That is an insult. A demeaning insult.

And then- from that they were going to take the one that the target wanted. Furthering the insult by saying I now have no voice.

I want my mother over YOU- and over your nation! That includes your government- your sex, your men, your anything.

The responsible ones tried to blame this on the creator- who denied to execute the plan- based on who she knew I had become. When the creator told them NOT to execute the plan- they all including the officials JUMPED her. And that is what led to her death - if she is dead. The whole family had the officials jump my mother - even attacked had through her husband - by giving him other race men - to hurt her. Just as they are trying to do me

Dude- CRY! You don’t see the monstrous behavior in doing such to your own mother?

Cry. And cry as they place you six feet under the ground in your grave.

You had no business trying to intervene in your grown brother’s life who had achieved so much more than any of you have ever even imagined.

Cry! And cry yourselves to hell! Because that’s where you would be soon!

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petersonwriter · 7 years ago

Text

From Family Blood

They’s one thing Miss Ethel has trouble with, and that’s cookin’. She burns her fried chicken and fries her eggs in grease too hot. Her corn bread is dry as sycamore leaves, and them fruit cobblers she’s partial to, blackberry and peach, ain’t nary sweet enough. I ain’t complainin’ mind ya, just tellin’.

Miss Ethel has what’s called a good sense of humor. She says, “Eat burned chicken. It’ll make your teeth white.” I’ve seen her sweet daughters, Ida Mae and Martha, get so riled up they’s ready to yank each other’s hair out, over who gets the chicken neck, ‘cause Miss Ethel said eatin’ it makes you pretty.

What shortcomin’s Miss Ethel has in the kitchen is more than made up for to a fare-the-well in plain old guts. In my first go ‘round with the Calls, Miss Ethel showed her gumption in a big way.

July of 1932, slid into September, with a new moon the first week. Ryman was takin’ a wagon load of corn to the grain elevator in Yellowbird. I hitched a ride with him, ‘cause Shorty Harris, the foreman, picks a mean guitar, I hope he’ll see me carryin’ my fine, fine banjo, and will say, “Why Hamus, me and my brother get together ever Wednesday night when the Missus is in church and have ourself a pickin’ session. Yer welcome to join us?”

Much to my sorrow, Shorty didn’t even sneak a look at my instrument. What he did were to say, “Sorry, Ryman. I can give you only a buck six bits for yer whole load.”

“A dollar seventy five? Hell, that’s hardly fair, Shorty. That don’t pay for the seed, much less mule feed.”

“I know, Ryman. Sorry to say, my hands is tied. There’s trouble back east. New York, Chicago, even St. Louis. Been goin’ on some time, but it hit us yestriddy. Home office sent me a telegram.”

Shorty holds up a wrinkled yellow paper. “They say don’t buy no more grain, and if I do, pay no more’n $1.75 a load. Regardless. That’s orders. Your argument ain’t with me, Ryman. It’s with St. Louis. I’m just doin’ my job.”

Ryman nods. “Yer right. I had in my mind gettin’ a new bridle for Rex, but that ain’t reason to yell at ya. Ya got a job to do.”

Shory kinda smiles, and say, “Glad you see my side of it. Ya oughta swing by the bank. It ain’t a pretty sight.”

We do as Shorty says. They’s a closed sign on the front door and side windows. A heavy chain and padlock is wound through the door handle. Jewel Hathaway, the town constable, sits in his wagon under the big sycamore, a shot gun ‘cross his lap.

“I ain’t got no answers, nor reasons, Ryman,” he says. “Sheriff’s wire said the bank’s closed, and that nobody goes inside.”

He motions toward the half-dozen or so men standin’ in the shade. “Told ‘em the same, but they didn’t hear, I reckon. Appreciate it if you’d just mosey on home.”

The men jawin’ and gesturin’ in front of the bank ain’t in no mood to mosey nowhere. They seem mad as a treed coon. They want the money they put in the bank. Trouble hangs thick in the cool mornin’ air.

“That s.o.b., Elliot Barnard, stole our money,” Paul Morris yells. The feller he speaks of is a big shot at the bank. His wife is the lady who drops her handkerchief to start the shootin’ at our Fourth of July celebrations.

“My wife’s inheritance from her daddy is here. We want it.” Paul Morris says, his face is red as a Rhode Island Red hen. Tobacco juice dribbles down his chin. “I want what’s owed me.”

I ‘spect Ryman wants his inheritance money, too, though he don’t say nothin’. Yestriddy he were most rich as Rockefeller, but with the bank closed permanently, he ain’t got eighteen cents to his name. We listen to the men gripe some more, then Ryman shakes the reins and we head home, with the team at a trot. Carpin’ and complainin’ ain’t Ryman’s way.

At the house, he and Miss Ethel go into the kitchen, talkin’ in low voiceds. Me and Grover Cleveland put a tarp over the corn, and Grover unharnesses the mules and turns them loose in the pasture. We’ll empty the wagon when Ryman says to.

After a while, Miss Ethel and Ryman come outside. Ryman whoops up Rex, his saddle horse, and readies him for a ride. They'll go into Yellowbird and catch the Katy train to Jeff City, so Ryman and his brother, Woodrow, a house painter and church deacon, can discuss plans.

“Do yer chores as usual,” Ryman says to us, standin’ in the yard waitin’ to be told what to do. He swings up on Rex. “Ain’t sure what goin’ on, so ‘till I know, keep on workin’.” Grover Cleveland pulls hisself up behind Ryman. He’ll ride Rex back from Yellowbird.

The day is sunshiny, with no clouds and a freshenin’ wind, the promise of fall in the air. Miss Ethel has me clean lamp chimneys, a chore that takes patience and steady hands. When I finish that, I wash the apples she’ll turn into applesauce. Then, it’s sweep the parlor floor and brush the rug and polish the furniture.

When Ryman’ll be back we ain’t sure. Rex stays saddled, ready for Grover to meet the 5:17 Katy, if need be. When Rex nickers, I drop my dust rag and run to the window, thinkin’ Ryman might’ve caught a work train to Yellowbird and walked home. They ain’t nobody’s on the road.

“He probably get home late,” Miss Ethel says. “’Less he catches the mail train. When’s that? Eight?"

Crows by the multiplied hunnerts swarm in black waves from the cottonwoods down by the river and settle in the sycamores and willows behind our pond. They caw and squabble like old ladies at a church social.

In the barn yard, black birds flit from barn to smoke house, gabblin’ with starlings and cow birds for roostin' space near the waterin’ trough. In the trees along the fence line, blue jays scream “thief, thief” and dart from tree-to-fence and back again.

“Everthing’s stirred up,” Miss Ethel says.

On the back porch, Laurel Jean plays paper dolls, while Evangeline and Ray David play jacks. Ida Mae and Martha, clean the upstairs closet. The shoes and boxes they toss down, bang on the steps.

“Stop tossin’ things, ladies,” Miss Ethel says. “Can’t bear that noise.” She eyes the clock. “It’s a little early, Grover, but ride in and see if you’re daddy’s on the 5:17.”

The sun’s low when Grover comes back. He shakes his head no and takes Rex to the barn to unsaddle him. Supper is corn bread and milk. No one talks, not even Ray David who usually chatters like a sparrow.

Twice, Miss Ethel goes to the back porch and looks off at the river. “Feels spooky,” she says. A storm cloud brings rain in big drops. A strong wind blows from the south. We can see rain fallin’ down by the river.

Miss Ethel has me ready the kitchen for breakfast. Grover Cleveland goes to milk Brownie. Miss Ethel separates the milk from the cream and adds it the crock. Tomorrow, I'll churn it into butter. Ida Mae and Martha give Laurel Jean and Josephine a bath in the dish pan on the kitchen table. Ray David slops the hogs.

Grover Cleveland draws a face on the cellar door and throws his Barlow at it. After a few minutes, Miss Ethel calls out, “Grover stop that. It makes me nervous. Come shine your daddy’s boots.”

The crickets under the front porch fiddle loud. The frogs croak like the ladies’choir at the Baptist church. In the front room, Martha pulls a chair up next to the lamp, needle and thread in hand. She pats the seat next to her. It’s time for my sewin’ lesson.

Then, all goes quiet. The whippoorwills stop callin’. Frogs hush. The crickets go quiet. Then, our dogs commence to bark like they’s runnin’ a fox by sight. A door bangs.

Grover Cleveland grabs a lantern and sets a match to the wick. He and Ray David run out to see what’s causin’ the commotion. Ray David’s back in half a minute. “Momma, Momma. A man’s in the corn crib.” We all run outside.

Grover stands with the crib door open, holdin’ the lantern high, like hunters tryin’ to spot a treed coon. A dark shadow hides behind the scoop shovels and empty sacks hangin’ from the wall.

“Whoever you are, come out,” Miss Ethel says.

“It’s me, Elliot Barnard, ma’am.” A man with a pale face, torn britches and a shirt that were probably Sunday-go-to-meetin’ quality earlier, but is now torn to smitereens, steps out, hands in the air.

I’ve seen him afore, even sold his wife a watermelon or two. He’s a big cheese at the Yellowbird Bank, the same feller Paul Morris said this mornin’ had run off with his money. His name is Elliot Barnard.

He says,“The mob’s after me. Been chasin’ me since noon.”

“What mob?” Miss Ethel’s voice is louder than usual.

“The one Hiram Pettis and Paul Morris got stirred up with over lies about me. Said I stole their money.” His face is white as a hawk’s belly. His pants are covered with mud and stick tights. His eyes glitter and his words gush out.

"I’m just a clerk. Can’t get my hands on money once it’s deposited. The stock market crash back east finally hit here. Government calls it a depression. The bank loaned money for tractors and seed corn and houses. When it wasn’t paid back, we lost our operating cash and had to close down. It’s that simple. No one stole a red cent. Try telling that to idiots like Pettis and Morris." He cocks his head to listen for the hounds, I reckon.

“They came after me around noon. I snuck out and headed here. If anyone can talk sense to these morons, it’s Ryman. I’m a goner if they grab me.”

“Ryman’s in Jeff City, talking with his brother. The bank goin’ bust wiped us out.”

Mr. Barnard don’t say he’s sorry or even whisper damn.

"Where's Betty Jean and the twins?" Miss Ethel’s askin’ about his family.

"Her momma’s place in Eldon."

“Good. They’ll be safe there.”

Miss Ethel and Betty Jean head up the Rebecca Circle at Yellowbird Methodist. Miss Ethel helped birth the boys. She don't seem taken aback that Elliot’s here askin’ for help. Folks stop by right regular to get Ryman's take on who jiggered who in a horse trade, or who owns the calf when a heifer gets loose and the other feller's bull breeds her.

She says, "You done right comin' here. I’ll handle this."

With that she turns into General Robert E. Lee. “Put Mr. Barnard in the potato barrel and lower him into the well. Grover, pick a mess of muskmelons. Hamus, gather all the eggs you can find. And hurry. Evangeline, dear, fill all our buckets amd wash tubs with water. Fast. Martha get the little ones to bed. Grover, put them muskmelons, dried sausage and the sweet taters we dug last week into feed sacks. Hamus, help him. Ida Mae, bring that slab of bacon from the smokehouse. Slice it thick and start it fryin’ when the first man steps into our yard. We’ve a mob to whup.”

CHAPTER 6

The first we seen of the lynch mob were two Redbone hounds and they's beady-eyed handlers, the Howard brothers, with thick ropes looped cross they’s chest, a noose danglin’ down, pistols gleamin’ like wild cat eyes. Behind ‘em, men with lanterns turn cottonwood saplin’s and scrub brush yellow, as the vigilantes tromp toward us.

Grover Cleveland meets ‘em at our gate. “Whatcha doin’ on our property?”

Joey Howard answers. “We’re here to hang that banker who stole our money. My dogs tracked him here. Give him up now and ya won’t get hurt.”

Grover spits at Joey’s feet. “We ain’t gonna give ya shit. Get off our property. Now.”

“Not without that asshole banker.”

Grover says, “Daddy comes home, he’ll kick yer ass. Take them other sombitches with ya.” He’ll turn seventeen in August. He’s still mad Miss Ethel made him put Ryman’s 10-gauge shot gun back in the closet.

In the yard, Joey says, “We’re gonna hang that thievin’ banker. Give him up. Now.”

“Don’t order me ‘round. Not on my property.”

“You been warned, Grover Call.”

Drebs and drabs of hungry-eyed men push through our gate. The air smells of weeds and sweat and gumbo mud. The carbide and coal oil lanterns make wavy black ghosts on the white clapboard sidin' of our house. They all carry shot guns and pistols.

Hiram Pettis elbows his way up front, like he’s boss. Miss Ethel greets him from the porch in her red apron with white roses she bought last Market Day. “Don’t ‘spect you boys are here to neighbor. What’s goin’ on?”

Hiram clears his throat. "We’re after Elliot Barnard, ma’am. He stole our money. Give him up and we’ll be gone.”

“Elliot Barnard nor no other man’s in my house," Miss Ethel say’s. She’s right. Mr. Barnard ain't in our house. He's in the well where me and Grover Cleveland lowered him mebbe twenty minutes ago.

"We'll take ya out when it’s over," Miss Ethel said at the time.

Hiram Pettis says, “We’ll thank you to kindly step aside, woman. Elliot Barnard’s here and we want him. We’ve chased him all day. Give him up and no one gets hurt.”

“Hiram, it’s downright unneighborly of ya to barge in after supper with my husband in Jeff City and due back any time, with only me and my babies here. My two littlest ones are teethin’. We just got ‘em down for the night, so keep yer voice down. please.”

Me and Grover Cleveland have filled mebbe twenty–five sacks now. I come out on the porch for a better look. Grover Cleveland ducks into the tack room.

Miss Ethel black eyes search the crowd. “That you back there, Pert Wilson?”

Pert’s Barbara and Clyde Wilson’s middle boy. He’s in the same grade at school as Ida Mae. The Wilson’s have been our neighbors for years.

“Yeah, Miss Ethel, it’s me.”

“Your momma’s worried sick with you not home this late. She borrowed my pressure cooker this mornin’. Said she was havin’ pork chops and cream gravy for supper. Bet she saved you some.” She pauses. “Pert, when did yo’all put money in the bank?”

“We ain’t got seventeen cents to put nowhere. I’m along for the fun.”

Miss Ethel steps in among them hornet-mad men. “Fun’s over. Take your sack and go home. Come back tomorrow, hear?”

Pert says loud ‘nough for all to hear. “I ain’t got no dog in this fight. I’m hungry and Momma fixes righteous pork chops. I’m goin’ home.”

Miss Ethel looks at the sweaty men in mud-splashed overalls with guns and ropes draped over ‘em like coon grapes on a tree. “Anybody thirsty? Hold up your hand. My boys will bring you water.”

Arms wave like tree limbs in a strong wind. We do a brisk business, I tell you. I head for the men near the fence. A hand yanks me to a stop. “Not so fast, Scarecrow.”

It’s not the first time I been called that. A man with a bushy beard lifts me up. His carbide light most blinds me. “I heard you was scarred pure ugly. It’s a fact.” He sets me down. “You’re plain pitiful. Oughta be a law to keep you away from decent folks.”

Ray David says, “The fire killed his daddy and little sister. Burned away his talk box. But, he ain’t ugly.”

“No. He’s ugly as hell. Give me my water and get.”

Miss Ethel said I’d be ragged ’bout my scars. “Don’t pay it no mind. Just ignorant people bein’ ignorant.” When I pick my banjo, or even carry it, I don’t pine for Pap or Mandy, nor worry ‘bout my scars. Come tomorrow I’ll sit on the river bank and pick me some tunes.

Now the evenin’ breeze carries the homey smell of Ida Mae’s bacon. A quarter moon swims in a star-filled sky. Our dogs have stopped barkin’. The mob, good neighbors all, certain they’ve been robbed of hard-earned money they gave the bank for safe-keepin’, are tired from trompin’ through thick gumbo mud and cottonwood thickets with only limb-bruised faces and achin’ legs to show for they’s trouble. Does the fryin’ bacon remind they’s a far piece home and breakfast were some time ago?

Miss Ethel says, “That you, back there, Deacon Charlie Martin?”

“Yes, ma’am. It is.”

Deacon Charlie is a full brother to the new preacher in town, Marvin Martin. Miss Ethel asks, “Deacon, what Bible chapter you studyin’ at White Cloud Baptist this month?”

“That’d be Galatians, ma’am.”

“Ain’t Galatians where the Lord God warns against seekin' worldly goods?”

“It is, ma’am.”

“I’ve read Galatians. Guess I missed instructions to chase my neighbor through the woods behind dogs so I could hang him. Deacon, me and Ryman lost his inheritance and ever penny we had when the bank went bust. Is Ryman Call out to lynch his neighbor? You teach that at White Cloud Baptist?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Didn‘t think so. Charlie, you got a long walk home and chores to do when you get there. Here’s yer sack." Miss Ethel kinda pushes his shoulder. “Remember us in prayer, Deacon. We too, have fallen short. Tell Priscilla I’ll be by to borrow her Kentucky Moon quilt pattern one of these days.”

Deacon Martin says, “God bless you woman. You stopped me for bein’ a part of somethin’ I'd hate myself for all my livin’ days. I'm headin' home, boys. You should, too.”

Men shuffle they’s feet. Some cough and study muddy boots. Things ain’t goin’ smooth. A little bit of a woman in a red and white apron is keepin’ them from hangin’ a thief who stole money they need to plant next year’s crop. All this jawin' makes feet hurt more, bellies growl louder and skeeter bites itch something awful. .

Hiram Pettis says, “Ma’am, I ain’t askin’. I’m tellin’. Get outta the way. We’re gonna hang that thievin’ banker.”

“Hiram, Elliott Ballard ain’t in my house. If Ryman comes home and finds you in his front yard and I report I were called a liar, you’ll pay the price.”

Ryman is Miss Ethel's ace card. He can whup a bar room drunk and any three of these yokels at the same time, and laugh doin’ it. He might ride up any minute.

“Ma’am, we chased this piss-ant all day. Now, we demand justice.”

“Justice? That's a fine word, Hiram. Is it justice when you bring a bunch of men onto my property and demand I let ‘em in my house where my babies and maiden daughters sleep? ” Her voice is clear as a whippoorwill’s call. “That ain't justice to my way of thinkin’.”

Her black eyes search the mob. “That you, Bill Whittaker?”

“Good evenin’, ma’am. Sorry. But, it’s me.”

“Bill, ain’t Margie about due?”

“Yes, ma’am. Toward the end of the month.”

“Send for me when her time comes.”

“I will. For certain.”

Miss Ethel asks,“Bill, should Hiram Pettis bust onto my property, land we own, with me and my babies all alone, and my husband in Jeff City?”

“No ma’am. He shouldn’t a done it. I’m ashamed I went ‘long with his blathers like I have.” His deep voice reaches every ear. “We’re all growed men who call ourselves Christians, yet we’re actin’ like ten-year olds who ain’t never read the Word.”

The rich smell of Ida Mae’s bacon dances on the night air remindin’ our visitors they’ve a long trek home on a empty belly and once there, fire wood to chop and a horse trough to caulk and seed onions to cull ‘fore they call it a day.

Bill Whittaker says, “Miss Ethel you’re more’n welcome at my house at any time, night or day. You’re too good a woman for a man like me to call a friend, but I’d be proud if you'd allow it. I’m plum ashamed of my actions today. May God forgive me.”

Bill’s long strides stir the dust in the road. He’s no more ‘n at the calf pen when Joey Howard says, “Hiram, we looked ‘round some. That thief’s in the house or a shed out back. Want me to turn my dogs loose?”

Hiram says, “We’re here to hang him. Do what you gotta do.”

Joey’s words pass over the tired men like a fresh breeze. “I git my hands on that thief,” one of them yells, "he'll be sorry he stole money."

Another feller unloops his rope. “Good idee, Joey. We’ll hang him here.”

I reckon what’ll happen next won’t be pretty. Some rough-handed man’ll grab Miss Ethel. Hiram Pettis will lock the rest of us in the root cellar at gun point. Joey’s dogs will leap up on the porch, bust through the screen door, race into the parlor, knock over Miss Ethel's étagère, break her china and get dirt tomorrow’s ironin' dirty. When they don’t find Elliot Barnard, they'll slap Miss Ethel 'til she tells where he is. Then, the y'll yank him from the well, slip a noose ‘round his neck and hang his twitchin’ body from our black oak tree. It’ll be a nasty sight, I tell you.

On the porch, Grover Cleveland bends over the flower box. When he straightens, his fists are filled with his rifle. “Turn them dogs loose any time you want, Joey.”

His words ring like a coyote’s call. “I ain’t a dog killer, so I’ll shoot 'em in the spine. They’ll suffer, not die. Think I’m bluffin’? Let ‘em loose.”

The night goes still. Nary a man scratches a chigger bite, nor shifts weight from one sore leg to another. There’s only the splash of a cow answerin’ nature’s call near the pasture fence and the breathin’ of the men and Grover Cleveland’s rifle barrel showin’ from the shadows. They know he won the Yellowbird Thanksgivin’ Turkey Shoot three years straight, so he can back his call.

What'll Hiram Pettis do? Let Grover cripple Joey's dogs? Or fight back? Miss Ethel says, “Son, wait ‘til them dogs are on the grass ‘fore you shoot. Easier to clean up that way.”

Does Hiram doubt Grover Cleveland can aim, fire and re-load his single shot rifle fast enough to hit both dogs ‘fore they tear into the house? His face shines with sweat. Carbide and lantern lights gleam on gun muzzles. Hungry men count the nine chimes our parlor clock strikes. A screech owl screams down by the creek. A hog squeals. Then, it goes quiet as a church in prayer.

“That boy and his single shot rifle don’t scare me,” Hiram says. “We got him out gunned. I’ll count to three. Paul Morris, give him both barrels of yer shot gun. Jack Wilks, grab that mouthy woman. That’ll shut her mouth. ”

As I figgered, blood’s gonna flow. Grover and Miss Ethel will be bad hurt, mebbe killed. The rest of us will be slapped ‘round and Mr. Eliot Barnard gets his neck stretched.

Then, what no one expects, happens. Paul Morris blows out his lantern. “I’ve taken my last order from you, Hiram Pettis. This ain’t right, standin’ in a neighbor’s yard ready to shoot two good hounds tryin’ to lynch a man for doin’ his job. This little woman kicked our ass ‘cause she’s right.”

Mr. Elliot Barnard said earlier that Paul Morris was the one who stirred up the mob. Now, Paul says, “Some of yo’ all come along 'cause I egged you on. Don’t figger you signed on to lynch folks and kill dogs. Ya just want yer money back, like me. But, it gonna happen. The money’s gone, Yours and mine. Elliot Barnard didn’t steal it. Somebody bigger ‘n him did. I made a ass of myself today and I’m sorry. I’m hungry and my feet hurt. I’m goin’ home if my wife will have me. Anyone with a lick of sense, will do the same.”

Paul shoulders his sack of goodies. At the gate, he says, “The bank snookered us 'cause we’re all edjits in the first degree. When we don’t know how somethin’ works, instead of edjucatin’ ourselves, we grab a gun. Or a noose. No wonder we got hornswoggled by the bank.’ He turns to go, then looks back at Miss Ethel. “Thank ya, ma’am. I owe ya in ways I’ll never be able to pay back.” He lifts his hat and heads for the road.

“Wait for me, Paul,” calls Ben Shelly. Four or five other men grab sacks and follow him. I ain’t one to say what happened next. Mebbe it were fear that Ryman Call would ride up, find his wife in a dither and knock heads. Or mebbe it were a quarter moon hidin’ behind a silver cloud and bacon perfumin’ the night air and the golden light of a lamp in a window and a pretty girl cookin’ in a cozy kitchen.

Whatever the reason, the evil left them men right then and there. Shot guns are breeched and pipes lit. Some fellers sprawl on the well head, others hunker against the maple tree. John Ruffle asks, “Think that moon’ll bring rain?”

Hiram Pettis don’t give in easy. “Hold on, boys. Ya such cowards you’d let a woman talk you down?”

When no one pays him no mind, he says, “I've chores to do.” He heads toward the road like his pants are on fire.

Ray David runs after him. “Here’s the sack Momma fixed ya.”

“Don’t fun me, Boy. I ain’t the coward here.” He disappears into the dark.

In the yard, Joey Howard muzzles his hounds. “Me and Harold will push off, I reckon."

Eight or ten neighbors sit and smoke near the well. Miss Ethel calls to Ida Mae, “Fry some eggs and serve that bacon, girl. We’ve got hungry guests to feed.” She catches my eye and strums her apron. I run for my banjo.

I’ve learned a few songs since Miss Ethel given me my precious instrument last month, so I’m gobsnuckered to pick for folks. I stand on a box ‘neath the maple tree and plunk out, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Old Mac Donald Had a Farm. Then I give Crawdad a go, and follow it with The Soldier’s Lament. That’s all the tunes I know, so I do ‘em over agin and agin. Nobody seems to mind one whit.

Our last guest finishes his coffee, goes to the privy, then heads out. Miss Ethel says, "Let’s pull Mr. Barnard from the well." Me and Grover do. He’s all a shiver, his face scared white.

“Couldn’t hear a damn thing down there. They gone? Am I safe?”

He don’t even say much obliged, just scarfs down two helpins’ of bacon and eggs and chugs coffee. Miss Ethel calls us ‘round her, “Yo’ all done more ‘n good tonight. When Ryman gets home, we've a brag or two for him.”

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