Download e-book Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One book. Happy reading Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One Pocket Guide.
Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book One (Volume 1) [Daryn Guarino] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. It starts with simple curiosity.
Table of contents

• 100 Great Works of Dystopian Fiction
• Wildlife and Heritage Service
• Daryn Guarino (DarynGuarino) | LibraryThing
• The Marked Woman

Margot was in boisterous spirits; everything she said or did was meant to attract Owen's attention. Her cheeks flamed with excitement; she wanted his eyes to be perpetually upon her. But Owen's interest in her had long ceased. To-night, while eating heartily, he was absorbed in his ruling passion: to get on in the world, to make money, to be admitted into Island society.

Behind the pallid, impenetrable mask, which always enraged yet intimidated Margot, he plotted incessantly, schemed, combined, weighed this and that, studied his prospects from every point of view. Supper over, he lighted his meerschaum; Tourtel produced a short clay, and the bottle was passed between them.

The women left them together, and for ten, twenty minutes, there was complete silence in the room. Tourtel let his pipe go out, and rapped it down brusquely upon the table. It must come to an end, he said, with suppressed ferocity; are we eider to spen' de whole of our lives here, or else be turned off at de eleventh hour after sufferin' all de heat an' burden of de day?

Its onreasonable. An' dere's de cottage at Cottu standin' [Pg 55] empty, an' me havin' to pay a man to look after de tomato houses, when I could get fifty per cent.

An' what profit is such a sickly, shiftless life as dat? My good! Why, his wife was dead already when we come here, an' his on'y son, a dirty, drunken, lazy vaurien too, has never been near him for fifteen years, nor written neider. Dead most likely, in foreign parts An' what's he want to stay for, contraryin' an' thwartin' dem as have sweated an' laboured, an' now, please de good God, wan's to sit 'neath de shadow of dere own fig-tree for de short time dat remains to dem? An' what do we get for stayin'?

Forty pound, Island money, between de two of us, an' de little I makes from de flowers, an' poultry, an' such like. An' what do we do for it? Bake, an' wash, an' clean, an' cook, an' keep de garden in order, an' nuss him in all his tantrums If we was even on his testament, I'd say nuddin.

But everything goes to Pedvinns, an' de son John, and de little bit of income dies wid him. I tell you 'tis 'bout time dis came to an end. Owen recognised that Destiny asked no sin more heinous from him than silence, perhaps concealment; the chestnuts would reach him without risk of burning his hand. It's time, said he, I thought of going home. Get your lantern, and I'll help you with the trap. But first, I'll just run up and have another look at Mr. For the last time the five personages of this obscure little tragedy found themselves together in the bedroom, now lighted by a small lamp which stood on the wash-hand-stand.

Owen, who had to stoop to enter the door, could have touched the low-pitched ceiling with his hand. The bed, with its slender pillars, supporting [Pg 56] a canopy of faded damask, took up the greater part of the room. There was a fluted headpiece of the damask, and long curtains of the same material, looped up, on either side of the pillows.

Wildlife and Heritage Service

Sunken in these lay the head of the old man, crowned with a cotton nightcap, the eyes closed, the skin drawn tight over the skull, the outline of the attenuated form indistinguishable beneath the clothes. The arms lay outside the counterpane, straight down on either side; and the mechanical playing movement of the fingers showed he was not asleep. Margot and Mrs. Tourtel watched him from the bed's foot.

Their gigantic shadows thrown forward by the lamp, stretched up the opposite wall, and covered half the ceiling. The old-fashioned mahogany furniture, with its fillets of paler wood, drawn in ovals, upon the doors of the presses, their centrepieces of fruit and flowers, shone out here and there with reflected light; and the looking-glass, swung on corkscrew mahogany pillars between the damask window curtains, gleamed lake-like amidst the gloom. Owen and Tourtel joined the women at the bedfoot; though each was absorbed entirely in his own egotisms, all were animated by the same secret desire.

Yet, to the feeling heart, there was something unspeakably pleading in the sight of the old man lying there, in his helplessness, in the very room, on the very bed, which had seen his wedding-night fifty years before; where as a much-wished-for and welcomed infant, he had opened his eyes to the light more than seventy years since.

He had been helpless then as now, but then the child had been held to loving hearts, loving fingers had tended him, a young and loving mother lay beside him, the circumference of all his tiny world, as he was the core and centre of all of hers. Renouf opened his eyes, looked in turn at the four faces before him, and read as much pity in them as in masks of stone. He turned himself to the pillow again and to his miserable thoughts.

Owen took out his watch, went round to count the pulse, and in the hush the tick of the big silver timepiece could be heard. No; care and constant nourishment are all that are required; strong beef-tea, port wine jelly, cream beaten up with a little brandy at short intervals, every hour say. And of course no excitement; nothing to irritate, or alarm him Owen's eye met Margot's ; absolute quiet and rest.

He came back to the foot of the bed and spoke in a lower tone. It's just one of the usual cases of senile decay, said he, which I observe every one comes to here in the Islands unless he has previously killed himself by drink , the results of breeding in. Renouf may last months, years longer. In fact, if you follow out my directions there is every probability that he will.

Tourtel and his wife shifted their gaze from Owen to look into each other's eyes; Margot's loose mouth lapsed into a smile. Owen felt cold water running down his back. The atmosphere of the room seemed to stifle him; reminiscences of his student days crowded on him: the horror of an unperverted mind, at its first spectacle of cruelty, again seized hold of him, as though no twelve callous years were wedged in between.

At all costs he must get out into the open air. He turned to go. Louis Renouf opened his eyes, followed the form making its way to the door, and understood. You won't leave me, doctor?

Come, come, my good sir, do you think I am going to stay here all night? Outside the door, Tourtel touched his sleeve. And suppose your directions are not carried out? Owen gave no spoken answer, but Tourtel was satisfied. I'll come an' put the horse in, he said, leading the way through the kitchen to the stables. Owen drove off with a parting curse and cut with the whip because the horse slipped upon the stones. A long ray of light from Tourtel's lantern followed him down the lane. When he turned out on to the high road to St.

Gilles, he reined in a moment, to look back at Les Calais. This is the one point from which a portion of the house is visible, and he could see the lighted window of the old man's bedroom plainly through the trees. What was happening there? Yet the price was in his hand, the first step of the ladder gained; he saw himself to-morrow, perhaps in the drawing-room of Rohais, paying the necessary visit of intimation and condolence. He felt he had already won Mrs. Poidevin's favour. Among women, always poor physiognomists, he knew he passed for a handsome man; among the Islanders, the assurance of his address would pass for good breeding; all he had lacked hitherto was the opportunity to shine.

This his acquaintance with Mrs. Poidevin would secure him. And he had trampled on his conscience so often before, it [Pg 59] had now little elasticity left.

• Books by Whitman!
• The Best Books of Summer | Time?
• Breakneck Cove (Onyx Neon Shorts Book 4).
• Poetry Out Loud.

Just an extra glass of brandy to-morrow, and to-day would be as securely laid as those other episodes of his past. While he watched, some one shifted the lamp Owen put the horse into a gallop The Lamplighter [Pg 60]. What little has been written about poor Bizet is not the sort to satisfy. The men who have told of him cannot have written with their best pen.

Even those who, one can see, have started well, albeit impelled rather than inspired by a profound admiration for the artist and the man, have fallen all too short of the mark, and ultimately drifted into the dullest of all dull things—the compilation of mere dates and doings. I know of no pamphlet devoted to him in this country.