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Here is an actor's whole soul diaries of permanent value. as a social picture they are of extraordinary interest and importance simply unique Fully illustrated. OF JOHN FORSTER, SUMMER DAYS IN SHAKESPEARE LAND. By CHARLES G. HARPER, Historian of the Roads of England By RICHARD RENTON.
Table of contents
- Images of the Woman Reader in Victorian British and American Fiction
- Orson Welles - Wikipedia
- THE ROAD TO PORTSMOUTH
I signalled back, then shined the light downward to see how far the water had risen. I couldn't make out a thing. My watch read four-twelve in the morning. Not yet dawn. The morning papers still not delivered, trains not yet running, citizens of the surface world fast asleep, oblivious to all this. I pulled the rope taut with both hands, took a deep breath, then slowly began my climb. Finally, she signaled with her light that she'd made it to the top. I signaled back, then shined the light downward to see how far the water had risen. I stooped to pick up my watch from the floor.
Another hour until dawn. I went to the telephone and dialled my own number. It'd been a long time since I'd called home, so I had to struggle to remember the number. I let it ring fifteen times; no answer. I hung up, dialled again, and let it ring another fifteen times. Somebody had drilled a hole in my head and was stuffing it full of something like string. An awfully long string apparently, because the reel kept unwinding into my head.
I was flailing my arms, yanking at it, but try as I might the string kept coming in. I sat up and ran my hands over my head. But there was no string. No holes either.
A bell was ringing. Ringing, ringing, ringing. I grabbed the alarm clock, threw it on my lap, and slapped the red and black buttons with both hands. The ringing didn't stop. The telephone! The clock read four-eighteen. It was dark outside. Four-eighteen a. I got out of bed and picked up the receiver.
No sound came from the other end of the line. Her chip pulsed the time. It had been a long day. As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Tonight Clenette H. Hester Thrale undulates in in a false fox jacket at as usual even though she has to be up at like for the breakfast shift at the Provident Nursing Home and sometimes eats breakfast with Gately, both their faces nodding perilously close to their Frosted Flakes.
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At the end of a relationship, it is the one who is not in love who makes the tender speeches. I was overwhelmed by a sense of betrayal, betrayal because a union in which I had invested so much had been declared bankrupt without my feeling it to be so. Chloe had not given it a chance, I argued with myself, knowing the hopelessness of these inner courts announcing hollow verdicts at four thirty in the morning. He lies still in the darkness and listens. His wife's breathing at his side is so faint that he can scarcely hear it. One of these mornings she'll be lying dead beside me and I won't even notice, he thinks.
Or maybe it'll be me. Daybreak will reveal that one of us has been left alone. He checks the clock on the table next to the bed. The hands glow and register a. The phone rang again at four-forty-six. There's a disturbance in the sound field.
Images of the Woman Reader in Victorian British and American Fiction
Sometimes the sound goes away. Can you hear me? It was the granddaughter of that kooky old scientist who'd given me the unicorn skull. The girl in the pink suit. Even the hands of his watch and the hands of all the thirteen clocks were frozen. They had all frozen at the same time, on a snowy night, seven years before, and after that it was always ten minutes to five in the castle.
Travelers and mariners would look up at the gloomy castle on the lonely hill and say, "Time lies frozen there. It's always Then. It's never Now. The whole place smells like death no matter what the fuck you do. Gately gets to the shelter at Just after five o'clock on this chill September morning, the fishmonger's cart, containing Kirsten and Emilia and such possessions as they have been able to assemble in the time allowed to them, is driven out of the gates of Rosenborg?
Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins Silently closing her bedroom door Leaving the note that she hoped would say more She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief Quietly turning the backdoor key Stepping outside she is free.
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The day came slow, till five o'clock Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light A sudden musket spills. There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public. There are worse things than these miniature betrayals, committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things than not being able to sleep for thinking about them. All the worse things come stalking in and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
Five o'clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly dressed. The cold eye of the Duke was dazzled by the gleaming of a thousand jewels that sparkled on the table.
His ears were filled with chiming as the clocks began to strike.
Orson Welles - Wikipedia
The Times hours is bad and anything with a three in it, for example Those times between and are crippling for the next day's decisions as are those times on a Sunday and most times during the ravages of February. Unspeakable times include and —but for some reason is not a bad time, unlike its cousins and who are total buggers and always will be. Among the joke-times are anything before midnight, the lucid moments just after midnight and those just after making love, with sleep approaching.
The why-even-bother-times are as follows: , , and the infrequently-mentioned The I-want to-die-now-times list , and The fact we all go on living regardless must point to something, the resilience of the human spirit, perhaps, equality of opportunity for fathers, or even Japanese alarm clock reliability. However, my familiarity with of late has wrenched the bottom drawer from my desk and scattered the contents blowing across the park to be laughed at by children and dogs.
I find this is inducing in me a quite serious indifference to most subjects, even my work. It was in the township of Dunwich, in a large and hardly inhabited farmhouse set against a hillside 4 miles from the village and a mile and a half from any other dwelling, that Wilbur Whately was born at 5 a. The date was recalled because it was Candlemas, which people in Dunwich curiously observe under another name What causes young people to "come out," but the noble ambition of matrimony? What sends them trooping to watering-places? What keeps them dancing till five o'clock in the morning through a whole mortal season?
I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. Because why do people always say the day starts now? Really it starts in the middle of the night at a fraction of a second past midnight. I have taken the poison--all of it that was left in the paper packet, which was the first that I found.
If this is not enough to kill me, I have more left in the bottle. Ten minutes past five.
THE ROAD TO PORTSMOUTH
My courage failed me at the sight of you. I thought to myself, 'If he look at me kindly, I will confess what I have done, and let him save my life. You only looked at the medicine. I let you go without saying a word.
By the first week of May, Ralph was waking up to birdsong at a. He tried earplugs for a few nights, although he doubted from the outset that they would work.