1.

To The Last Man

by Zane Grey
CHAPTER I
At the end of a dry, uphill ride over barren country Jean Isbel unpacked to
camp at the edge of the cedars where a little rocky canyon green with willow
and cottonwood, promised water and grass.
His animals were tired, especially the pack mule that had carried a heavy
load; and with slow heave of relief they knelt and rolled in the dust. Jean
experienced something of relief himself as he threw off his chaps. He had not
been used to hot, dusty, glaring days on the barren lands. Stretching his long
length beside a tiny rill of clear water that tinkled over the red stones, he
drank thirstily. The water was cool, but it had an acrid taste--an alkali bite
that he did not like. Not since he had left Oregon had he tasted clear, sweet,
cold water; and he missed it just as he longed for the stately shady forests he
had loved. This wild, endless Arizona land bade fair to earn his hatred.
By the time he had leisurely completed his tasks twilight had fallen and
coyotes had begun their barking. Jean listened to the yelps and to the moan
of the cool wind in the cedars with a sense of satisfaction that these lonely
sounds were familiar. This cedar wood burned into a pretty fire and the smell
of its smoke was newly pleasant.
"Reckon maybe I'll learn to like Arizona," he mused, half aloud. "But I've a
hankerin' for waterfalls an' dark-green forests. Must be the Indian in me. . . .
Anyway, dad needs me bad, an' I reckon I'm here for keeps."
2. THE EVIL GENIUS
Wilkie Collins
The foreman took his place at the head of the table. His colleagues seated
themselves on either side of him. Then there fell upon that assembly of men
a silence, never known among an assembly of women--the silence which
proceeds from a general reluctance to be the person who speaks first.
It was the foreman's duty, under these circumstances, to treat his
deliberative brethren as we treat our watches when they stop: he wound the
jury up and set them going.
"Gentlemen," he began, "have you formed any decided opinion on the case-thus far?" Some of them said "Yes," and some of them said "No." The little
drowsy man said nothing. The fretful invalid cried, "Go on!" The nervous
juryman suddenly rose. His brethren all looked at him, inspired by the same
fear of having got an orator among them. He was an essentially polite man;
and he hastened to relieve their minds. "Pray don't be alarmed, gentlemen: I
am not going to make a speech. I suffer from fidgets. Excuse me if I
occasionally change my position." The hungry juryman (who dined early)
looked at his watch. "Half-past four," he said. "For Heaven's sake cut it short."
He was the fattest person present; and he suggested a subject to the

inattentive juryman who drew pictures on his blotting-paper. Deeply

interested in the progress of the likeness, his neighbors on either side looked
over his shoulders. The little drowsy man woke with a start, and begged
pardon of everybody. The fretful invalid said to himself, "Damned fools, all of
them!" The patient foreman, biding his time, stated the case.
3. THE BARGAIN OF RUPERT ORANGE
Vincent O'Sullivan

The marvel is, that the memory of Rupert Orange, whose name was a signal
for chatter amongst people both in Europe and America not many years ago,
has now almost died out. Even in New York where he was born, and where
the facts of his secret and mysterious life were most discussed, he is quite
forgotten. At times, indeed, some old lady will whisper to you at dinner , that
a certain young man reminds her of Rupert Orange, only he is not so
handsome; but she is one of those who keep the mere incidents of their past
much more brightly polished than the important things of their present. The
men who worshipped him, who copied his clothes, his walk, his mode of
pronouncing words, and his manner of saying things, stare vaguely when he
is mentioned. And the other day at a well-known club I was having some
general talk with a man whose black hair is shot with white, when he
exclaimed somewhat suddenly: "How little one hears about Rupert Orange
now!" and then added: "I wonder what became of him?" As to the first part of
this speech I kept my mouth resolutely shut; for how could I deny his saying,
since I had lately seen a weed-covered grave with the early moss growing
into the letters on the headstone? As to the second part, it is now my
business to set forth the answer to that: and I think when the fire begins to
blaze it will lighten certain recollections which have become dark. Of course,
there are numberless people who never heard the story of Rupert Orange;
but there are also crowds of men and women who followed his brilliant life
with intense interest, while his shameful death will be in many a one's
remembrance.
4. LUCIFER NETWORK
Geoffrey Archer
Pools of darkness surrounded the car park. He peered into them one by one,
looking for shadows that moved. A year ago Jackman had told him the price
for a contract killing in Zambia was fifty pounds. Sam touched the pocket of
his trousers to check the wallet was there, then crunched over the gravel to
the lodge, running a finger under the sweaty collar of his shirt to free it from
his neck. Lights set high in the dark-leafed trees at one side of the building
illuminated well-watered lawns and a few hardwood easy chairs and tables.
But it was the mosquito hour and the guests were indoors. Instinctively Sam

smacked a hand against a cheek, imagining some winged malaria-carrier

braving the repellent he'd daubed on earlier.
The lodge was reed-thatched, as were the two small accommodation chalets
that stood slightly apart from it. A private venture, Jackman had told him, a
more restful haven than the hotels in town for visiting relatives of European
mining specialists. And the restaurant served good steaks in reasonable
privacy. The lodge was of timber, darkly varnished. On its walls, paintings of
elephants, baboons and exotic birds glowed under their picture lights. []
[] The restaurant was small, not more than a dozen tables, several set
against wide windows overlooking a small lake. Beyond it, the western
horizon glimmered deep violet, its colours mirrored in the water. The four
men he'd seen emerging from the Range Rover were already seated,
studying menus and gulping beers.
The almost empty bar was separated from the dining room by a Chinese
lacquered screen and lit by flickering oil lamps. Packer glanced around
pretending to be looking for a friend. Two couples sat at tables, white haired
and with the even-tanned complexions of the well-heeled. He returned their
smiles, then made for a cane armchair in the shadows at the far end. The
barman followed him to his seat.
5. FETISH
Sherri L King
Five thousand dollars a night should buy many comforts, be they legal or
otherwise. Aerin could afford it, squirreling spinster that she was. She was
paid very well. She was very good at her job and deserved the money she
earned. But it was still a lot of money to spend, and on something she wasnt
even sure was a wise endeavor. She had no idea what to expect in the next
few hoursfrom sundown to sunriseand had no idea if shed even want to
come back.
She would have to play it by ear.
Madame Delilah drew her back into the present, into their conversation. This
is anything but a mundane club, Aerin. I hope youll get rid of any
preconceived notions now, before I lead you to the common room where the
escorts and clients begin their nights. Things are rarely what they may seem
on the surface, not here or anywhere else in the world. Thats a fact of life
and always has been. But you came here for some fun, and perhaps a little
boost to your self-esteem, and that is exactly what you will get. If nothing
else, youll have that at least. Your grand adventure.
Aerin started. That was exactly how shed been thinking of this, in the depths
of her own mind. Her grand adventure. The one and only in all her long years.
And this woman had known. Aerin looked into the womans knowing eyes and
felt herself sinking, nearly drowning in that glittering gaze.
Shaking her head to clear it of such fancifuland unsettlingnotions, she
was relieved when the Madame broke their eye-contact and looked away.
Im ready to start, she said in a near whisper.

6. DOCTOR ZHIVAGO
Boris Pasternak
There was nothing in the kitchen garden except acacia bushes around the
walls and a few beds of cabbages, wrinkled and blue with cold. With each
blast of wind the leafless acacias danced as if possessed and then lay flat on
the path.
During the night the boy, Yura, was wakened by a knocking at the window.
The dark cell was mysteriously lit up by a flickering whiteness. With nothing
on but his shirt, he ran to the window and pressed his face against the cold
glass.
Outside there was no trace of the road, the graveyard, or the kitchen garden,
nothing but the blizzard, the air smoking with snow. It was almost as if the
snowstorm had caught sight of Yura and, conscious of its power to terrify,
roared and howled, doing everything possible to impress him. Turning over
and over in the sky, length after length of whiteness unwound over the earth
and shrouded it. The blizzard was alone in the world; it had no rival.
When he climbed down from the window sill Yura's first impulse was to dress,
run outside, and start doing something. He was afraid that the cabbage patch
would be buried so that no one could dig it out and that his mother would
helplessly sink deeper and deeper away from him into the ground.
Once more it ended in tears. His uncle woke up, spoke to him of Christ, and
tried to comfort him, then yawned and stood thoughtfully by the window. Day
was breaking. They began to dress.
While his mother was alive Yura did not know that his father had abandoned
them long ago, leading a dissolute life in Siberia and abroad and squandering
the family millions. He was always told that his father was away on business
in Petersburg or at one of the big fairs, usually at Irbit.
7. FOOLS DIE
Mario Puzo
The casino, lit by many huge chandeliers, had a bluish haze, neon reflected
by the deep purple carpeting. Jordan stepped out of this light and into the
darkened area of the bar lounge with its lowered ceiling and small platform
for performers. Seated at a small table, he could look out on the casino as a
spectator looks on a lighted stage.
Mesmerized, he watched afternoon gamblers drift in intricate choreographed
patterns from table to table. Like a rainbow flashing across a clear blue sky, a
roulette wheel flashed its red, black numbers to match the table layout. Bluewhite-backed cards skittered across green felt tables. White-dotted red
square dice were dazzling flying fish over the whale-shaped crap tables. Far
off, down the rows of blackjack tables, those dealers going off duty washed
their hands high in the air to show they were not palming chips.
The casino stage began to fill up with more actors: sun worshipers
wandering in from the outdoor pool, others from tennis courts, golf courses,

naps and afternoon free and paid lovemaking in Xanadus thousand rooms.
Jordan spotted another Vegas Winner jacket coming across the casino floor. It
was Merlyn. Merlyn the Kid. Merlyn wavered as he passed the roulette wheel,
his weakness. Though he rarely played because he knew its huge five and a
half percent cut like a sharp sword. Jordan from the darkness waved a
crimson-striped arm, and Merlyn took up his stride again as if he were
passing through flames, stepped off the lighted stage of the casino floor and
sat down. Merlyns zippered pockets did not bulge with chips, nor did he have
any in his hands.
8. WHISPERS AND LIES
Joy Fielding
There was no one waiting, no one watching. I breathed a sigh of relief and
waited until Alison was safely inside the cottage before closing the kitchen
door. My hand brushed against the spot on my cheek where Alison's lips had
grazed, as I pictured her walking through the small living area to the
bedroom at the back. In my mind's eye, I watched her kneel to look under the
bed, then check the closet for any stray monsters who might be lurking. I
thought absently of the man I'd seen standing in front of the house.
Had there been anyone there? And had he been watching me--or Alison?
Such a sweet girl, I remember thinking. So childlike. So innocent. Not so
innocent, I reminded myself as I painstakingly made my way up the stairs to
my bedroom. A teenage hellion. Married at eighteen. Divorced soon after. Not
to mention she could hold her liquor with the best of them.
I vaguely remember getting undressed and into my nightgown. Actually, I
remember this only because I put the nightgown on backward the first time
and had to take it off and put it on again.
I don't remember washing my face or brushing my teeth, although I'm sure I
did. I do remember the way my bare toes sank into the ivory broadloom as I
walked toward my bed, as if I were wading through thick clumps of mud. I
remember the heaviness in my thighs, as if my legs had been anchored to
the floor. The queen-size bed that sat in the middle of the room seemed miles
away. It took forever to reach it.
A colossal effort was required for my arms to pull down the bulky white
comforter. I remember watching it billow around me like a collapsing
parachute as I climbed underneath the covers.
9. SISTER CARRIE
10.
Theodore Dreiser
When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. Either
she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the
cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an intermediate
balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. The city has its
cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter.
There are large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression

possible in the most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often
as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. Half the
undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces
wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human
hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a
counsellor at hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may
not these things breathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they
are, their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts
the simpler human perceptions.
Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed by the
family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of observation and
analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not strong. It was, nevertheless,
her guiding characteristic. Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the
insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure promising
eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she
was a fair example of the middle American classtwo generations removed
from the emigrant. Books were beyond her interestknowledge a sealed
book. In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her
head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual.
=============== The feet, though small, were set flatly. And yet she
was interested in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of
life, ambitious to gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she
was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams
of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject
the proper penitent, grovelling at a womans slipper.
11.

THE BARGAIN OF RUPERT ORANGE

Vincent O'Sullivan
Now Rupert Orange lived with his aunt in New York till he was twenty-four
years old, and when she died, leaving her entire estate to him, a furious
contest arose over the will. Principal in the contest was Mrs. Annice, the wife
of a discarded nephew; and she prosecuted the cause with the pertinacity
and virulence which we often find in women of thirty. So good a pursuivant
did she prove, that she and her husband leaped suddenly from indigence to
great wealth: for the Court declared that the old lady had died lunatic; that
she had been unduly influenced; and, that consequently her testament was
void. But this decision, which raised them up, brought Rupert to the ground.
There is no worse fall than the fall of a man from opulence to poverty; and
Rupert, after his luxurious rearing, had to undergo this fall. Yet he had the
vigour and confidence of the young. His little verses and sonnets had been
praised when he was an amateur; now he undertook to make his pen a
breadwinner with the direst results. At first, nothing would do him but the
great magazines; and from these, week after week, he received back his
really clever articles, accompanied by cold refusals. Then for months he hung

about the offices of every outcast paper, waiting for the editor. When at
length the editor did come, he generally told Rupert that he had promised all
his outlying work to some bar-room acquaintance. So push by push he was
brought to his knees; and finally he dared not walk out till nightfall, for fear
some of those who knew him in prosperity might witness his destitution.
12. DOCTOR ZHIVAGO
Boris Pasternak
Misha had been deeply shaken by the event and had at first wept with grief
and fright. In the course of the long journey the suicide had come several
times to their compartment and had talked with Misha's father for hours on
end. He had said that he found relief in the moral decency, peace, and
understanding which he discovered in him and had asked him endless
questions about fine points in law concerning bills of exchange, deeds of
settlement, bankruptcy, and fraud. "Is that so?" he exclaimed at Gordon's
answers. "Can the law be as lenient as that? My lawyer takes a much
gloomier view."
Each time that this nervous man calmed down, his travelling companion
came from their first-class coach to drag him off to the restaurant to drink
champagne. He was the thickset, arrogant, clean-shaven, well-dressed lawyer
who now stood over his body, showing not the least surprise. It was hard to
escape the feeling that his client's ceaseless agitation had somehow been to
his advantage.
Misha's father described him as a well-known millionaire, Zhivago, a goodnatured profligate, not quite responsible for his actions. When he had come
to their compartment, he would, unrestrained by Misha's presence, talk about
his son, a boy of Misha's age, and about his late wife; then he would go on
about his second family, whom he had deserted as he had the first. At this
point he would remember something else, grow pale with terror, and begin to
lose the thread of his story.To Misha he had shown an unaccountable
affection, which probably reflected a feeling for someone else. He had
showered him with presents, jumping out to buy them at the big stations,
where the bookstalls in the first-class waiting rooms also sold toys and local
souvenirs.
13. They Walk in the City
by J.B. Priestley
This was one of those mornings when the smoke and the Thames Valley mist
decide to work a few miracles for their London, and especially for the oldest
part of it, the City, where Edward went to find Uncle Alfred. The City, on these
mornings, is an enchantment. There is a faintly luminous haze, now silver,
now old gold, over everything. The buildings have shape and solidity but no
weight; they hang in the air, like palaces out of the Arabian Nights; you could
topple the dome off St. Paul's with a forefinger into space. On these

mornings, the old churches cannot be counted; there are more of them than
ever; ecclesiastical wizards are busy multiplying the fantastic steeples. There
is no less traffic than usual; the scarlet stream of buses still flows through the
ancient narrow streets; the pavements are still thronged with bank
messengers, office boys, policemen, clerks, typists, caretakers, secretaries,
commissionaires, directors, crooks, busybodies, idlers; but on these mornings
all the buses, taxicabs, vans, lorries, drays, and all the pedestrians lose
something of their ordinary solidity; they move behind gauze: they are shod
and tyred in velvet; their voices are muted; their movement is in slow motion.
Whatever is new and vulgar and foolish contrives to lose itself in the denser
patches of mist. But all the glimpses of ancient loveliness are there, perfectly
framed and lighted: round every corner somebody is whispering a line or two
of Chaucer. And on these mornings, the river is simply not true; there is no
geography, nothing but pure poetry, down there; the water has gone; and
shapes out of an adventurous dream drift by on a tide of gilded and silvered
air. Such is the City on one of these mornings, a place in a Gothic fairy tale, a
mirage, a vision, Cockaigne made out of faint sunlight and vapour and
smoke. It is hard to believe that somewhere behind this enchanting facade,
directors are drawing their fees, debenture holders are being taken care of,
loans are being called in, compound interest is being calculated, mergers are
being arranged between a Partaga and a Corona Corona, and suggestions are
being put forward for little schemes that will eventually bring revolution into
Central America and mass murder into the Near East.
14. The Sire de Maletroit's Door
by Robert L. Stevenson
On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing Denis, as he entered,
sat an old gentleman in a fur tippet. He sat with his legs crossed and his
hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by his elbow on a bracket on
the wall. His countenance had a strongly masculine cast; not properly human,
but such as we see in the bull, the goat, or the domestic boar; something
equivocal and wheedling, something greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The
upper lip was inordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a toothache;
and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the small, strong eyes were
quaintly and almost comically evil in expression. Beautiful white hair hung
straight all round his head, like a saint's, and fell in a single curl upon his
tippet. His beard and moustache were the pink of venerable sweetness. Age,
probably in consequence of inordinate precautions, had left no mark upon his
hands; and the Maletroit hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagine
anything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design; the taper, sensual
fingers like those of Leonardo's women; the fork of the thumb a dimpled
protuberance when closed; the nails perfectly shaped, and of a dead,
surprising whiteness. It rendered his aspect tenfold more redoubtable, that a
man with hands like those should sit patiently on his seat with an unwinking

stare, like a god, or a god's statue. His quiescence seemed ironical and
treacherous, it fitted so poorly with his looks.
Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.

15.

The Bargain of Rupert Orange

Vincent OSullivan
And for weeks he lay with a fiery forehead and blazing eyes, finding the
lightest covering too heavy and ice too hot. Even when the known disease
seemed to have been subdued, certain strange complications arose which
puzzled the physicians: amongst these a painful vomiting which racked the
man's frame and left an exhaustion akin to death, and a curious loathly
decay of the flesh. This last was so venomous an evil, that one of the nurses
having touched the sick man in her ministrations, and neglected to
immediately purify herself, within a few hours incontinently deceased. After a
while, to assist these enemies of Orange, there came pneumonia. It would
seem as though he were experiencing all the maladies from which he had
been free during the past five years; for besides his corporal ills he had
become lunatic, and he was raving. Those who tended him, used as they
were to outrageous scenes, shuddered and held each other's hands when
they heard him shriek his curses, and realised his abject fear of death. At
times, too, they would hear him weeping softly, and whispering the broken
little prayers he had learned in childhood: praying God to save him in this
dark hour from the wiles of the devil.
----------------------------16.

The Bargain of Rupert Orange

Vincent OSullivan

At length, one evening towards the end of March, the mental clearness of
Orange somewhat revived, and he felt himself compelled to get up and put
on his clothes. The nurse, thinking that the patient was resting quietly, and
fearing the shine of the lamp might distress him, had turned it low and gone
away for a little: so it was without interruption, although reeling from
giddiness, and scorched with fever, that Rupert groped about till he found

some garments, and his evening suit. Clad in these, and throwing a cloak
over his shoulders, he went downstairs. Those whom he met, that recognised
him, looked at him wonderingly and with a vague dread; but he appeared to
have his understanding as well as they, and so he passed through the hall
without being stopped; and going into the bar, he called for brandy. The bartender, to whom he was known, exclaimed in astonishment; but he got no
reply from Orange, who, pouring himself out a large quantity of the fiery
liquor found it colder than the coldest iced water in his burning frame. When
he had taken the brandy, he went into the street. It was a bleak seasonable
night, and a bitter frost-rain was falling: but Orange went through it, as if the
bitter weather was a not unwelcome coolness, although he shuddered in an
ague-fit. As he stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street, his cloak thrown
open, the sleet sowing down on his shirt, and the slush which covered his
ankles soaking through his thin shoes, a member of his club came by and
spoke to him.

17.
18.

EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS IS NOBODY'S BUSINESS

Daniel Defoe

This is a proverb so common in everybody's mouth, that I wonder nobody has

yet thought it worthwhile to draw proper inferences from it, and expose those
little abuses, which, though they seem trifling, and as it were scarce worth
consideration, yet, by insensible degrees, they may become of injurious
consequence to the public; like some diseases, whose first symptoms are
only trifling disorders, but by continuance and progression, their last periods
terminate in the destruction of the whole human fabric.
In contradiction therefore to this general rule, and out of sincere love and
well meaning to the public, give me leave to enumerate the abuses
insensibly crept in among us, and the inconveniences daily arising from the
insolence and intrigues of our servant-wenches, who, by their caballing
together, have made their party so considerable, that everybody cries out
against them; and yet, to verify the proverb, nobody has thought of, or at
least proposed a remedy, although such an undertaking, mean as it seems to
be, I hope will one day be thought worthy the consideration of our king, lords,
and commons.
Women servants are now so scarce, that from thirty and forty shillings a year,
their wages are increased of late to six, seven, nay, eight pounds per annum,
and upwards; insomuch that an ordinary tradesman cannot well keep one;
but his wife, who might be useful in his shop or business, must do the
drudgery of household affairs; and all this because our servant-wenches are

so puffed up with pride nowadays, that they never think they go fine enough:
it is a hard matter to know the mistress from the maid by their dress; nay,
very often the maid shall be much the finer of the two.
19. THEODORE DREISER
Sister Carrie
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and liberal now
that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at once. She
needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she never knew. He
said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable
impressions.
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It
blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a jacket.
She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. In
the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. That day
her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill,
and when she reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping
actions and asked her about herself.
I dont know, said Carrie. I feel real bad.
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick.
The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour.
Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she got
up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. The
winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work.
I dont know, said Carrie; Ill go down Monday and see if I cant get
something.
==============================================
================================
20. THEODORE DREISER
Sister Carrie
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because he
did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as being
harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb to his
charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming villain, but
because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief delight. He was vain,
he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A
truly deep-dyed villain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could
have flattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his
geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed
about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasmno power worthy the
name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long
continued in one strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a
Shakespeare would have said my merry child; old, drinking Caryoe thought

him a clever, successful businessman. In short, he was as good as his

intellect conceived.
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the
man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with
ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of
friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught the
beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens. She has
put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored fear of
poisons. He keepeth His creatures whole, was not written of beasts alone.

21.

The History of Henry Esmond

by William M. Thackeray

Our chief whom England and all Europe, saving only the Frenchmen, worshipped almost, had
this of the godlike in him, that he was impassible before victory, before danger, before defeat.
Before the greatest obstacle or the most trivial ceremony; before a hundred thousand men drawn
in battalia, or a peasant slaughtered at the door of his burning hovel; before a carouse of drunken
German lords, or a monarchs court, or a cottage table where his plans were laid, or an enemys
battery, vomiting flame and death, and strewing corpses round about him;he was always cold,
calm, resolute, like fate. He performed a treason or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as
Styx, as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He took a mistress, and left
her; he betrayed his benefactor, and supported him, or would have murdered him, with the same
calmness always, and having no more remorse than Clotho when she weaves the thread, or
Lachesis when she cuts it. In the hour of battle, I have heard the Prince of Savoys officers say, the
Prince became possessed with a sort of warlike fury; his eyes lighted up, he rushed hither and
thither, raging; he shrieked curses and encouragement, yelling and harking his bloody war-dogs
on, and himself always at the first of the hunt. Our Duke was as calm at the mouth of the cannon
as at the door of a drawing-room. Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had he
had a heart either for love or hatred, or pity or fear or regret or remorse. He achieved the highest
deed of daring, or deepest calculation of thought, as he performed the very meanest action of
which a man is capable; told a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar of a

halfpenny, with a like awful serenity and equal capacity of the highest and lowest acts of our
nature.

22. Dombey and Son

by Charles Dickens
Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts in the street; and herds of
shabby vampires, Jews and Christians, overrun the house, sounding the plate-glass mirrors with
their knuckles, striking discordant octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet forefingers over the
pictures, breathing on the blades of the best dinner-knives, punching the squabs of chairs and
sofas with their dirty fists, tousling the feather beds, opening and shutting all the drawers, balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking into the very threads of the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. There is not a secret place in the whole house. Fluffy and snuffy strangers stare
into the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic clothes-press. Stout men with napless hats on,
look out of the bedroom windows, and cut jokes with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating
spirits withdraw into the dressing rooms with catalogues and make marginal notes thereon with
stumps of pencils. Two brokers invade the very fire-escape, and take a panoramic survey of the
neighbourhood from the top of the house. The swarm and buzz, and going up and down, endure
for days. (...)
Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room; and on the capital,
French-polished, extending, telescopic range of Spanish mahogany dining-tables with turned
legs, the pulpit of the auctioneer is erected; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian,
the strangers fluffy and snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats, congregate about it and
sit upon everything within reach, mantelpieces included, and begin to bid.