fresh and sweet and clean

Ethan knew the birds still gathered on the walls, watching him die. He could feel the tension of their wings frozen in flight. He heard a dicelike rattle again. Not rain against the window this time. His breath rattling in a broken throat. No Christmas. Chapter 3 ETHAN OPENED HIS EYES. Traveling far too fast for a residential street, a cherry-red Ferrari Testarossa exploded past, casting up a plume of dirty water from the puddled pavement. Through the side window of the Expedition, the apartment house blurred and tweaked into strange geometry, like a place in a nightmare. As if he’d sustained an electrical shock, he twitched violently, and inhaled with the desperation of a drowning man. The air tasted sweet, fresh and sweet and clean. He exhaled explosively. No gut wound. No chest wound. His hair wasn’t wet with rain. His heart knocked, knocked like a lunatic fist on the padded door of a padded room. Never in his life had Ethan Truman experienced a dream of such clarity, such intensity, nor any nightmare so crisply detailed as the experience in Reynerd’s apartment. He consulted his wristwatch. If he’d been asleep, he had been dreaming for no more than a minute. He couldn’t have explored the convolutions of such an elaborate dream in a mere minute. Impossible. [32] Rain washed the last of the murky residue off the glass. Beyond the dripping fronds of the phoenix palms, the apartment house waited, no longer distorted, but now forever strange. When he’d leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, the better to formulate his approach to Rolf Reynerd, Ethan had not been in the least sleepy. Or even tired.

When the hand came out of the bag

Stopping beside the sofa, not six feet away, Reynerd said, “You work for the Face, don’t you?” At a disadvantage in the armchair, Ethan pretended confusion. “For who?” When the hand came out of the bag, it held a gun. A licensed private investigator and certified bodyguard, Ethan had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Except in the company of Channing Manheim, when he armed himself as a matter of routine, he seldom bothered to strap on his piece. Reynerd’s weapon was a 9-mm pistol. This morning, disturbed by the eye in the apple and by the wolfish grin that this man had revealed on the security tape, Ethan had put on his shoulder holster. He hadn’t expected to need a gun, not really, and in fact he’d felt a little silly for packing it without greater provocation. Now he thanked God that he was armed. “I don’t understand,” he said, trying to look equally bewildered and afraid. “I’ve seen your picture,” Reynerd told him. Ethan glanced toward the open door, the hallway beyond. “I don’t care who sees or hears,” Reynerd told him. “It’s all over anyhow, isn’t it?” “Listen, if my brother George did something to piss you off,” Ethan said, trying to buy a little time. Reynerd wasn’t selling. Even as Ethan dropped the notepad and [30] reached for the 9-mm Glock under his jacket, the apple man shot him point-blank in the gut. For a moment, Ethan felt no pain, but only for a moment. He rocked back in the chair and gaped at the gush of blood. Then agony. He heard the first shot, but he didn’t hear the second. The slug hammered him dead-center in the chest. Everything in the black-and-white apartment went black.

then paused as if in thought

“Potato chips are gonna kill me one day,” Reynerd said as he returned to the kitchen. “With me it’s ice cream. More of it in my arteries than blood.” Ethan printed DEAR GEORGE in block letters, then paused as if in thought, and looked around the room. From the kitchen, Reynerd continued: “They say you can’t ever eat just one potato chip, but I can’t ever eat just one bag.” Two crows perched on an iron fence. A strop of sunlight laid a sharp edge on their beaks. White carpet as pristine as winter snow lay wall to wall. The furniture had been upholstered in a black fabric. From a distance, the Formica surface of the dinette table appeared to be black. Everything in the apartment was black-and-white. Ethan printed UNCLE HARRY IS DYING and then paused again, as if a simple message taxed his powers of composition. The movie music, though soft, had a melodramatic flair. A crime picture from the thirties or forties. Reynerd continued to rummage in kitchen cabinets. Here, two doves appeared to clash in midflight. There, an owl stared wide-eyed, as if shocked by what it saw. Outside, wind had returned to the day. A dice-rattle of rain drew Ethan’s attention to the window. From the kitchen came the distinctive rustle of a foil potato-chip bag. [29] PLEASE CALL ME, Ethan printed. Returning to the living room, Reynerd said, “If you’ve got to eat chips, these are the worst because they’re higher in oil.” Ethan looked up and saw a bag of Hawaiian-style chips. Reynerd had inserted his right hand into the open bag. The way that the bag gloved the apple man’s hand struck Ethan as wrong. The guy might have been reaching in for some chips, of course; but an oddness of attitude, a tenseness in him, suggested otherwise.

to a counter under a wall phone

The living room and dining area comprised one large space. The kitchen was open to this front room, but separated from it by a bar with two stools. Reynerd proceeded into the kitchen, to a counter under a wall phone, while Ethan perched on the edge of an armchair in the living room. The apartment was sparsely furnished. One sofa, one armchair, a coffee table, and a television set. The dining area contained a small table and two chairs. On the television, the MGM lion roared. The sound was low, the roar soft. On the walls were several framed photographs: large sixteen-by-twenty-inch, black-and-white art prints. Birds were the subject of every photo. Reynerd returned with a notepad and a pencil. “This do?” “Perfect,” Ethan said, accepting the items. Reynerd had a dispenser of Scotch tape, as well. “To fix the note on George’s door.” He put the tape on the coffee table. “Thanks,” Ethan said. “I like the photographs.” “Birds are all about being free,” Reynerd said. “I guess they are, aren’t they? The freedom of flight. You take the photos?” “No. I just collect.” In one of the prints, a flock of pigeons erupted in a swirl of feathered [28] frenzy from a cobblestone plaza in front of a backdrop of old European buildings. In another, geese flew in formation across a somber sky. Indicating the black-and-white movie on the TV, Reynerd said, “I was just getting some snacks for the show. You mind ... ?” “Huh? Oh, sure, I’m sorry, forget about me. I’ll jot this down and be gone.” In one of the pictures, the birds had flown directly at the photographer. The shot presented a close-up montage of overlapping wings, crying beaks, and beady black eyes.

An artery began throbbing in his neck

“Away? He didn’t say anything about it to me. You know where he might’ve gone?” Reynerd shook his head. “He was going out with a little suitcase the night before last, as I was coming in.” “He tell you when he’d be back?” “We just said how it looked like rain coming, and then he went out,” Reynerd replied. “Man, he’s so close to Uncle Harry—we both are—he’s going to be upset he didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. Maybe I could leave him a note, so he sees it first thing he gets back.” Reynerd just stared at Ethan. An artery began throbbing in his neck. His speed-cycled brain was racing, but although meth ensured frenetically fast thinking, it didn’t assist clear thinking. “The thing is,” Ethan said, “I don’t have any paper. Or a pen, for that matter.” “Oh. Sure, I got those,” said Reynerd. “I really hate to bother you—” “No bother,” Reynerd assured him, turning away from the open door, going off to find a notepad, a pen. Left at the threshold, Ethan chafed to get into the apartment. He [27] wanted a better look at Reynerd’s nest than he could obtain from the doorway. Just as Ethan decided to risk being rude and to enter without an invitation, Reynerd halted, turned, and said, “Come on in. Sit down.” Now that the invitation had been extended, Ethan could afford to inject a little authenticity into this charade by demurring. “Thanks, but I just came in from the rain—” “Can’t hurt this furniture,” Reynerd assured him. Leaving the door open behind himself, Ethan went inside.

now I guess the party is over

"And just so you boys will know what's coming in the next few days, I'll file at least two lawsuits Monday morning, one here in state court, naming you as defendants, along with the city, county, and half the state. Another one will be filed in federal court, a civil-rights action with a long list of allegations. You will be named in that one also. I might file another one or two, if I can find a cause of action. I plan to contact the Justice Department and request an investigation. For you, Koffee, I plan to file a complaint with the state bar association for ethics violations, not that I expect the state bar to show much of an interest, but you will get chewed up in the process. You might want to start thinking about a resignation. For you, Kerber, early retirement is now a real option. You should be fired, but I doubt the mayor and the city council have the balls to do that. Chief, you were the assistant chief when this investigation got off track. You will be named as a defendant, too. But don't take it personally. I'm suing everybody." The chief slowly stood up and walked toward the door. "You're leaving, Mr. Radford?" the judge asked, in a tone that left no doubt such an abrupt exit would be frowned upon. "My job does not require me to sit and listen to pompous assholes like Robbie Flak," the chief replied. "The meeting is not over," Judge Henry said sternly. "I'd stay if I were you," the mayor said, and the chief decided to stay. He assumed a position by the door. Robbie stared at Kerber and Koffee, then said, "So last night you had a little party by the lake to celebrate; now I guess the party is over." "We always thought Drumm had an accomplice," Koffee managed to blurt out, though his words trailed off under the weight of their own absurdity. Kerber nodded quickly, ready to pounce on any new theory that might save them. "Good God, Paul," Judge Henry roared in disbelief. Robbie was laughing. The mayor's jaw had dropped in shock.

it is time to tell the truth

It's a detailed account of the abduction, sexual assaults, murder, and burial; the same story you have no doubt seen a dozen times now on television. There's also an affidavit signed yesterday by Joey Gamble in which he says he lied at the trial. Any questions?" Silence. He continued, "I have chosen to proceed in this manner out of respect for Nicole's family. I doubt if any of you have the backbone to meet with Reeva tonight and tell her the truth, but at least you have that option. It would be a shame for her to hear it secondhand. Someone needs to tell her tonight. Comments? Anything?" Silence. The mayor cleared his throat and asked, softly, "When will this go public?" "I have asked the authorities in Missouri to sit on it until tomorrow. At nine in the morning, I'm holding a press conference." "God, Robbie, is that really necessary?" the mayor blurted. "It's Mr. Flak to you, Mr. Mayor, and, yes, it is quite necessary. The truth must be told. It's been buried for nine years by the police and the prosecutor, so, yes, it is time to tell the truth. The lies will finally be exposed. After nine years and the execution of an innocent man, the world will finally know that Donte's confession was bogus, and I'll explain the brutal methods used by Detective Kerber to obtain it. I plan to go into great detail describing the lies used at trial--Joey Gamble's and the jailhouse snitch Kerber and Koffee rounded up and cut a deal with--and I'll describe all the dirty tactics used at trial. I'll probably have the opportunity to remind everyone that Mr. Koffee was sleeping with the judge during the trial, just in case anyone has forgotten. I wish the bloodhound were still alive--what was his name?" "Yogi," Carlos said. "How could I forget? I wish ol' Yogi were still alive so I could show him to the world and call him a stupid son of a bitch again. I figure it might be a long press conference. You boys are invited. Questions? Comments?" Paul Koffee's mouth opened slightly as if words were being formed, but words failed him. Robbie was far from finished.

but with the silver buckle

He was right." Next photo: a close-up of the MasterCard, also stained but with her name easily readable. "Boyette told us he killed her by choking her with her black leather belt with a silver buckle." Next photo: a length of black leather, partially decomposed, but with the silver buckle. "I have a complete set of these photos for you boys to take home and look at all night. At this point, we called the sheriff of Newton County and surrendered the site." Next photo: the sheriff and three of his deputies gawking at the skeletal remains. "The site was soon crawling with police and investigators, and the decision was made to leave her remains in the box and take it to the satellite crime lab there in Joplin. That's where it is now. I gave the authorities a copy of Nicole's dental X-rays, a copy of the same set you boys inadvertently handed over when you were playing games with discovery before the trial. I have talked to the crime lab, and the case has priority. They expect to finish the preliminary identification tonight. We are expecting a phone call any moment. They will examine everything in the toolbox and hopefully find evidence for DNA testing. This is a long shot, but DNA is not crucial. It's pretty clear who was buried in the box, and there's no doubt who did the killing. Boyette has a lethal brain tumor--that's one reason he came forward--and he's subject to violent seizures. He collapsed at the site and was taken to a hospital in Joplin. Somehow, he managed to leave the hospital without being detected, and as of now no one knows where he is. He's considered a suspect, but he was not under arrest when he disappeared." Robbie stared at Koffee and Kerber as he delivered his narrative, but they were unable to maintain eye contact. Koffee was pinching the bridge of his nose, while Kerber picked his cuticles. There were three identical black binders in the center of the table, and Robbie gently slid them over, one each for Koffee, Kerber, and Radford. Robbie continued, "In these, you each have a complete set of the photos, along with a few other goodies--Boyette's arrest record here in Slone, which proves he was here at the time of the murder. In fact, you boys actually had him in jail at the same time Donte Drumm was locked up. There is also a copy of his extensive criminal record and history of incarcerations. His affidavit is included, but you don't really need to read it.

The trip took just under six hours

Robbie was seated directly across from Kerber, Koffee, and Radford, all three still and subdued as if waiting for a death sentence. Robbie started by saying, "We left Slone this morning around five and drove to Newton County, Missouri. Travis Boyette was with us. The trip took just under six hours. With Boyette giving directions, we worked our way through a remote section of the county, along back roads, then dirt trails, then to a place known locally as Roop's Mountain. Secluded, remote, overgrown. Boyette struggled to remember it at times, but eventually led us to the place where he claims he buried Nicole Yarber." Robbie nodded at Carlos, who punched a key on his laptop. At the far end of the room, on a whiteboard, a photo of the overgrown clearing appeared. Robbie continued, "We found the site and began to dig." The next photo was of Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor with shovels. "When Boyette was here in Slone in the fall of 1998, he worked for a company called R. S. McGuire and Sons out of Fort Smith. He kept a large metal box, one that was once used for hydraulic tools, in the back of his truck, and he used it to bury her." Next photo: the top of the orange toolbox. "The soil was not hard, and within ten, maybe fifteen minutes we found this." Next photo: the top half of the toolbox with "R. S. McGuire and Sons" stenciled on it. "As you can see, the toolbox opened from the top with a latch to the side. The latch was secured by a combination lock, which Boyette claimed he bought at a hardware store in Springdale, Arkansas. Boyette remembered the combination and unlocked it." Next photo: Boyette kneeling at the grave, handling the lock. The color drained from Koffee's face, and Kerber had perspiration on his forehead. "When we opened the box, this is what we found." Next photo: the skeleton. "Before we opened it, Boyette told us there would be a wad of clothing next to her head." Next photo: the clothing next to the skull. "He also told us that rolled up in the clothing we would find Nicole's driver's license and a credit card.

as always in a dark suit

Keith pulled his belt tight and buckled it. "He was fixated on you, Dana. He mentioned you several times, something like, 'That cute little wife of yours.' " "I'm not worried about Travis Boyette. He'd be a fool to come back to Topeka." "He's done dumber things. Look at all the arrests." "We need to go. The game is at 6:30." "I can't wait. I need something to distract me. Do we have a bottle of Communion wine around here?" "I think so." "Good. I need a drink. Let's go watch a little soccer, then we'll spend the rest of the night debriefing." "I want to hear everything." Chapter 33 The meeting was arranged by Judge Elias Henry, and while he did not have the authority to order people around on a Friday night, his powers of persuasion were more than enough. Paul Koffee and Drew Kerber arrived in the judge's chambers promptly at 8:00 p.m. Joe Radford followed them in, and the three sat together on one side of the judge's worktable. Robbie had been there for thirty minutes, along with Carlos, and the atmosphere was already toxic. There were no greetings, no handshakes, no pleasantries. A moment later Mayor Rooney arrived and sat by himself, away from the table. Judge Henry, as always in a dark suit, white shirt, and orange tie, began solemnly. "Everyone is here. Mr. Flak has some information."

but there was no response

"I have needs," Boyette said. "I don't have a dime and no prospects of finding one. Just curious, that's all." "That's all?" Robbie repeated. "The execution is less than six hours away, and our chances of stopping it are very slim. Texas is about to execute an innocent man, and I'm sitting here with the real killer, who suddenly wants to get paid for what he's done." "Who says I'm the real killer?" "You," Keith blurted. "You told me you killed her and you know where the body is buried because you buried it. Stop playing games, Travis." "If I recall correctly, her father put up a bunch of dough when they were trying to find her. Something like $200,000. That right, Mr. Flak?" "That was nine years ago. If you think you're in line for the reward money, you're badly mistaken." Robbie's words were measured, but an explosion was imminent. "Why do you want money?" Keith asked. "According to your own words, you'll be dead in a few months. The tumor, remember?" "Thanks for reminding me, Pastor." Robbie glared at Boyette with unrestrained hatred. The truth was that Robbie, at that moment, would sign over every asset he could find in exchange for a nice thick affidavit that told the truth and might save his client. There was a long stretch of silence as the three contemplated what to do next. Boyette grimaced and then began rubbing his slick head. He placed both palms on both temples and pressed as hard as possible, as if pressure from the outside world would relieve the pressure from within. "Are you having a seizure?" Keith asked, but there was no response. "He has these seizures," Keith said to Robbie, as if an explanation would help matters. "Caffeine helps." Robbie jumped to his feet and left the room. Outside his office, he told Aaron and Pryor, "The son of a bitch wants money." He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of stale coffee, found two paper cups, and returned to his office. He poured a cup for Boyette, who was bent double at the waist, elbows on knees, cradling his head, and moaning. "Here's some coffee." Silence. Finally, Boyette said, "I'm going to be sick. I need to lie down."

almost yelling at the camera

Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, "I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera." "That's me. Where were you?" "I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn't believe they had arrested the wrong guy." "That's right, the wrong guy." For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donte. They left the conference room and walked into Robbie's office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next. Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. "Would you like some coffee or something to drink?" he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching or blinking. Keith cleared his throat and said, "Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven't eaten in a long time. We're starving." Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water. "No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let's hear what you have to say." The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "Well, the first thing I want to know is if there's any reward money on the table." Keith dropped his head and said, "Oh my God." "You're not serious, are you?" Robbie asked. "I suppose everything is serious right now, Mr. Flak," Boyette said. "Wouldn't you agree?" "This is the first mention of reward money," Keith said, completely exasperated.

several more covering his arms

"White male, you wouldn't call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who's spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don't blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag." Robbie took a deep breath and then said, "So they're here." "They are indeed. We'll be there in a matter of minutes." "Hurry up." He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered around the table, all watching him. "It might be somewhat intimidating for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him," Robbie said. "Let's pretend like it's business as usual. I'll take him to my office and ask the first questions." Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who'd represented him briefly after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger from 1998. They had the building records from the Monsanto warehouse where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year. Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited. When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble. "The First Baptist Church burned last night," Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. "Now there's a fire at a black church over there." He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town. "They're burning churches?" he asked. "Yep." Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up. "Where's Robbie?" Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.

The cane was resting between his legs

In the parking lot, an Audi stopped abruptly next to the Subaru, and two men--Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor--crawled out. Quick introductions were made. Aaron and Fred looked closely at Boyette, sizing him up, asking themselves if the guy was real. Robbie would want to know as soon as they got back in the car and called him. Aaron said, "We're about fifteen minutes from the office, and we'll have to detour around downtown. There's a lot going on. Just stick close, okay?" "Let's go," Keith said, anxious to finish this interminable drive. They drove away, the Subaru tailgating the Audi. Boyette seemed calm, even detached. The cane was resting between his legs. He thumped its handle with his fingers, in much the same way he'd been doing for the past ten hours. When they passed the sign indicating the municipal boundaries of Slone, Boyette said, "I never thought I'd see this place again." "Recognize it?" The tic, the pause. "Not really. I've seen a lot of these places, Pastor, small hick towns everywhere. After a while, they tend to blur together." "Anything special about Slone?" "Nicole. I killed her." "And she was the only one you killed?" "I didn't say that, Pastor." "So there are others?" "Didn't say that either. Let's talk about something else." "And what would you like to talk about, Travis?" "How'd you meet your wife?" "I've told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You're much too concerned with my wife." "She's so cute." On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, "Talk to me, Fred." "We met them; they're behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird sidekick." "Describe Boyette."

His speech was crisp

A man named Rusty walked in and announced, "Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones." "Where?" "In Slone, near Washington Park." The thought of a retaliatory church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we'll give 'em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house. Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled along with a cane. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom. Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said "Good morning" to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it. "You from around here?" Jesse asked as he rung up the water. "No, just passing through," Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Yankee. "You a preacher?" "Yes. I'm a Lutheran minister," Keith said as he caught a nose full of onion rings being removed from hot grease. A hunger pain hit and buckled his knees. He was starving, and exhausted, but there was no time for food. Boyette was shuffling over. Keith handed him a bottle, said "Thanks" to Jesse, and turned for the door. Boyette nodded at Jesse, who said, "You boys have a good day." And with that, Jesse spoke to the man who murdered his niece.

and that she had heard none but good report

She next turned to General Epanchin and observed, most courteously, that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard none but good report; that she had learned to think of them with deep and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in any way serve them, would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness. It was true that she was lonely in her present life; Totski had judged her thoughts aright. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to family life and new hopes and objects, but as to Gavrila Ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much. She thought it must be the case that he loved her; she felt that she too might learn to love him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself; but he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What she specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported his family by his toil. She had heard that he was proud and ambitious; she had heard much that was interesting of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from Mr. Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance, but--another question!--would they like to receive her into their house? At all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she desired not to be hurried. As for the seventy-five thousand roubles, Mr. Totski need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the matter; she quite understood the value of money, and would, of course, accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no reason why Gavrila Ardalionovitch should not know about it. She would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not intend to ask forgiveness for anything in the past, which fact she desired to be known. She did not consider herself to blame for anything that had happened in former years, and she thought that Gavrila Ardalionovitch should be informed as to the relations which had existed between herself and Totski during the last five years. If she accepted this money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but merely as compensation for her ruined life.

she had looked with some favour upon it

The young fellow had confessed this love of his to him (Totski) and had also admitted it in the hearing of his benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could not help being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania's love for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with some favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to speak to her of these matters, Totski concluded by saying that he trusted Nastasia Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would have been left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything, but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc., etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them. Nastasia Philipovna's reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the friends considerably. Not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which sent a cold chill down Totski's back to this very day; but she seemed charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously with him for once in a way. She confessed that she had long wished to have a frank and free conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but that pride had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity. First, with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now quite out of the question. She said that she had long since changed her views of things, and recognized that facts must be taken into consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart. What was done was done and ended, and she could not understand why Totski should still feel alarmed.

he must have solid guarantees of some sort

When Totski had approached the general with his request for friendly counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to promise to leave him entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her; words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some sort. So he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia's house one day, with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all to her generosity of heart. General Epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her right to be the arbiter of Totski's destiny at this moment. He then pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his other daughters, now hung upon her reply. To Nastasia's question as to what they wished her to do, Totski confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married. He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course, be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family, namely, Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted, and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately, and would give his life for some response from her.

to the girl of a few years ago

He had sufficient insight to understand that she valued nothing in the world--herself least of all--and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects. For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened; but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted, as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made to look ridiculous in the eyes of society. He knew well that Nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo, Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was strengthened by the fact that Nastasia Philipovna had curiously altered of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She was pretty then . . . but now! . . . Totski laughed angrily when he thought how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered. She was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski had rather despised such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasia laughed at the idea of such a thing, now! However, it appeared to Totski that he might make use of her in another way; and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command. In this way he might gain glory in certain circles.

and stop for no one

The fact was, Totski was at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should! At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totski that he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no one. There was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against whom or what, some insatiable contempt--in a word, something altogether absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up. For a man of Totski's wealth and standing, it would, of course, have been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for Nastasia Philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold good in case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency. She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct by some extraordinary eccentricity. Here the sound judgment of Totski stood him in good stead. He realized that Nastasia Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some entirely different intention. Nastasia Philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a sense of loathing and contempt.

the news of the day

The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid, inscrutable eyes, soft as a dove's, while he chatted at large about theaters, politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met the Celtic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him the technique of the office. With no further preliminaries Banneker found himself employed at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day off and directions to report on the first of the month. As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o'clock, Mr. Gordon sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic. "I practically had to take that young desert antelope on," said he. "Too ingenuous to turn down," surmised the city editor. "Ingenuous! He's heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I'm afraid I've made a ghastly mistake." "Something wrong with him?" "I've had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up." "Pretty weird?" put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully fitting overcoat. "So damned good that I don't see how The Sphere ever came to take it. Greenough, you'll have to find some pretext for firing that young phenomenon as soon as possible." Perfectly comprehending his superior's mode of indirect expression the city editor replied: "You think so highly of him as that?" "Not one of our jobs will be safe from him if he once gets his foot planted," prophesied the other with mock ruefulness. "Do you know," he added, "I never even asked him for a reference." "You don't need to," pronounced Mallory, shaking the last wrinkle out of himself and lighting the cigarette of departure. "He's got it in his face, if I'm any judge." Highly elate, Banneker walked on springy pavements all the way to Grove Street. Fifteen a week! He could live on that. His other income and savings could be devoted to carrying out Miss Camilla's advice. For he need not save any more. He would go ahead, fast, now that he had got his start. How easy it had been.

We were both hoboes then

"He started by reading everything he could find about money and coinage and stocks and bonds and other financial paper. He told me that it was incredible the things that financial experts didn't know about their own business--the deep-down things--and that he guessed it was so with any business. He got on top by really knowing the things that everybody was supposed to know." "A sound theory, I dare say. Most financiers aren't so revealing." "He and I were padding the hoof together. We were both hoboes then." The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. "From bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?" "The biggest in a medium-sized city." "And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?" "What? Write him up?" "It would make a fairly sensational story." "I couldn't do that. He was my friend. He wouldn't like it." Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bit scarified. "Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long way toward getting you a chance on this paper--Sit down, Mr. Banneker." "You and I," said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, "can't deal." "Yes, we can." The managing editor threw his steel blade on the desk. "Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on this paper--I'm going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor, with a request that he give you a trial--you'll be expected to subordinate every personal interest and advantage to the interests and advantages of the paper, _except_ your sense of honor and fair-play. We don't ask you to give that up; and if you do give it up, we don't want you at all. What have you done besides be a hobo?" "Railroading. Station-agent." "Where were you educated?" "Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up." "Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?" "Yes." The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. "Ree-markable! Keep on. He's a good offset to--to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on The Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough."

As I wanted to get on a newspaper

"How long have you been in New York?" "Thirty-three days." "And what have you been doing?" "Reading newspapers." "No! Reading--That's rather surprising. All of them?" "All that I could manage." "Some were so bad that you couldn't worry through them, eh?" asked the other with appreciation. "Not that. But I didn't know the foreign languages except French, and Spanish, and a little Italian." "The foreign-language press, too. Remarkable!" murmured the other. "Do you mind telling me what your idea was?" "It was simple enough. As I wanted to get on a newspaper, I thought I ought to find out what newspapers were made of." "Simple, as you say. Beautifully simple! So you've devised for yourself the little job of perfecting yourself in every department of journalism; politics, finances, criminal, sports, society; all of them, eh?" "No; not all," replied Banneker. "Not? What have you left out?" "Society news" was the answer, delivered less promptly than the other replies. Bestowing a twinkle of mingled amusement and conjecture upon the applicant's clothing, Mr. Gordon said: "You don't approve of our social records? Or you're not interested? Or why is it that you neglect this popular branch?" "Personal reasons." This reply, which took the managing editor somewhat aback, was accurate if not explanatory. Miss Van Arsdale's commentaries upon Gardner and his quest had inspired Banneker with a contemptuous distaste for this type of journalism. But chiefly he had shunned the society columns from dread of finding there some mention of her who had been Io Welland. He was resolved to conquer and evict that memory; he would not consciously put himself in the way of anything that recalled it. "Hum! And this notion of making an intensive study of the papers; was that original with you?" "Well, no, not entirely. I got it from a man who made himself a bank president in seven years." "Yes? How did he do that?"

It was a policeman that pointed it out

"No. I don't think so. Mr. Homans." A graying man with the gait of a marionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, who had just entered, crossed over. "Have we sent out any checks to a Mr. Banneker recently, in California?" The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for the Sunday edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was to be expected. "No," he said positively. "But I've cashed the checks," returned Banneker, annoyed and bewildered. "And I've seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of--" "Just a moment. You're not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were? Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger." "Oh!" said Banneker. "It was a policeman that pointed it out. I suppose I saw wrong." He paused; then looked up ingenuously. "But, anyway, I'd rather be on The Ledger." Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened knuckle. "Would you! Now, why?" "I've been reading it. I like the way it does things." The editor laughed outright. "If you didn't look so honest, I would think that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many other places have you tried?" "None." "You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?" "No. Because they printed what I wrote." "The Sphere's ways are not our ways," pronounced Mr. Gordon primly. "It's a fundamental difference in standards." "I can see that." "Oh, you can, can you?" chuckled the other. "But it's true that we have no opening here." (The Ledger never did have an "opening"; but it managed to wedge in a goodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent of whom were automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. Gordon performed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint and wondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among the redeemable ten per cent.) "I can wait." (They often said that.) "For a while," added the youth thoughtfully.

I've had to use it a good deal myself

The look above the lowered glasses became slightly quizzical. "You're exact, at least. Patient, too. Good qualities for a newspaper man. That's what you are?" "What I'm going to be," amended Banneker. "There is no opening here at present." "That's formula, isn't it?" asked the young man, smiling. The other stared. "It is. But how do you know?" "It's the tone, I suppose. I've had to use it a good deal myself, in railroading." "Observant, as well as exact and patient. Come in. I'm sorry I misplaced your card. The name is--?" "Banneker, E. Banneker." Following the editor, he passed through a large, low-ceilinged room, filled with desk-tables, each bearing a heavy crystal ink-well full of a fluid of particularly virulent purple. A short figure, impassive as a Mongol, sat at a corner desk, gazing out over City Hall Park with a rapt gaze. Across from him a curiously trim and graceful man, with a strong touch of the Hibernian in his elongated jaw and humorous gray eyes, clipped the early evening editions with an effect of highly judicious selection. Only one person sat in all the long files of the work-tables, littered with copy-paper and disarranged newspapers; a dark young giant with the discouraged and hurt look of a boy kept in after school. All this Banneker took in while the managing editor was disposing, usually with a single penciled word or number, of a sheaf of telegraphic "queries" left upon his desk. Having finished, he swiveled in his chair, to face Banneker, and, as he spoke, kept bouncing the thin point of a letter-opener from the knuckles of his left hand. His hands were fat and nervous. "So you want to do newspaper work?" "Yes." "Why?" "I think I can make a go of it." "Any experience?" "None to speak of. I've written a few things. I thought you might remember my name." "Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?" "You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. From Manzanita, California."

though dry and mild for the season

If they could both fall together into the current now, their arms would be so tightly clasped together that they could not be saved; they would go out of the world almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to him for marrying her. His last half-hour with her would have been a loving one, while if they lived till he awoke his daytime aversion would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a transient dream. The impulse stirred in her, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she valued her own life had been proved; but his - she had no right to tamper with it. He reached the other side with her in safety. Here they were within a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and taking a new hold of her he went onward a few steps till they reached the ruined choir of the Abbey-church. Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefully laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time he breathed deeply, as if a greatly desired end were attained. Clare then lay down on the ground alongside, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. The spurt of mental excitement which had produced the effort was now over. Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the season, was more than sufficiently cold to make it dangerous for him to remain here long, in his half-clothed state. If he were left to himself he would in all probability stay there till the morning, and be chilled to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleep-walking. But how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been doing, when it would mortify him to discover his folly in respect of her? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook him slightly, but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the sheet being but a poor protection. Her excitement had in a measure kept her warm during the few minutes' adventure; but that beatific interval was over. It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion; and accordingly she whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could summon--

she had not yet divined

His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet divined; and she found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to him that it pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession, to dispose of as he should choose. It was consoling, under the hovering terror of to-morrow's separation, to feel that he really recognized her now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of harming her. Ah! now she knew what he was dreaming of - that Sunday morning when he had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who had loved him nearly as much as she, if that were possible, which Tess could hardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but proceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoining mill, at length stood still on the brink of the river. Its waters, in creeping down these miles of meadow-land, frequently divided, serpentining in purposeless curves, looping themselves around little islands that had no name, returning and re-embodying themselves as a broad main stream further on. Opposite the spot to which he had brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow foot-bridge; but now the autumn flood had washed the handrail away, leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads; and Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the daytime young men walking across upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly observed the same performance; anyhow, he now mounted the plank, and, sliding one foot forward, advanced along it. Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of accomplishment. He might drown her if he would; It would be better than parting to-morrow to lead severed lives. The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and splitting the moon's reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and intercepted weeds waved behind the piles.

and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud

After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of unmeasurable woe he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her across the room, murmuring-- `My poor, poor Tess - my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so true!' The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling, have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing. `My wife - dead, dead!' he said. He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable. However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips - lips in the daytime scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and descended the staircase. The creak of the loose stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands from his grasp of her for a moment, he slid back the door-bar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that he could carry her with ease, the absence of clothes taking much from his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the river a few yards distant.

She saw the door of her bedroom open

That day he began to pack up, and she went upstairs and began to pack also. Both knew that it was in their two minds that they might part the next morning for ever, despite the gloss of assuaging conjectures thrown over their proceeding because they were of the sort to whom any parting which has an air of finality is a torture. He knew, and she knew, that, though the fascination which each had exercised over the other - on her part independently of accomplishments - would probably in the first days of their separation be even more potent than ever, time must attenuate that effect; the practical arguments against accepting her as a housemate might pronounce themselves more strongly in the boreal light of a remoter view. Moreover, when two people are once parted have abandoned a common domicile and a common environment - new growths insensibly bud upward to fill each vacated place; unforeseen accidents hinder intentions, and old plans are forgotten. Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing to announce it in the Valley of the Froom. Not long after one o'clock there was a slight creak in the darkened farmhouse once the mansion of the d'Urbervilles. Tess, who used the upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the corner step of the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the door of her bedroom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of moonlight with a curiously careful tread. He was in his shirt and trousers only, and her first flush of `joy died when she perceived that his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached the middle of the room he stood still and murmured, in tones of indescribable sadness-- `Dead! dead! dead!' Under the influence of any strongly-disturbing force Clare would occasionally walk in his sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as he had done on the night of their return from market just before their marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had wrought him into that somnambulistic state now. Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart that, awake or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed her trust in his protectiveness. Clare came close, and bent over her. `Dead, dead, dead!' he murmured.

which bore the ring that mocked them both

`I have thought over what you say,' she remarked to him, moving her forefinger over the tablecloth, her other hand, which bore the ring that mocked them both, supporting her forehead. `It is quite true all of it; it must be. You must go away from me.' `But what can you do?' `I can go home.' Clare had not thought of that. `Are you sure?' he inquired. `Quite sure. We ought to part, and we may as well get it past and done. You once said that I was apt to win men against their better judgment; and if I am constantly before your eyes I may cause you to change your plans in opposition to your reason and wish; and afterwards your repentance and my sorrow will be terrible.' `And you would like to go home?' he asked. `I want to leave you, and go home.' `Then it shall be so.' Though she did not look up at him, she started. There was a difference between the proposition and the covenant, which she had felt only too quickly. `I feared it would come to this,' she murmured, her countenance meekly fixed. `I don't complain, Angel. I - I think it best. What you said has quite convinced me. Yes, though nobody else should reproach me if we should stay together, yet somewhen, years hence, you might get angry with me for any ordinary matter, and knowing what you do of my bygones you yourself might be tempted to say words, and they might be overheard, perhaps by my own children. O, what only hurts me now would torture and kill me then! I will go - to-morrow.' `And I shall not stay here. Though I didn't like to initiate it, I have seen that it was advisable we should part - at least for a while, till I can better see the shape that things have taken, and can write to you.' Tess stole a glance at her husband. He was pale, even tremulous; but, as before, she was appalled by the determination revealed in the depths of this gentle being she had married - the will to subdue the grosser to the subtler emotion, the substance to the conception, the flesh to the spirit. Propensities, tendencies, habits, were as dead leaves upon the tyrannous wind of his imaginative ascendency. He may have observed her look, for he explained-- `I think of people more kindly when I am away from them'; adding cynically, `God knows; perhaps we shall shake down together some day, for weariness; thousands have done it!'

This changed the subject in an instant

As we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult vision to realize this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands in my pockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my attention, I opened it and found it to be the playbill I had received from Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of Roscian renown. `And bless my heart,' I involuntarily added aloud, `it's to-night!' This changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly resolve to go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort and abet Herbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and impracticable means, and when Herbert had told me that his affianced already knew me by reputation and that I should be presented to her, and when we had warmly shaken hands upon our mutual confidence, we blew out our candles, made up our fire, locked our door, and issued forth in quest of Mr Wopsle and Denmark. ON our arrival in Denmark, we found the king and queen of that country elevated in two arm-chairs on a kitchen-table, holding a Court. The whole of the Danish nobility were in attendance; consisting of a noble boy in the wash-leather boots of a gigantic ancestor, a venerable Peer with a dirty face who seemed to have risen from the people late in life, and the Danish chivalry with a comb in its hair and a pair of white silk legs, and presenting on the whole a feminine appearance. My gifted townsman stood gloomily apart, with folded arms, and I could have wished that his curls and forehead had been more probable. Several curious little circumstances transpired as the action proceeded. The late king of the country not only appeared to have been troubled with a cough at the time of his decease, but to have taken it with him to the tomb, and to have brought it back. The royal phantom also carried a ghostly manuscript round its truncheon, to which it had the appearance of occasionally referring, and that, too, with an air of anxiety and a tendency to lose the place of reference which were suggestive of a state of mortality. It was this, I conceive, which led to the Shade's being advised by the gallery to `turn over!' - a recommendation which it took extremely ill. It was likewise to be noted of this majestic spirit that whereas it always appeared with an air of having been out a long time and walked an immense distance, it perceptibly came from a closely contiguous wall. This occasioned its terrors to be received derisively.

I think we are all engaged

`I don't know,' said Herbert, `that's what I want to know. Because it is decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte who was next me and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example. Little Jane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially established, you might suppose her to have passed her short existence in the perpetual contemplation of domestic bliss. Little Alick in a frock has already made arrangements for his union with a suitable young person at Kew. And indeed, I think we are all engaged, except the baby.' `Then you are?' said I. `I am,' said Herbert; `but it's a secret.' I assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favoured with further particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly of my weakness that I wanted to know something about his strength. `May I ask the name?' I said. `Name of Clara,' said Herbert. `Live in London?' `Yes. perhaps I ought to mention,' said Herbert, who had become curiously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting theme, `that she is rather below my mother's nonsensical family notions. Her father had to do with the victualling of passenger-ships. I think he was a species of purser.' `What is he now?' said I. `He's an invalid now,' replied Herbert. `Living on - ?' `On the first floor,' said Herbert. Which was not at all what I meant, for I had intended my question to apply to his means. `I have never seen him, for he has always kept his room overhead, since I have known Clara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes tremendous rows - roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful instrument.' In looking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert for the time recovered his usual lively manner. `Don't you expect to see him?' said I. `Oh yes, I constantly expect to see him,' returned Herbert, `because I never hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling through the ceiling. But I don't know how long the rafters may hold.' When he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and told me that the moment he began to realize Capital, it was his intention to marry this young lady. He added as a self-evident proposition, engendering low spirits, `But you can't marry, you know, while you're looking about you.'

smote upon my heart again

I turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old marsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had subdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists were solemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village finger-post, smote upon my heart again. There was silence between us for a little while. `Yes; but my dear Handel,' Herbert went on, as if we had been talking instead of silent, `its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of a boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very serious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of Miss Havisham. Think of what she is herself (now I am repulsive and you abominate me). This may lead to miserable things.' `I know it, Herbert,' said I, with my head still turned away, `but I can't help it.' `You can't detach yourself?' `No. Impossible!' `You can't try, Handel?' `No. Impossible!' `Well!' said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had been asleep, and stirring the fire; `now I'll endeavour to make myself agreeable again!' So he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the chairs in their places, tidied the books and so forth that were lying about, looked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut the door, and came back to his chair by the fire: where he sat down, nursing his left leg in both arms. `I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my father's son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my father's son to remark that my father's establishment is not particularly brilliant in its housekeeping.' `There is always plenty, Herbert,' said I: to say something encouraging. `Oh yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest approval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street. Gravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is, as well as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father had not given matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone. May I ask you if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking, down in your part of the country, that the children of not exactly suitable marriages, are always most particularly anxious to be married?' This was such a singular question, that I asked him in return, `Is it so?'

and he must bide his client's time

`Now, Handel,' Herbert replied, in his gay hopeful way, `it seems to me that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into our gift-horse's mouth with a magnifying-glass. Likewise, it seems to me that, concentrating our attention on the examination, we altogether overlook one of the best points of the animal. Didn't you tell me that your guardian, Mr Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you were not endowed with expectations only? And even if he had not told you so - though that is a very large If, I grant - could you believe that of all men in London, Mr Jaggers is the man to hold his present relations towards you unless he were sure of his ground?' I said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it (people often do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant concession to truth and justice; - as if I wanted to deny it! `I should think it was a strong point,' said Herbert, `and I should think you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest, you must bide your guardian's time, and he must bide his client's time. You'll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and then perhaps you'll get some further enlightenment. At all events, you'll be nearer getting it, for it must come at last.' `What a hopeful disposition you have!' said I, gratefully admiring his cheery ways. `I ought to have,' said Herbert, `for I have not much else. I must acknowledge, by-the-bye, that the good sense of what I have just said is not my own, but my father's. The only remark I ever heard him make on your story, was the final one: "The thing is settled and done, or Mr Jaggers would not be in it." And now before I say anything more about my father, or my father's son, and repay confidence with confidence, I want to make myself seriously disagreeable to you for a moment - positively repulsive.' `You won't succeed,' said I. `Oh yes I shall!' said he. `One, two, three, and now I am in for it. Handel, my good fellow;' though he spoke in this light tone, he was very much in earnest: `I have been thinking since we have been talking with our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition of your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian. Am I right in so understanding what you have told me, as that he never referred to her, directly or indirectly, in any way? Never even hinted, for instance, that your patron might have views as to your marriage ultimately?' `Never.' `Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavour of sour grapes, upon my soul and honour! Not being bound to her, can you not detach yourself from her? - I told you I should be disagreeable.'

but thought it not worth disputing

`Told me! You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I have had senses to perceive it. You have always adored her, ever since I have known you. You brought your adoration and your portmanteau here, together. Told me! Why, you have always told me all day long. When you told me your own story, you told me plainly that you began adoring her the first time you saw her, when you were very young indeed.' `Very well, then,' said I, to whom this was a new and not unwelcome light, `I have never left off adoring her. And she has come back, a most beautiful and most elegant creature. And I saw her yesterday. And if I adored her before, I now doubly adore her.' `Lucky for you then, Handel,' said Herbert, `that you are picked out for her and allotted to her. Without encroaching on forbidden ground, we may venture to say that there can be no doubt between ourselves of that fact. Have you any idea yet, of Estella's views on the adoration question?' I shook my head gloomily. `Oh! She is thousands of miles away, from me,' said I. `Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough. But you have something more to say?' `I am ashamed to say it,' I returned, `and yet it's no worse to say it than to think it. You call me a lucky fellow. Of course, I am. I was a blacksmith's boy but yesterday; I am - what shall I say I am - to-day?' `Say, a good fellow, if you want a phrase,' returned Herbert, smiling, and clapping his hand on the back of mine, `a good fellow, with impetuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffidence, action and dreaming, curiously mixed in him.' I stopped for a moment to consider whether there really was this mixture in my character. On the whole, I by no means recognized the analysis, but thought it not worth disputing. `When I ask what I am to call myself to-day, Herbert,' I went on, `I suggest what I have in my thoughts. You say I am lucky. I know I have done nothing to raise myself in life, and that Fortune alone has raised me; that is being very lucky. And yet, when I think of Estella--' (`And when don't you, you know?' Herbert threw in, with his eyes on the fire; which I thought kind and sympathetic of him.) ` - Then, my dear Herbert, I cannot tell you how dependent and uncertain I feel, and how exposed to hundreds of chances. Avoiding forbidden ground, as you did just now, I may still say that on the constancy of one person (naming no person) all my expectations depend. And at the best, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only to know so vaguely what they are!' In saying this, I relieved my mind of what had always been there, more or less, though no doubt most since yesterday.

I had so invariably paid her

I will not reason here- nor will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved thatI was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken; and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the interim- in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private- a circumstance occurred- an unlucky circumstance- to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,"- here he hesitated and looked down. "Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection- but I need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye- "your particular intimacy- you have probably heard the whole story long ago." "I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all; and how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business I confess is beyond my comprehension." "Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge- that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding- I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment; and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish- I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured morethan herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind- oh, how infinitely superior!" "Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl- I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be- your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.

by every means in my power

Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying:"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing anything more on the subject." "I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied. "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free, yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much- I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing." "You did, then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?" "To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.

your coming here in this manner

"At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. "Yes,- I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nunchion at Marlborough." The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection,"Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it than you mean by it?" "I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like "Is this the real reason of your coming?" "Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and, in spite of herself, made her think him sincere. "If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne does, she has long forgiven you." "Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. Now will you listen to me?" Elinor bowed her assent. "I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how you may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,- it is worth the trial, however,- and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance, than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person, and interesting manners, could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first was of a kind- it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first, I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.

he cried with vehemence

Your business cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house." "Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and only you." "With me!"- in the utmost amazement- "well, sir, be quick- and if you can, less violent." "Sit down, and I will be both." She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her there came across her. But she had promised to hear him; and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair; and for half a minute not a word was said by either. "Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time to spare." He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. "Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards, "is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true? Is it really true?" Elinor would not speak. He repeated the enquiry with yet greater eagerness. "For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?" "We hope she is." He rose up, and walked across the room. "Had I known as much half an hour ago;- but since I am here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,- "what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood- it will be the last time, perhaps- let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly," a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?" Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that be must be in liquor;- the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying,"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you, at present, to return to Combe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow." "I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to overset me."

The wind roared round the house

Mrs. Jennings, therefore, attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced that at the moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity. Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped at the door- of her doubt- her dread- perhaps her despair!- and of what she had to tell! with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore, staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs. The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room: she entered it- and saw only Willoughby. Chapter 44 ELINOR, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room; and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour- for ten minutes- I entreat you to stay." "No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall not stay.

you will cry out with pain

'That was forty,' said O'Brien. 'You can see that the numbers on this dial run up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our conversation, that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to whatever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level of intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you understand that?' 'Yes,' said Winston. O'Brien's manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish. 'I am taking trouble with you, Winston,' he said, 'because you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally deranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other events which never happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it, because you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment, which power is Oceania at war with?' 'When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.' 'With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia, has it not?' Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to speak and then did not speak. He could not take his eyes away from the dial. 'The truth, please, Winston. Your truth. Tell me what you think you remember.' 'I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, we were not at war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance with them. The war was against Eurasia. That had lasted for four years. Before that --' O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand. 'Another example,' he said. 'Some years ago you had a very serious delusion indeed. You believed that three men, three onetime Party members named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford men who were executed for treachery and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession -- were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen unmistakable documentary evidence proving that their confessions were false. There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination. You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It was a photograph something like this.'

when he should be fed

He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O'Brien's voice. All through his interrogation, although he had never seen him, he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight. It was O'Brien who was directing everything. It was he who set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once -- Winston could not remember whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of wakefulness -- a voice murmured in his ear: 'Don't worry, Winston; you are in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.' He was not sure whether it was O'Brien's voice; but it was the same voice that had said to him, 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' in that other dream, seven years ago. He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had gradually materialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. His body was held down at every essential point. Even the back of his head was gripped in some manner. O'Brien was looking down at him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face. 'I told you,' said O'Brien, 'that if we met again it would be here.' 'Yes,' said Winston. Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible. 'You are afraid,' said O'Brien, watching his face, 'that in another moment something is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be your backbone. You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it not, Winston?' Winston did not answer. O'Brien drew back the lever on the dial. The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come.

embezzlement of public funds

His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he was a religious believer, an admirer of capitalism, and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife, although he knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife was still alive. He confessed that for years he had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground organization which had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed. There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them. He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was swallowed up. He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed by two guards. 'Room 101,' said the officer. The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at Winston either; he was looking only at the dials. He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O'Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven.

in white coats feeling his pulse

He remembered them dimly, because they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered a cell with a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall, and a tin wash-basin, and meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee. He remembered a surly barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike, unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping his reflexes, turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers over him in search for broken bones, and shooting needles into his arm to make him sleep. The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a threat, a horror to which he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which lasted -- he thought, he could not be sure -- ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain, but it was not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears, pulled his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him.

a sort of underwater world far beneath it

Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way of knowing. With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he was to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a routine interrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a long range of crimes -- espionage, sabotage, and the like -- to which everyone had to confess as a matter of course. The confession was a formality, though the torture was real. How many times he had been beaten, how long the beatings had continued, he could not remember. Always there were five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. There were times when he rolled about the floor, as shameless as an animal, writhing his body this way and that in an endless, hopeless effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base of his spine. There were times when it went on and on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not force himself into losing consciousness. There were times when his nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the beating began, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make him pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There were other times when he started out with the resolve of confessing nothing, when every word had to be forced out of him between gasps of pain, and there were times when he feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: 'I will confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I will tell them what they want.' Sometimes he was beaten till he could hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the stone floor of a cell, left to recuperate for a few hours, and then taken out and beaten again. There were also longer periods of recovery.

The doctor lived down criticism

The doctor lived down criticism, lived down suspicion, and got together a remunerative practice. He had the largest flat in the building, one room of which was fitted up as a laboratory, for he had a passion for research. The mysterious murder of John Millinborn had given him a certain advertisement which had not been without its advantages. The fact that he had been in attendance on the millionaire had brought him a larger fame. His theories as to how the murder had been committed by some one who had got through the open window whilst the two men were out of the room had been generally accepted, for the police had found footmarks on the flowerbeds, over which the murderer must have passed. They had not, however, traced the seedy-looking personage whom Mr. Kitson had seen. This person had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. Three months after the murder the doctor stood on the steps of the broad entrance-hall which led to the flats, watching the stream of pedestrians passing. It was six o'clock in the evening and the streets were alive with shop-girls and workers on their way home from business. He smoked a cigarette and his interest was, perhaps, more apparent than real. He had attended his last surgery case and the door of the "shop," with its sage-green windows, had been locked for the night. His eyes wandered idly to the Oxford Street end of the thoroughfare, and suddenly he started. A girl was walking toward him. At this hour there was very little wheeled traffic, for Lattice Street is almost a cul-de-sac, and she had taken the middle of the road. She was dressed with that effective neatness which brings the wealthy and the work-girl to a baffling level, in a blue serge costume of severe cut; a plain white linen coat-collar and a small hat, which covered, but did not hide, a mass of hair which, against the slanting sunlight at her back, lent the illusion of a golden nimbus about her head. The eyes were deep-set and wise with the wisdom which is found alike in those who have suffered and those who have watched suffering. The nose was straight, the lips scarlet and full. You might catalogue every feature of Oliva Cresswell and yet arrive at no satisfactory explanation for her charm. Not in the clear ivory pallor of complexion did her charm lie. Nor in the trim figure with its promising lines, nor in the poise of head nor pride of carriage, nor in the ready laughter that came to those quiet eyes. In no one particular quality of attraction did she excel. Rather was her charm the charm of the perfect agglomeration of all those characteristics which men find alluring and challenging.