Genre Romance. Page - 12

nter's chill had not yet gone out of the air. But then, Willard had earned his ducking.The girl cleared her throat. "We have had an accident," she informed the rider, her voice a little husky. At this word he swept his hat from his head and bowed to her. "Why, I reckon you have, ma'am," he said. "Didn't you have no driver?" "Why, yes," returned the girl hesitatingly, for she thought she detected sarcasm in his voice, and she had to look twice at him to

but between whiles managed to do fairly well in the Tripos, to finish a new and original translation of Quintilian, another of Petronius Arbiter and also a literal rendering into the English of the Memoirs of the Sieur de Brantome.""For none of which you have hitherto found a publisher?" inquired Mr. Grainger. "Not as yet," said I, "but I have great hopes of my Brantome, as you are probably aware this is the first time he has ever been translated into the

eacon heartily.Bobby wavered toward the door, emerged on the porch, and ran almost uponDi returning from her tea-party at Jenny Plow's. "Oh, Bobby! You came to see me?" She was as fluffy, as curly, as smiling as her picture. She was carryingpink, gauzy favours and a spear of flowers. Undeniably in her voicethere was pleasure. Her glance was startled but already complacent. Shepaused on the steps, a lovely figure. But one would say that nothing but the truth dwelt in Bobby. "Oh,

ere Tom Wolfe to have written it as a non-fiction title. That it was inspired by actual characters and events, and turned by Wolfe's expert hands into a compelling modern-day tale of murder and mortality, were enough to convince me that I could pull off the same sort of magic with my own "what if" scenario, swapping Silicon Valley for New York, and the personal computer business for bond trading.That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way toward explaining the

tch--against thot wagon and horses yours, and thee harness--thee whole damned shutting-match--thot I haf win!" He proceeded to finish his cigarette.Felipe stared at him hard. Surely his ears had deceived him! If they had not deceived him, if, for a fact, the hombre had expressed a willingness to bet all he had on the outcome of this thing, then Franke, fellow-townsman, compadre, brother-wood-hauler, was crazy! But he determined to find out. "What you said, Franke?" he asked,

lled The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned.For while he lingered there, A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war: for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, 'Who is he That he should rule us? who hath proven him King Uther's son? for lo! we look at him, And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to

e that?""You have chosen the only good bit in the painting," he declared stoutly. "Look at the boy's lips. Caravaggio must have modeled them from a girl's. What business has a fellow with pouting red lips like them to wear a sword on his thigh?" Joan laughed with joyousness that was good to hear. "Pooh! Run away and smite that ball with a long stick!" she said. "Hum! More than the Italian could have done." He was ridiculously in earnest. Joan colored