Wearing a cloak is on Rose's list of the thousand things she hates most. The problem is that each of the thousand problems is ranked number one.
'But Dr. Rannigan says you must and anyway, it hardly weighs a thing, it's so full of holes.' I swung mine round my shoulders. Rose hates any bit of clothing that constricts, but I say Chin up and bear it. Life is just one great constriction.
'Ventilated,' I said, 'that's the word. Our cloaks are terrifically ventilated.
Stichwörter: clothes persuasion autism
The boy shall have a proper beating,' said Cecil.
'But I beat him already,' I said, 'and don't tell me I didn't do it properly. I'm touchy about these things.
Stichwörter: touchy
The handkerchief dabbed at my forehead. 'Ouch! You'll have a fine-looking bruise tomorrow.'
'Then you'll be able to distinguish me from Rose.'
The handkerchief paused. 'I could tell you apart from the beginning. You're quite different to each other, you know.'
Perhaps he could tell, in the obvious ways. The odd one was Rose; the other odd one was Briony.
Stichwörter: odd bruise distinguishing-twins
Should I ever again sink into illness, I'm sure I'll remember Eldric. I'll remember he cared for me. I'll remember that someone had at least taken the time to touch my face.
Franny BillingsleyStichwörter: remembrance tenderness
I was going to ask him, yes I was. “You remember Blackberry Night?”
The torches were alive with yellow butterfly-flames. “I can’t forget it.” His eyes were whiter than white.
“You remember the thing we might have done that night, but it turned out to be a thing we didn’t do?” It was late and my tongue had gone bleary. “The thing you stopped us from doing?”
“I especially can’t forget that.”
I was asking about lust, wasn’t I? I was fairly certain of it. But isn’t love supposed to come before lust? It does in the dictionary.
Stichwörter: love
I have some questions about betrayal,” I said. “Think about this: A person who calls you his best friend, and says he has dinner plans with you, goes off with a beautiful woman, saying he’ll be back directly, then makes you wait half an hour because he’s kissing the woman in the alley. Is that betrayal?”
“Oh, Lord.” Eldric tossed back his wine.
Actually, it would be assumed that the young lady had no such impulses at all, but I’ll tell you something: Chocolate melts on my tongue too.
Franny BillingsleyI've confessed to everything and I'd like to be hanged. Now, if you please.
I don't mean to be difficult, but I can't bear to tell my story. I can't relive those memories—the touch of the Dead Hand, the smell of eel, the gulp and swallow of the swamp. How can you possibly think me innocent? Don't let my face fool you; it tells the worst lies. A girl can have the face of an angel but have a horrid sort of heart.
I know you believe you're giving me a chance—or, rather, it's the Chime Child giving me the chance. She's desperate, of course, not to hang an innocent girl again, but please believe me: Nothing in my story will absolve me of guilt. It will only prove what I've already told you, which is that I'm wicked. Can't the Chime Child take my word for it?
In any event, where does she expect me to begin? The story of a wicked girl has no true beginning. I'd have to begin with the day I was born.
If Eldric were to tell the story, he'd likely begin with himself, on the day he arrived in the Swampsea. That's where proper stories begin, don't they, when the handsome stranger arrives and everything goes wrong?
But this isn't a proper story, and I'm telling you, I ought to be hanged.
Death had no lips, but it was smiling
Franny BillingsleyI was asking about lust, wasnʼt I? I was fairly certain of it. But isnʼt love supposed
to come before lust? It does in the dictionary.
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