Sloan's ordinarily vacuous countenance went wooden.
Dane stood looking after her for a moment, then bent, on a strange impulse, and lifted the long, silky coil in his hands. It clung there, fine and smooth and springy; he coiled it into a roll and thrust it inside his tunic next to his skin. A favor from my lady, he thought.
What she saw in her living room cured her of the giggles.
"Ah," he said. "Forgive my telephoning, please, Mrs. Buckley. We have never met, but I noticed your entry in the current issue of Genealogical Exchange -"
If you oppose sex education in the schools, then you will want to do something about it.
"You're most depressing," the Irish Beauty said. She was nude except for a solar topi and a riding crop.
Oh no, thought Midge, it can't be true. It's a dream I've been having. John Christow, murdered, shot - lying there by the pool. Blood and blue water - like the jacket of a detective story. Fantastic, unreal ...
"They killed him. That's obvious. They killed him."
"You haven't seen him," he went on tersely. "You didn't know him; you don't know what he is now. The damage is irrevocable. He'd be a moron forever. He'd want it this way. Wouldn't you? He'll be saving mankind. The dreadful pity of it," Hood said bitterly, "is that the poor guy will never know."
"Kelton - Burt Kelton!" panted the old man laboriously. "He come t' the house about a half hour ago! Knocked me out, but I come t' pronto an' sneaked away t' find yuh! That jasper's gone plumb loco, Montany! Yuh better go there!"
The wide green stare did not waver. Behind those basilisk eyes he thought he could detect a hint of something warmer. Desire? Plain old-fashioned lust? Was this creature really so human?
For there is some grace in dying quietly amid some fragment of a fragment of another's death and there is some grace in standing in the mazdalight our noblest contribution to sleeplessness our offering to children dying standing in the mazdalight awake and awake and dying and alive and the grace is a form of immobility as of quiet death and it is of the dance and the dance is of stone hard rock and never of fluid never of waves in motion and the dance is of smash of mountain graceful sky beloved pointlessness.
... and yet that spark, together with the dwarfed sun, reached across to grip this orb on which she dwelt and lock it fast for eternity.
Dr. William Moulton Marston (May 9, 1893 – May 2, 1947) was an American psychologist, feminist theorist, inventor, and comic book author who created the character Wonder Woman. Two women, his wife Elizabeth Holloway Marston and Olive Byrne, (who lived with the couple in a polyamorous relationship), served as exemplars for the character and greatly influenced her creation.[1][2]
He was inducted into the Comic Book Hall of Fame in 2006.
The pretty young neophyte walked straight to the golden gate, as she had been told to do, and gave her name and that of her sponsor to the door-slave who stood behind the golden bars.
I gathered the heavy tweed of her skirt in my hands, and lifted. The heat of her body reached out for my hands. The flesh of her was firm and yet oddly relaxed.
There was something about Stell, he thought, if she kissed you, if it was the real thing to her, the rest just came with it.
"To begin with," said Bobby, plunging [ed.: !?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!], "I'm not really a chauffeur although I do work in a garage in London. And my name isn't Hawkins - it's Jones - Bobby Jones. I come from Marchbolt in Wales."
"Ha-ha," Johnny laughed mirthlessly.
"It just struck me as funny, Johnny. That fat slob, Maggie. I never had a fight with a woman before. But you - you treated her just as if she'd been a man."
