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~::传奇世界有没有最原始的私服|Jimena Carranza::~

~::传奇世界有没有最原始的私服|Jimena Carranza::~



                                                                          • AFTER LUNCHEON -the traditional shrimp cocktail, 'native' snapper with a minute paper cup of tartare sauce, roast prime ribs of beef au jus, and pineapple surprise- it was time for the siesta before meeting Goldfinger at three o'clock for the afternoon session.Bond estimated that he had penetrated two hundred yards into the swamp when he heard the single, controlled cough.


                                                                            Bond ate his breakfast and got down to his third page of de Bleuvilles. He had quite a chunk of work to show up, but this was easy stuff. The prospect of successfully bamboozling his way along the Blofeld part of the trail was not so encouraging. He would start boldly at the Gdynia end and work back - get the old rascal to talk about his youth and his parents. Old rascal? Well, dammit, whatever he had become since Operation 'Thunderball', there weren't two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the world!


                                                                                                                                                  • There are hundreds of secret inks, but there was only one available to Bond, the oldest one in the world, his own urine. He went into the bathroom (what must the televising eye think of his digestive tracts?) with his pen, a clean nib, and his passport. Then he sat down and proceeded to transcribe, from the flimsy pieces of paper in his pocket on, to a blank page of his passport, the names and approximate locations by county of the girls. The page showed nothing. Held in front of a flame, the writing would come up brown. He slipped the passport into his hip-pocket. Next he took the gloves from under his sweater, tried them on, and found them an adequate but tight fit, took the top off the lavatory cistern and laid the gloves along the arm of the stop-cock.


                                                                                                                                                    The critics will again say that all this may be very well as to the rough work of the author’s own brain, but it will be very far from well in reference to the style in which that work has been given to the public. After all, the vehicle which a writer uses for conveying his thoughts to the public should not be less important to him than the thoughts themselves. An author can hardly hope to be popular unless he can use popular language. That is quite true; but then comes the question of achieving a popular — in other words, I may say, a good and lucid style. How may an author best acquire a mode of writing which shall be agreeable and easily intelligible to the reader? He must be correct, because without correctness he can be neither agreeable nor intelligible. Readers will expect him to obey those rules which they, consciously or unconsciously, have been taught to regard as binding on language; and unless he does obey them, he will disgust. Without much labour, no writer will achieve such a style. He has very much to learn; and, when he has learned that much, he has to acquire the habit of using what he has learned with ease. But all this must be learned and acquired — not while he is writing that which shall please, but long before. His language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of the great performer’s fingers; as words come from the mouth of the indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bells form themselves to the ear of the telegraphist. A man who thinks much of his words as he writes them will generally leave behind him work that smells of oil. I speak here, of course, of prose; for in poetry we know what care is necessary, and we form our taste accordingly.Where it can neither Fruit nor Leaves produce,



                                                                                                                                                                                                                          • Bond laughed. "I'll tell if you'll tell. I want to know what you're all about."鈥楳ission Bungalow, Jan. 29.鈥擧ere I am, back again in my nice large room. My nieces would have it so, and made all arrangements during my absence.... I must tell dear Leila what C. H. said one day, absurd as it sounds; but it was a compliment to her work, therefore I repeat it. 鈥淗ow bonny the Auntie looks in her[260] new bonnet!鈥 There is a bit of flattery, spoken for once by one who is particularly plain-spoken! But it was the bonnet that was bonny, not your loving old sister.鈥橖/p>
                                                                                                                                                                                                                            AND INDIA.