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~::歪游游戏盒子无法定位|Jimena Carranza::~

~::歪游游戏盒子无法定位|Jimena Carranza::~



                                        • "They did, or rather they thought they had. When I left you and went along to my cabin, I reckoned that if anything was going to happen to you they would get rid of me first. So I rigged up a dummy in my bed. A good one. I've done it before, and I've got the trick. You mustn't only have something that looks like a body in the bed. You can do that with pillows and towels and bedding. You must also have something that looks like hair on the pillow. I did that with handfuls of pine needles, just enough to make a dark clump on the pillow with the sheets drawn up to it-very artistic. Then I hung my shirt over the back of a chair beside the bed- another useful prop that conveys the idea that the man belonging to the shirt is inside the bed-and I left the oil-lamp burning low, close to the bed to help their marksmanship-if any. I put amateurish wedges under the door and propped a chair-back under the door handle to show a natural sense of precaution. Then I took my bag round to the back and waited in the trees." James Bond gave a sour laugh. "They gave me an hour and then they came so softly that I didn't hear a thing. Then there was the bang of the door being forced and a series of quick clonks-they were using a silencer-and then the whole interior of the cabin went bright with the thermite. I thought I had been very clever, but it turned out I very nearly wasn't clever enough. It took me almost five minutes to work my way up to your cabin through the trees. I wasn't worried. I thought it would take them all that to get into your cabin and I was ready to break out in the open if I heard your gun. But sometime this evening, probably when Sluggsy was making the cabin inspection you told me about, he had pickaxed a hole in the wall behind your clothes cupboard, leaving only the plaster-board lining to be cut through with a sharp knife. He may or may not have put the stone loosely back. I don't know. Anyway, he didn't need to. There was no occasion for either of us to go into the carport of Number 8, and no reason to. If you had been here alone, they would have seen to it that you kept away from there. Anyway, the first thing I knew was seeing the light of the thermite from your cabin. Then I ran like hell, dodging across the open backs of the carports as I heard them coming back down the line, opening the doors of the cabins and tossing bombs in and then carefully shutting the doors to make it look tidy."


                                          "No," said Bond. "No, I won't mind, Tiffany. Everything about you's fine.""Good luck," she whispered back.


                                                                                • How nearly it had come, thought Bond, to being stilled. How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant clang of the ambulance bells beneath a lurid black and orange sky, the stench of burning, the screams of people still trapped in the buildings. The softly beating heart of London silenced for a generation. And a whole generation of her people dead in the streets amongst the ruins of a civilization that might not rise again for centuries.Runner’s World magazine, and especially then-editor Jay Heinrichs, first sent me into the CopperCanyons and even briefly (very briefly) entertained my notion of publishing an all-Tarahumaraissue. I’m indebted to James Rexroad, ace photographer, for his companionship and gorgeousphotos on that trip. For a man with such a huge brain and lung capacity, Runner’s World editoremeritus Amby Bur-foot is extraordinarily generous with his time, expertise, and library. I stillowe him twenty-five of his books, which I promise to return if he’ll join me for another run.


                                                                                  'I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?' I said, after looking at him for some time.



                                                                                                                        • Charles. [Aside.] Help me, my mother-wits!For Safety, run into a Lyon's Den.


                                                                                                                          AND INDIA.