Embarrassment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 49 of 79 · 20 per page

• From Another Country (1962)

  He had a reputation as the champion of doomed causes, reaction’s intrepid foe; and he walked into the drawing rooms of the world as though he expected to find the enemy ambushed there. His wife wore a mink coat and a flowered hat, seemed somewhat older than he, and was inclined to be talkative. “Great meeting you, Silenski,” he said. Though he was compelled to look up to Richard, he did so with his head at an odd and belligerent angle, as though he were looking up in order more clearly to sight down. The hand he extended to Richard with a bulletlike directness suggested also the arrogant limpness of hands which have the power to make or break: only custom prevented the hand from being kissed. “I’ve been hearing tremendous things about you. Maybe we can have a chat a little later.” And his smile was good-natured, open, and boyish. When he was introduced to Ida, he stood stock-still, throwing out his arms as though he were a little boy. “You’re an actress,” he said. “You’ve got to be an actress.” “No,” said Ida, “I’m not.” “But you must be. I’ve been looking for you for years. You’re sensational!” “Thank you, Mr. Ellis,” she said, laughing, “but I am not an actress.” Her laugh was a little strained but Vivaldo could not know whether this was due to nerves or displeasure. People stood in smiling groups around them. Cass stood behind the bar, watching. Ellis smiled conspiratorially and pushed his head a little forward. “What do you do , then? Come on, tell me.” “Well, at the moment,” Ida said, rather pulling herself together, “I work as a waitress.” “A waitress. Well, my wife’s here, so I won’t ask you where you work.” He stepped a little closer to Ida. “But what do you think about while you walk around waiting on tables?” Ida hesitated, and he smiled again, coaxing and tender. “Come on . You can’t tell me that all you want is to get to be head waitress.” Ida laughed. Her lips curved rather bitterly, and she said, “No.” She hesitated and looked toward Vivaldo, and Ellis followed her look. “I’ve sometimes thought of singing. That’s what I’d like to do.” “Aha!” he cried, triumphantly, “I knew I’d get it out of you.” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket. “When you get ready to make the break, and let it be soon, you come and see me. Don’t you forget.” “You won’t remember my name, Mr. Ellis.” She said it lightly and the look with which she measured Ellis gave Vivaldo no clue as to what was going on in her mind. “Your name,” he said, “is Ida Scott. Right?” “Right.” “Well, I never forget names or faces.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il remplit le verre presque à ras bord, et ça lui rappelle la nuit précédente, le moment où il a rempli le verre pour faire boire Miller. À ce souvenir, son visage le brûle. Tellement déplacé. La manière subtile dont ils ont été amenés à le recréer. Sauf que lorsqu’il regarde Miller, il ne discerne aucun signe de reconnaissance sur son visage. Le moment passe, ce qui est à la fois un soulagement et une déception. Wallace s’assoit à côté d’Yngve, qui ramène sur lui un bout de couverture ; leurs coudes et leurs épaules se touchent. Il a froid, assis près de la porte ouverte. Miller tire sur le stylo à vape gris. Ses yeux se ferment. Yngve l’interrompt. « Allez, allez », dit-il d’une voix forte en lui faisant signe de le lui repasser. Wallace sent l’odeur de vapeur et de bière qui se dégage de lui. Autre chose aussi, peut-être un alcool brun. Le tout mêlé à une sueur âcre. Miller porte un pull jaune aux coutures apparentes. Wallace regarde le bout arrondi de ses doigts, ses phalanges épaisses. Yngve croise les jambes. Une mince cicatrice en forme de faucille sur le genou, une cicatrice échelonnée. Wallace pose un pouce dessus, sent la tension dans le regard de Miller, aussi nette que si c’était un fil attaché à sa main. Yngve a un frisson involontaire sous le pouce de Wallace. Miller rend le stylo vape à Yngve. Les poils blonds rêches sur la jambe d’Yngve. Il suit la cicatrice du doigt ; Yngve frissonne de nouveau. « Comment tu t’es fait ça ? demande Wallace. — Je l’ai depuis des années. Juste avant que j’arrive en programme doctoral. C’est à cause de toutes ces années de foot. Articulation de merde. » Un filet de vapeur s’échappe du coin de ses lèvres. Il appuie sa tête contre le mur. « Ils ont ouvert pour nettoyer. » Wallace est encore en train de caresser la cicatrice quand il lève les yeux et remarque que Miller le fixe. Il retire sa main. Yngve lui repasse le stylo vape. « Ça fait mal ? — Non. Pas du tout. Avant , ça me faisait atrocement mal. Mais maintenant, rien. » Yngve pose sa main à plat sur son genou, et presse doucement comme pour souligner son propos. Wallace boit une gorgée d’eau. « Quelle soirée, dit Miller. — Quelle soirée », confirme Yngve. C’est au tour de Wallace de frissonner. « C’est de ça que vous parliez ? Quand je suis arrivé ? — Non, réplique vivement Yngve, puis il pousse un petit rire. Enfin si, oui. — Je ne savais pas tout ça sur Cole et Vincent, fait Miller. — Moi non plus, mais on aurait peut-être pu s’en douter. — C’est vrai qu’ils se disputent, mais pas comme ça, fait Miller en fronçant les sourcils. Mais j’imagine qu’on ne peut jamais savoir ce que font les autres.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  After leading inpatient groups daily for two years, I decided to take a sabbatical (faculty members at Stanford are entitled to a six-month sabbatical every six years at full salary, or twelve months at half salary) to write a book on my approach to inpatient group therapy. My initial plan was to go to London again, where the writing vibes had been so salubrious, but Marilyn insisted on Paris. So, in the summer of 1981, we set off for France, taking our twelve-year-old son, Ben, with us. (By then, our daughter, Eve, was in medical school, Reid had completed college at Stanford, and Victor was at Oberlin College.) W e began our trip by visiting our good friends Stina and Herant Katchadourian, at their home on an island off the coast of Finland. Herant had been a member of the Stanford Psychiatry Department for a few years but had such excellent executive skills that he had been appointed to the role of university ombudsman and dean of students. He was a gifted lecturer, and his course on human sexuality became legendary, by far the most heavily attended course in the history of Stanford University. Stina, his wife, who was a journalist, translator, and author, shared interests with Marilyn, and their daughter Nina became lifelong friends with our son Ben. The island was a fairy-tale retreat of pines and blueberries surrounded by a forbidding ocean, and during our visit, Herant convinced me to make the jolting leap from the sauna into the frigid North Sea, which I did—but only once. From Finland we took the overnight ferry to Copenhagen. I ordinarily get seasick even looking at a picture of a boat, but with the aid of a small dose of marijuana I floated serenely to Copenhagen, and there I gave a day’s workshop for Danish therapists. We also did some sightseeing, visiting the graves of Søren Kierkegaard and Hans Christian Andersen, buried close to one another in Assistens Cemetery. Once we arrived in Paris, we settled into a fifth-floor flat, sans elevator, on the rue Saint-André-des-Arts, three blocks from the Seine in the Fifth Arrondissement. With Marilyn’s help I obtained an office two blocks from the rue Mouffetard that had been set aside by the French government for foreign scholars. It was a wonderful sojourn. Ben climbed up and down the five flights to buy our morning croissants and the International Herald Tribune before taking the Paris Métro to the École Internationale Bilingue. Marilyn worked on a new book, Maternity, Mortality, and the Literature of Madness , a work of psychological literary criticism. I met many of her French friends and we were invited to numerous dinners, but communication was difficult: few of them spoke English, and though I worked hard with a French teacher, I made little progress. At social gatherings I generally felt like the village idiot.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 49: Lit. a pressure or oppression (_priemere_, hod. _premere_, to press or oppress, indicative used as a noun). The monk of course refers to the posture in which he had seen the abbot have to do with the girl, pretending to believe that he placed her on his own breast (instead of mounting on hers) out of a sentiment of humility and a desire to mortify his flesh _ipsâ in voluptate_.] THE FIFTH STORY [Day the First] THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO, WITH A DINNER OF HENS AND CERTAIN SPRIGHTLY WORDS, CURBETH THE EXTRAVAGANT PASSION OF THE KING OF FRANCE The story told by Dioneo at first pricked the hearts of the listening ladies with somewhat of shamefastness, whereof a modest redness appearing in their faces gave token; but after, looking one at other and being scarce able to keep their countenance, they listened, laughing in their sleeves. The end thereof being come, after they had gently chidden him, giving him to understand that such tales were not fit to be told among ladies, the queen, turning to Fiammetta, who sat next him on the grass, bade her follow on the ordinance. Accordingly, she began with a good grace and a cheerful countenance, "It hath occurred to my mind, fair my ladies,--at once because it pleaseth me that we have entered upon showing by stories how great is the efficacy of prompt and goodly answers and because, like as in men it is great good sense to seek still to love a lady of higher lineage than themselves,[50] so in women it is great discretion to know how to keep themselves from being taken with the love of men of greater condition than they,--to set forth to you, in the story which it falleth to me to tell, how both with deeds and words a noble lady guarded herself against this and diverted another therefrom. [Footnote 50: An evident allusion to Boccaccio's passion for the Princess Maria, _i.e._ Fiammetta herself.]

• From Real Life (2020)

  Le week-end dernier, Wallace faisait la queue à l’épicerie du coin derrière un groupe de garçons bronzés qui sentaient la bière et la sueur. Ils portaient tous des lunettes noires et de temps à autre l’un d’entre eux promenait les mains à l’intérieur de son short, et par instants Wallace apercevait une hanche, une toison pubienne fauve, une ombre tumescente entre les jambes. Un des mecs s’était tourné vers lui, avait relevé ses lunettes juste assez pour laisser voir ses yeux injectés de sang et dit : « Bro, qu’est-ce que tu fous là ? On t’a dit d’attendre. » Wallace avait cligné des yeux, ne sachant ni que dire ni que faire, mais le garçon se contentait de le fixer avec un agacement amusé, comme si c’était Wallace qui avait commis une erreur. Les amis du garçon avaient passé les bras autour de son cou pour l’entraîner, et il avait crié derrière Wallace : « Non, non, on peut pas le laisser. C’est lui qu’a le contact. C’est pas toi qu’as le contact, bro ? » Et tous les clients de la boutique s’étaient tournés vers Wallace, qui voulait juste acheter du savon et du déodorant, qui aurait pu choisir un meilleur jour, certes, mais avait choisi ce moment et été désigné d’une certaine manière. Ça pouvait se passer comme ça. La chaleur n’a pas baissé. Wallace s’assoit sur le banc. Il sort sa raquette de l’étui jaune. Les courts sont bleus avec des lignes blanches bien nettes, faits de caoutchouc recyclé et de ciment, ou une substance dans ce genre. Ce sont les courts les plus lents sur lesquels il ait joué de sa vie, à part la terre battue verdâtre et détrempée où il a appris les bases le week-end avec ses amis pendant ses premières années de fac. Il y a une rangée d’arbres peuplés de corbeaux qui s’interpellent. Wallace s’avance sur la surface brûlante du court et commence à s’étirer, d’abord les jambes puis le dos, se courbant dans tous les sens pour tenter de se décontracter, de se délier. Il respire profondément, tentant d’oublier Dana. Il l’imagine sur un bateau qui s’éloigne de plus en plus à l’horizon. Le court lui brûle le dessous des cuisses, mais la douleur est agréable, qui entre en lui comme de l’eau à travers un vêtement. Le nœud de sa colonne vertébrale se relâche. Ses os craquent. Il s’étire le plus qu’il peut en avant, et son ventre appuie sur le haut de ses cuisses. Il n’a pas la stature d’un joueur de tennis. Il n’est pas longiligne comme Cole. Il est dodu au mieux, rondouillard au pire. C’est son exercice le plus rigoureux de toute la semaine.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Of all the coin shops, we were most impressed by Sfica’s, directly across from the National Museum, with a large golden painting of a bumblebee on the front window. After a lengthy discussion with the genial and knowing Mr. Sfica, we bought a Greek silver coin for Reid and two others that Marilyn and I would wear as pendants. He assured us we could return them at any time if we were dissatisfied. The following day we visited a small basement shop owned by a wizened Jewish antique dealer. There we bought some inexpensive silver Roman coins and, in the course of our transaction, showed him the coins we had just purchased from Sfica. He examined them briefly and pronounced, with great authority, “Fakes—good fakes. But fakes all the same.” We returned to Sfica’s and requested a refund. As though he were expecting us, he strode, without a word, to his cash register and with great dignity extracted an envelope containing our money. He handed it to us saying, “I return your money as I had promised but with one condition: you will no longer be welcome in this store.” As we continued on our trip around the island, we stopped at other coin shops and more than once described our encounter at Sfica’s. “What?” they all said. “You insulted Sfica? Sfica, the official appraiser for the National Museum?” They put their hands to their temples and rocked side-to-side saying, “You owe him an apology.” We never found a suitable replacement gift and began to question our decision to return the coins. On the last night of our stay in Crete we decided to make use of a vacation gift from a colleague at Oxford: a skinny marijuana joint. Unaccustomed to smoking, we lit up and went to dinner at one of the outdoor restaurants in the market area, where for hours we relished the magical food, music, and dancing. After dinner, we wandered through the streets of Heraklion and grew disoriented, then a bit paranoid, thinking we were being followed by the police. Unable to find a taxi, we rushed through the maze of streets trying to find our hotel, and somehow, late at night, ended up on an empty street in front of a store with a large bumblebee painted on the window—Sfica’s Coin Store! As we stood gawking at the bumblebee, an empty taxi miraculously appeared. We hailed it and were soon back in the safety of our hotel. Our flight back to London didn’t leave until early afternoon, and as Marilyn and I lingered over our breakfast of Cretan cheesecake, we discussed the previous night. Skeptic though I am, I could not help wondering if we had been sent some type of mysterious message by winding up in front of Sfica’s store. The more we discussed it, the more persuaded we grew that we had made a horrific mistake, a mistake that could be rectified only by our apologizing abjectly to Mr.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily. In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally. "My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden. "Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!" and the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor. "What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew. "Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly. "Tell me quick, then. Don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love." "The... The jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!" John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe. "Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and..." John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay... "A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?" "Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. "You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly, for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled. "I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out.

• From Little Women (1868)

  You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly. "No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels." "It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy. "Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo, "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful." The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged. "Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross." "Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet." "What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy." Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is more of you." "I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?" "It's a greater not to be able to hide them.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As they slept on this wise, without awaking, the day came on and Messer Lizio arose and remembering him that his daughter lay in the gallery, opened the door softly, saying in himself, 'Let us see how the nightingale hath made Caterina sleep this night.' Then, going in, he softly lifted up the serge, wherewith the bed was curtained about, and saw his daughter and Ricciardo lying asleep, naked and uncovered, embraced as it hath before been set out; whereupon, having recognized Ricciardo, he went out again and repairing to his wife's chamber, called to her, saying, 'Quick, wife, get thee up and come see, for that thy daughter hath been so curious of the nightingale that she hath e'en taken it and hath it in hand.' 'How can that be?' quoth she; and he answered, 'Thou shalt see it, an thou come quickly.' Accordingly, she made haste to dress herself and quietly followed her husband to the bed, where, the curtain being drawn, Madam Giacomina might plainly see how her daughter had taken and held the nightingale, which she had so longed to hear sing; whereat the lady, holding herself sore deceived of Ricciardo, would have cried out and railed at him; but Messer Lizio said to her, 'Wife, as thou holdest my love dear, look thou say not a word, for, verily, since she hath gotten it, it shall be hers. Ricciardo is young and rich and gently born; he cannot make us other than a good son-in-law. An he would part from me on good terms, needs must he first marry her, so it will be found that he hath put the nightingale in his own cage and not in that of another.'

• From Little Women (1868)

  March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off. "I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, Mother, I'm paid for my silliness now. I never can look him in the face again." "What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March. "I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while." Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?" "He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take liberties with our names. It's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!" Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because I wouldn't tell him my secret." "Don't have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly. "Bless you, child! Mother told me." "That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once." Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?" "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly. "If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of.

• From Little Women (1868)

  In vain Amy telegraphed the word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'. "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo. "How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs'. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything." "I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!" Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation. "She rides splendidly. Who taught her?" "No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well.

• From Little Women (1868)

  She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so." At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders. "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?" "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. "None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!" "Did she ride the horse?" "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party." "Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister." "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful 'pegging' which had escaped her. Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because, what?" "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come." Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric, without moving his head, suddenly opened his eyes and looked blankly around the table. Then he looked sick, rose, and hurriedly vanished. All the students laughed. They were caustic about their vanished comrade, feeling that the character represented by Eric lacked courage. The film ground on, and Eric appeared twice more, once, silent, deep in the background, during a youthful council of war, and, finally, at the very end of the film, on a rooftop, with a machine gun in his hand. As he delivered his one line—“Nom de Dieu, que j’ai soif!”—the camera shifted to show him framed in the sights of an enemy gun; blood suddenly bubbled from Eric’s lips and he went sliding off the rooftop, out of sight. With Eric’s death, the movie also died for them, and, luckily, very shortly, it was over. They walked out of the cool darkness into the oven of July. “Who’s going to buy me that drink?” Eric asked. He smiled a pale smile. It was something of a shock to see him, standing on the sidewalk, shorter than he had appeared in the film, in flesh and blood. “Anyway, let’s get away from here before people start asking me for my autograph.” And he laughed. “It might happen, my dear,” said Cass, “you’ve got great presence on the screen.” “The movie’s not so much,” said Vivaldo, “but you were terrific.” “I didn’t really have anything to do,” said Eric. “No,” said Ida, “you didn’t. But you sure did the hell out of it.” They walked in silence for a few moments. “I’m afraid I can only have one drink with you,” Cass said, “and then I’ll have to go home.” “That’s right,” Ida said, “let’s don’t be hanging out with these cats until all hours of the morning. I got too many people to face tomorrow. Besides”—she glanced at Vivaldo with a small smile—“I don’t believe they’ve seen each other alone one time since Eric got off the boat.” “And you think we better give them an evening off,” Cass said. “If we don’t give it to them, they going to take it. But, this way, we can make ourselves look good—and that always comes in handy.” She laughed. “That’s right, Cass, you got to be clever if you want to keep your man.” “I should have started taking lessons from you years ago,” Cass said. “Now, be careful,” said Eric, mildly, “because I don’t think that’s very flattering.” “I was joking,” Cass said. “Well, I’m insecure,” said Eric.

• From Another Country (1962)

  A cream-colored roadster, bearing six young people, three white boys and three white girls, came up the road in a violent swirl and wake of dust. Eric and LeRoy did not have time to move apart, and a great laugh came from the car, and the driver beat out a mocking version of the wedding march on his horn—then kept his entire palm on it as the car shot down the road, away. All of the people in the car were people with whom Eric had grown up. He felt his face flame and he and LeRoy moved away from each other; and LeRoy looked at him with a curiously noncommittal pity. “Now that’s what you supposed to be doing,” he said—he said it very gently, looking at Eric, licking his lower lip—“and that’s where you supposed to be. You ain’t supposed to be walking around this damn country road with no nigger.” “I don’t give a damn about those people,” Eric said—but he knew that he was lying and he knew that LeRoy knew it, too—“those people don’t mean a thing to me.” LeRoy looked more pitying than ever, and also looked exasperated. The road now was empty, not a creature moved on it; it was yellow- red and brown and trees leaned over it, with fire falling through the leaves; and the road now began to drop beneath them, toward the railroad tracks and the warehouse. This was the town’s dividing line and they always turned off the road at this point, into a clump of trees and a rise which overlooked a stream. LeRoy now turned Eric into this haven. His touch was different today; insistent, gentle, ferocious, and resigned. “Besides,” said Eric, helplessly, “you’re not a nigger, not for me, you’re LeRoy, you’re my friend, and I love you.” The words took his breath away and tears came to his eyes and they paused in the fiery shadow of a tree. LeRoy leaned against the tree, staring at Eric, with a terrible expression on his black face. The expression on LeRoy’s face frightened him, but he labored upward against his fear, and brought out, “I don’t know why people can’t do what they want to do; what harm are we doing to anybody?” LeRoy laughed. He reached out and pulled Eric against him, under the shadow of the leaves. “Poor little rich boy,” he said, “tell me what you want to do.” Eric stared at him.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It chanced one day that Guido set out from Orto San Michele and came by way of the Corso degli Ademari, the which was oftentimes his road, to San Giovanni, round about which there were at that present divers great marble tombs (which are nowadays at Santa Reparata) and many others. As he was between the columns of porphyry there and the tombs in question and the door of the church, which was shut, Messer Betto and his company, coming a-horseback along the Piazza di Santa Reparata, espied him among the tombs and said, 'Let us go plague him.' Accordingly, spurring their horses, they charged all down upon him in sport and coming upon him ere he was aware of them, said to him, 'Guido, thou refusest to be of our company; but, harkye, whenas thou shalt have found that God is not, what wilt thou have accomplished?' Guido, seeing himself hemmed in by them, answered promptly, 'Gentlemen, you may say what you will to me in your own house'; then, laying his hand on one of the great tombs aforesaid and being very nimble of body, he took a spring and alighting on the other side, made off, having thus rid himself of them. The gentlemen abode looking one upon another and fell a-saying that he was a crack-brain and that this that he had answered them amounted to nought seeing that there where they were they had no more to do than all the other citizens, nor Guido himself less than any of themselves. But Messer Betto turned to them and said, 'It is you who are the crackbrains, if you have not apprehended him. He hath courteously and in a few words given us the sharpest rebuke in the world; for that, an you consider aright, these tombs are the houses of the dead, seeing they are laid and abide therein, and these, saith he, are our house, meaning thus to show us that we and other foolish and unlettered men are, compared with him and other men of learning, worse than dead folk; wherefore, being here, we are in our own house.' Thereupon each understood what Guido had meant to say and was abashed nor ever plagued him more, but held Messer Betto thenceforward a gentleman of a subtle wit and an understanding." THE TENTH STORY [Day the Sixth] FRA CIPOLLA PROMISETH CERTAIN COUNTRY FOLK TO SHOW THEM ONE OF THE ANGEL GABRIEL'S FEATHERS AND FINDING COALS IN PLACE THEREOF, AVOUCHETH THESE LATTER TO BE OF THOSE WHICH ROASTED ST. LAWRENCE

• From Little Women (1868)

  She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us—that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "It was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks." "Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol. "Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance. "Don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone." "You might treat him civilly, at least.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes. "You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing. "There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy." And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover. "About your age," Nan said. "Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg, tossing her head. "It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie, looking wise about nothing. "Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg hoped they would say no more. "It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod. "Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle with a shrug. "I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace. "No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for Thursday and don't want a thing." "Nor I..." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did want several things and could not have them. "What shall you wear?" asked Sallie. "My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable. "Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady. "I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that? How funny..." She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly... "Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?" "You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg. "Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball," said Belle in her persuasive tone.

• From Wild (2012)

  I nodded coolly, trying to conceal my ignorance. “I’m going to get ready for dinner,” I said, and ambled to the edge of our campsite. I pitched my tent and then crawled inside, spread out my sleeping bag, and lay on top of it, staring at the green nylon ceiling, while listening to the murmur of the men’s conversation and occasional bursts of laughter. I was going out to a restaurant with six men, and I had nothing to wear but what I was already wearing, I realized glumly: a T-shirt over a sports bra and a pair of shorts with nothing underneath. I remembered my fresh T-shirt from my resupply box and sat up and put it on. The entire back of the shirt I’d been wearing since Mojave was now stained a brownish yellow from the endless bath of sweat it had endured. I wadded it up in a ball and put it at the corner of my tent. I’d throw it away at the store later. The only other clothes I had were those I brought for cold weather. I remembered the necklace I’d been wearing until it got so hot that I couldn’t bear to have it on; I found it in the ziplock bag in which I kept my driver’s license and money and put it on. It was a small turquoise-and-silver earring that used to belong to my mother. I’d lost the other one, so I’d taken a pair of needle-nose pliers to the one that remained and turned it into a pendant on a delicate silver chain. I’d brought it along because it had been my mother’s; having it with me felt meaningful, but now I was glad to have it simply because I felt prettier with it on. I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to shape it into an attractive formation, aided by my tiny comb, but eventually I gave up and pushed it behind my ears. It was just as well, I knew, that I simply let myself look and feel and smell the way I did. I was, after all, what Ed referred to somewhat inaccurately as the only girl in the woods, alone with a gang of men. By necessity, out here on the trail, I felt I had to sexually neutralize the men I met by being, to the extent that was possible, one of them.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her 'works' always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?" As Miss Lamb had 'enjoyed' the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. "Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away." Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away. "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?" "Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do." "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly. Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. "How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion. "Just as you please. I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer. "Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing.