wuthering heights high key miserable

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wuthering heights high key miserable

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“Bomb you think?” Murphy said, in that tone people use when they don’t know what else to say.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was grounding some extra energy out when it went off. It must have hexed up the bomb’s timer or receiver. Set it off early.”
“Unless it was intended as a warning shot,” she said.
I grunted. “Whose bomb, you think?”
“I haven’t annoyed anyone new lately,” Murphy said.
“Neither have I.”
“You’ve annoyed a lot more people than me, in toto.”
“In toto?” I said. “Who talks like that? Besides, car bombs aren’t really within... within the, uh...”
“Idiom?” Murphy asked, with what might have been a very slight British accent.
“Idiom!” I declared in my best John Cleese impersonation. “The idiom of the entities I’ve ticked off. And you’re really turning me on with the Monty Python reference.”
“You’re pathetic, Harry.”
-Jim Butcher, White Night
Chapter 21
Oh no
Connie, Armin, and Annie's conversation right here is making me really sad
Chapter 4 Part 2
Hagakure is acting wicked suspicious
I mean, everyone's acting pretty suspicious at this point, but really, how has Hagakure managed to stay alive for this long? Â He's an idiot and a terrible liar and he can't possibly be the murderer this time around, can he? Â Because at this point that would be way too obvious. Â Because of how ridiculously suspicious he's acting.
My money's still on Aoi. Â I don't want it to be true. Â But I think it might be.
When Khubchand, his beloved, blind, bald, incontinent seventeen-year-old mongrel, decided to stage a miserable, long drawn-out death, Estha nursed him through his final ordeal as though his own life somehow depended on it. In the last months of his life, Khubchand, who had the best of intentions but the most unreliable of bladders, would drag himself to the top-hinged dog-flap built into the bottom of the door that led out into the back garden, push his head through it and urinate unsteadily, bright yellowly, inside. Then, with bladder empty and conscience clear, he would look up at Estha with opaque green eyes that stood in his grizzled skull like scummy pools and weave his way back to his damp cushion, leaving wet footprints on the floor. As Khubchand lay dying on his cushion, Estha could see the bedroom window reflected in his smooth, purple balls. And the sky beyond. And once a bird that flew across. To Estha—steeped in the smell of old roses, blooded on memories of a broken man—the fact that something so fragile, so unbearably tender had survived, had been allowed to exist, was a miracle. A bird in flight reflected in an old dog’s balls. It made him smile out loud.
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

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